Everything You Need In One Convenient Location by Julad (Sentinel) -- Reading this, I realized: I really do have a shopping kink. This, of course, scares me. But I must now live with the dark, burning shame. Or maybe pale, lukewarm shame. One of those. And it's almost a shame to steal this particular excerpt out, but what the hell.

Jim's eyes followed as Sandburg crouched down to study a row of kim chi, his jeans stretching across his lovely round ass. He wobbled, put one knee on the ground, and then the outline of his cheeks through the denim was perfect. He still had his hair tied back, and was squinting at the labels. Jim drank the sight in. Definitely Mexican tomorrow. And after the game, they'd have dirty, dirty sex, perfect guy sex, which Jim hadn't had in months with all the Switchman's chaos, and this sensory stuff distracting him. There'd be loud grunting, fast jerking, and then coming hard without waiting for the other to go first, cause they'd do all that in Round Two, after a nap.

What might throw you off stride: Nothing at all, unless you decide to show this to your mother, and she forever after gives you funny looks every time you visit, and then you'll realize that one man ogling another man's nice round ass is not quite the charming and winsome family fare it seemed to be at the time. And, oh yeah, this is rated NC-17. Ignore the rating, though. It doesn't apply.

People Like You by Meredith Lynne (Sentinel) -- Am I reccing this because the sheer power of my whining prompted Merry to post this? Because I got to select the title? No, because it's a new Merry story and lovely, lovely, lovely.

"*You're* a member of PFLAG. You are."

"Change the record, Dr. Demento."

Blair didn't even twitch. There was a war going on under the surface of his skin and it was resulting in some pretty funny expressions. Had to be hell, torn between the sensitive 90s guy who ate sprouts, worried about the rainforests, and never pried... and the real Blair Sandburg. My Sandburg.

The one who wanted to know.

"Simon?" he hazarded, grinning. "Joel!"

I rolled my eyes. The 90s guy was never even in it.

What might throw you off stride: It's too short. . .no, no. It's not really. I only wanted another 90k because I'm greedy. I wanted another piece of pumpkin pie, too. Sigh.

Cloud Mountain by Lemon Drop (Sentinel) -- 'Tis the season and we have been gifted with an early snow: 159k of birch trees, swirling flakes, roaring fires, and cuddling.

Jim found himself drawn to the reading room. Sometimes Blair would accompany him, and they'd sit in companionable silence, reading or dozing the late afternoons away. Jim would look up and find Blair asleep, head fallen backwards onto the green velvet loveseat, mouth open, snoring softly, and he'd have to smile in affectionate amusement at his friend.

But several times, while Blair was busy drafting the paper for submission to Criminology Monthly, Jim would, rather guiltily, wander away to stare at the bottles. He was especially curious about the blue one, Melancholy; the pewter woman's face attracted him. His experience with the bottle labeled Reminiscence only increased his curiosity and finally, just before lunch on their third day in the house, he picked up the blue bottle and cautiously unstoppered it.

What might throw you off stride: I had some personal responses to the story that may not affect anyone else's reading--concerns about structure that may evaporate on rereading at some point, a slight resistance to warm-and-fuzzy Jim characterization, a dislike of neutral anatomical terms used in sex scenes ("penis," "anus," "scrotum"). Overall, though, this was a complex and interesting story, and one that should not be missed. Perfect for a winter evening.

Nuance by Resonant and Livia (Sentinel) -- This just came out, and I've put it on my classics list, but I'll rec it here too. Because you should read it now. Go directly to this story, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

"So where do you want to eat?" Blair asked once they were in the truck, one foot kicking restlessly at the floorboards.

Jim sighed and consciously turned his mind away from the Clay case; worrying about it now wasn't going to do any good. "Fat Al's?" He wasn't just saying it to hear Blair groan. Sure, the place was a grease fire waiting to happen, but they had great coffee, waitresses who were cheerful without being perky, and the best barbecued anything in Cascade.

Blair did groan. Theatrically. Then he mustered his defense. "Look, Jim, I can't eat anywhere that includes a synonym for 'big' in its name," he said earnestly. "It's one of my rules."

"What? It is not," Jim denied, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled out of his parking space. "Since when?"

"Since always, that's when. No Fat Al's, no Big Pig Palace--"

Jim scoffed at him. "Sure, sure. And why haven't I ever heard of this so-called rule?"

Blair stared out the window. "So I don't always have a thesaurus handy." Glancing over quickly, Jim caught him smirking at his reflection. "But seriously--"

"Yeah, yeah." Jim cranked the steering wheel, turning out of the parking garage onto West Fourteenth. "How about the new Japanese place?"

"There's a new Japanese place?"

"Yeah, Fat Bento."

What might throw you off stride: Well, now that the suicidal thoughts have passed and I've revoked my oath never to write another word of fiction, I can say that this story caused no lasting harm to me. It was like taking ecstasy: a period of wild euphoria, then the drastic serotonin dip, then the eventual recovery. This story may be more or less hazardous to your ego, creative productivity, and diet. But of course you should read it anyway.

One of Those Nights by Thomas (Sentinel) -- For this story, and the next three stories after it, I was revisiting the archive, finding some great stuff I'd overlooked recommending. Thomas is, for lack of a better term, a one-shot wonder. One story from 1998, none since; at least none in Sentinel. How do things like that happen? It's a cruel world....

Jim Ellison slipped out of sleep in the night, roused by a noise at the edge of his senses. A sound, a soft, thwapping sound. It went on in an edgy not-quite rhythm, asymmetrical yet compelling, reminding him of something luxurious, warm, half-forgotten-oh, that scent curling through the air - powerful, bitter and sweet at the same time. He rolled onto his back and his hand drifted down the smooth expanse of his chest, skimming his belly and easing under the waistband of his shorts, unhurried, sleepily exploring. He made a little noise as his cock swelled under his palm, and let himself follow the liquid sweetness down.... Then he was harshly, cleanly awake.

Shit.

His hand stilled its stroking as he identified the all-too familiar sounds and scents, a sleep-loosened imagination feeding him shamefully vivid pictures of Blair lying in the bed in the room below, doing just this. Oh, God, not again.

What might throw you off stride: Your Birkenstocks, maybe? I dunno.

Love's Austere and Lonely Offices by Brighid (Sentinel) -- This is the kind of story you will enjoy reading on a rainy day when you want to feel cozy. Of course, you could also read it in the Arizona desert when it's a hundred degrees in the shade, but that would be wrong.

I wake up to the phone shrilling loudly about a foot away from my right ear. Jim snuffles and grunts and reaches over me, grabbing the phone, pulling the cord across my body. "Yeah, Ellison," he says, grumpy and too damned awake for four in the morning when we were working a stakeout until three. I yawn, stretch, roll over and cuddle up to him, but his body suddenly goes stiff and tense and way, way awkward. "Yeah, yeah, Sally, okay, I'll be there. How long ago was he admitted?" I stiffen, too, at that, at the cold control of his voice. Sally. Admitted.

Something's happened to Jim's dad.

What might throw you off stride: I think even William the Bloody would like this story, including the heartwarming ending. Of course, then he'd go kill someone to clean his palate, but that doesn't mean we have to.
 

Leaning and Falling by Kalena (Sentinel) -- The perpetual question I struggle with is why so many writers come, write one great Sentinel story, then ride off toward the horizon, never to be seen again. I think I'm going to invent a name for this. I'll call this the 'Lone Ranger Complex.' Of course, this concept is ruined by the fact that Kalena did came back to write another story, but I won't let this stop my sweeping generalization.

Blair realized that his ruminations had left him sitting there almost until sunup. He watched as the darkest of the night sky appeared to slide back toward the western horizon, as if the planet stood still and he was watching day and night revolve around him An odd colorlessness creeping up from the rim would be the forerunner of a spectacular sunrise.

The absence of color in the faint light and its ocean reflection washed everything around him in neutral, making him think about how many colors made up the world and how often he took them for granted. This, he imagined, was what it was like to see from a cat perspective, colors grayed, but the ability to see in nearly complete darkness. I should ask Jim sometime what the dark looks like, he thought, then realized that there was something much more pressing on the horizon. Sunrise, Jesus, what was he thinking?

What might throw you off stride: Lush language, etc. Some readers have mentioned the elaborate metaphors as distracting, the language as dense. There were a few places I would have pruned back the growth, but I think all that flourishing is a healthy sign. Which is why I would have expected to see even more stories sprouting from such a fertile garden of prose. Hint, blinking hint.

Grey Areas by Wax Jism (Sentinel) -- An author whose name sounds like a surfing product or a brand of Chinese chewing gum or a punk band. Inventive. Kicky. Distracting, distracting... okay, moving on to the story now....

We need to decide on a few things," he nagged. He was met by twin blank stares. "Our stories. What are we going to say? There's obviously going to be an investigation. I don't think they've decided yet whether to make it IA or criminal, but they can't let it slide without clearing everyone."

"What do you mean?" Sandburg asked, wide-eyed and scared. Jim put a proprietary arm around him, and he leaned against the older man with a small sigh of contentment.

"Means they have to decide if you were there as a civilian victim, or in an official capacity. You were working the case, after all. It's a legal grey area, Chief."

"I guess that's where the Sandburg zone's at, man," the kid said, and there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Everyone's grey out here."

What might throw you off stride: There are a few clinkers, off-key notes, here and there. E.g., "Well, He Died With His Nikes On," doesn't strike me as something you'd be thinking when your friend was in mortal danger. But sometimes there are lumps in the batter and the cake is good anyway.

Five years. Hell of a thing. More than twice as long as he was with Carolyn. A damn time longer than he's ever been with anyone. And at this point he's pretty sure he's never going to be with anyone else.

Which is fine. Things with Blair are good. And if they don't have sex twice a day like they did in the beginning, that's okay. Normal.

Even without as much sex as they once had, he knows he loves Blair. Even says so occasionally, as a treat. For him, not for Blair. Blair doesn't need that kind of reassurance.

Jim's train of thought is interrupted when Blair shifts on the couch to tuck his feet under Jim's thighs. Cold feet.

"Why don't you wear socks if your feet are so fucking cold?" He's not really annoyed, just likes sounding that way.

What might throw you off stride: Those who are made nervous by spanking will be made nervous. Maybe.

Quicksand by Donna Jones (Sentinel) -- Author's first story! Always nice to see a new writer take a leap into Sentinel fandom.

You know what the worst part of that whole deal was? When he stood there in that hospital room and said, "Chief, I don't know if I'm ready to take that trip with you." What the fuck was that? I died, but you're still not sure if we're together on this? Thanks a lot, man. There's not much more I can do for an encore, if that hasn't convinced you.

What might throw you off stride: A few people have mentioned the 'talky' bit in the middle, but damn it all, it's short, and not badly done. C'mon, there are stories out there where they spend the entire 60k talking about their relationship. Aside from that, I was a little confused about the details of the B-plot (the cop stuff), but overall this was handled smoothly.

The Blair Witch Project by Corbeau (Sentinel) -- It's almost a certainty that this will be the only Wiccan-themed slash story I ever rec. Ahem. And because I know you're scared now, here's a nice long excerpt for y'all....

A vision in blue body paint with swirls of red, orange and gold came rollerblading down the hall, feathered headdress streaming behind him. Jim was disappointed to see he wasn't quite naked, so he couldn't be arrested for indecent exposure. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Hey, Jim, my man, glad you asked. This year's costume is in your honor, since my good buddy Blair said you were gonna be home for a change."

Jim's mouth dropped open. "My honor?"

"Yours and now Blair's, too. I am..." He twirled around in a circle, feathers flying. "The spirit of the Cascade PD!"

Jim was speechless.

Blair leaped quickly into the breach. "I get it--that's why all the blue, right?"

"Got it in one, my man. And the gold, for those shiny little shields you guys get."

"Uh...what about the red and orange? The blood of the fallen?"

"Hey, that would work too, good idea. I was thinkin' more of shootings and fires and buildings and cars blowin' up and the other cool stuff that goes on around here. I know you guys work really hard, but didja ever notice you're not makin' much headway?"

Jim was starting to resemble a faulty pressure cooker. Blair grabbed his jacket just in case he tried to lunge. "Why," Jim hissed, "the feather hat? What the hell is that supposed to symbolize?"

"Oh, nothin', man--I just like feathers, y'know?"

What might throw you off stride: It could have used a strong beta hand. It's uneven and definitely contrived (particularly the conversations between the two female friends), but there's a noteworthy intelligence and writerly ambition behind the contrivance. So go on--embrace the Wiccan yenta inside you for a little while. Blessed be.

Near Miss, Direct Hit, and Cease Fire by Cara Chapel (Sentinel) -- Somehow I missed the boat on reading these for about three months after they were posted. But I got lucky tonight, just as the smut jones hit.

The elevator is crowded; the truck isn't. It doesn't seem to make any difference. He's pensive, thoughtful. He's watching the traffic like a hawk, big sure hands calm on the steering wheel. Meanwhile I'm about to jitter my way through the floorboard and fall right out on the highway. I've turned the radio on and spent most of the ride flipping through stations looking for something I want to hear. Usually that drives him crazy but today he's just quiet.

I can't stand it; something's got to break free. As I mount the steps at his side I need to scream, need to hit something, need to fly back out and get into my car and see how far and how fast I can drive before I go out of control and just... wipe out. The tension's too much. It's got to go somewhere.

What might throw you off stride: Wounds, stitches, antiseptic...not my kink. But the vehicle carried me to the blowjob without running out of gas, and I am happy.

Rematch by Sheryl (Sentinel) -- It's always interesting to see what first stories look like. This one was cleanly written, nicely characterized, and very cute.

"Jim, man, I hate to tell you this...but I flipped you, like totally fair and square. You my friend, went down." He makes a gesture toward the floor and then laughs that damn laugh, again.

God, I hate him.

"Look Chief, let me explain this to you, once and for all." I feel the need to take charge here. "First of all, the whole point of the lesson was to teach you a few self-defense moves, so even if you did flip me...which you didn't...that would only mean that I am an excellent self-defense instructor." So whatd'ya have to say to that?

God, I hate that laugh.

What might throw you off stride: ...with a 'slight concussion.' But sometimes you've just got to ignore that slight concussion, when you're a superhero and horny.

Pretty Rough by Francesca and Emily (Sentinel) -- I got to read this in beta (neener neener), which is when you're supposed to find problems and suchlike and maybe have a little critical distance. But I was still blown away.

You turn your car into a gravel parking lot. The bar isn't much more than a tin shack, but you can hear the hum of an overworked air-conditioning unit, and snatches of music each time the battered wooden door bangs open. Country-western. You don't like country music much, but it's pretty much the only game in town. You're three bases used to it by now--three bases removed from the rock and roll you really like. Last two towns, the locals called it "nigger music." In this one, it pretty much brands you a communist.

You aren't a nigger. You aren't a communist.

You're lots worse than that.

You slam the car door and walk through the evening air to the doorway. It's always like this. You wonder what's going on, who might be around, what's going to happen later. Sometimes it feels like you're looking for someone in particular, some shadowy person you can't really imagine. Other times, it's like you're looking for anyone at all. Anybody will do.

Your dad would have said that you're looking for trouble. And he'd probably be right.
 

What might throw you off stride: It's dark. Like "ouch ouch ouch." If you're primarily fluffy, you may want to wear some sort of protective mood shield.

Mermaids Singing by Lyrica (Sentinel) -- A Sentinel/X-Files crossover. Long and meaty, just like Skinner's...um, just like Skinner. Ahem.

//Turn over,// Skinner breathed. //Turn over, baby. Let me fuck you.// The bed creaked, and hands moved over skin. Hoarse words, breathed over skin. //God, you are so beautiful.// A foil packet crinkled. Ripped. And Blair rocked against rumpled sheets.

"Jim?" Blair laid his fingertips on his arm gently. "You got something?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Mulder's a profiler who's done a lot of work on serial murders. And he seems to know a lot about this case..."

"So..." Blair drew the word out, thinking, then picked up steam as he made the same connections that Jim had. "...maybe this killer has recently shifted his base of operation to Cascade. And if we could find out about the cases Mulder's been working on, we'd find out more about this one."

Jim nodded, grinning at Blair. In step and in sync.

"So how do we find out about Mulder's old cases?"

Jim bit his lip, because the first response that popped into his mind was pillow talk. He wasn't ready to go there. In fact, he couldn't see himself being ready to go there in his lifetime. "I have some contacts in DC." He looked at his watch. "But it's too late to call. It'll have to wait until tomorrow morning." He looked at the spread of papers and photos on his desk. At the wadded pieces of paper filling his trash can. At the page on his legal pad, almost covered in boxes and scratched out ideas. Almost ready for the trash can itself. "Help me finish this, just for the hell of it. We might still find something."

What might throw you off stride: They're all gay, they trade off partners, and Jim is voyeuristic (but it kind of makes sense, when you think about it). It all works out in the end, of course.

Kissing Friends by Basingstoke (Sentinel) -- This is probably the easiest way to rec stories two and three in this series, Interlude: Camping, and Being Friends. The first story didn't really hook my attention, but I did take a look at the next few as they came out and discovered that they got more sharply written and endearing as they progressed. The quote is from story three:

Jim stirred the stew with one hand and picked up the videos Blair rented with the other.

"Burnt by the Sun?"

"Russian movie. It won an Oscar." Blair was emptying out the pockets of his jacket.

"What's it about?"

"Seduction, betrayal, Stalin. Balloons. Wheat. The usual."

What might throw you off stride: The really snappy dialogue doesn't start until the second story, and they're not really stories, more like snippets. But they made me grin goofily, so you're not allowed to dislike them. Hopefully there will be more to come.

Bonds by qwertyuiop (Sentinel) -- Hot off the presses! Well, as of today. Which by the time you read this will be some other day. It's 2:00 a.m. here, in case you couldn't tell. I'm sitting here at my computer but my brain is over there on the bed, sleeping, curled up like a little cat...a pink, hairless cat. It's sort of horrible, really.

"When did you get back? I didn't hear you come in," he asked, attempting to twist himself around to try to face Jim as far as he could, which wasn't much, with the man clinging to him like some deranged giant octopus. He settled for craning his neck, turning his head, and peering at the coat-that-looked-like-Jim out of the corner of his eyes.

"A while back. You were preoccupied," responded Jim's strong jaw, that being all Blair could distinguish clearly from his awkward angle. He seemed not to realize that he was wrapped around Blair and eating over his shoulder; his attention focused on the television and his food.

What might throw you off stride: It's not really a story. It sort of revs up, bumps merrily along, then stalls and rolls to a slow, unexpected stop as if the author ran out of gas. But there's a lot of (prepare for icky word) potential here. I'll happily dive into any more stories I see by this author.

Desirous of Everything by Lemon Drop (Sentinel) -- Damn all prolific authors. Like pushers hooking us on sweet smack, while our own creative energies sigh, roll over, and go back to sleep. No, no. I'm not bitter. I'll finish that story someday....

Jim studied the bones thoughtfully, Blair at his side. They were bleached white by the fire, which Blair knew meant they'd burned for a long time, long enough to burn out all organic material. Some of the bones had a checkered appearance and small cubes were flaking off them; others were shedding tiny crescent moons. Both were signs, again, of intense heat.

But whose bones? As much as Jim looked and sniffed and even, to Blair's disgust, tasted, there was nothing to suggest who once walked with those bones.

What might throw you off stride: It's rated 'R'. For Christmas, I want a big fat NC-17 story, with four sex scenes...or five, if you're feeling generous.

Tepid Apocalypse by Molly (Sentinel) -- Winner for most intriguing title of the year. Plus, hey man, is it just me or is Sentinel fandom starting to attract charmingly bent girls with a literary bent? The author notes in her author notes: "Quoted headers to each part are, in order, the three stanzas which make up Henri Michaux's poem 'Shriek', as translated from French by William Rees."

He hadn't expected to sleep, not after everything, so it wasn't a surprise that he didn't. The ceiling got boring at midnight, the wall at two, and letting his eyes roam just took too much energy, anyway. So he crawled out of bed with a good deal of time left before sunrise, and there used to be places he could go at times like these, but odd how all the ones he could think of were on campus.

It was cold out, but he found himself walking in a nearby park and shivering his way through the remainder of the night. It was long in lasting, and the sky was only hinting at the coming shades of day when he just stopped, and sank onto a bench to stare bleakly at a nearby tree.

What might throw you off stride: I like Blair's pal Sydney. When I read stories like this, I feel as if my tastes in slash have matured, because I used to have knee-jerk reactions against icky girls appearing in my slash stories. ("Cooties!") I imagine it could cause discomfort for some readers, but maybe not. Maybe everyone else already had mature tastes and were just waiting for me to catch up....

Wandering the Maze by Destina Fortunato (Sentinel) -- A revisitation of Cypher, with an enviable beta list.

It had come on them by degrees, this command-and-response scenario. Blair spoke, Jim listened, and his body acquiesced without so much as a muscle twinge in protest. Blair's voice was a smooth override to Jim's objections much of the time, enough to overcome reluctance and a host of other conflicting feelings. Hell, Blair had only been living there a few weeks, barely long enough to settle in, and already it seemed as though he'd been there forever, taking root and spreading out in every direction across Jim's life.

Jim tugged the blinds down over the long windows, filtering out the bright daylight until only pinstriped remnants could be seen along the edges. He gave himself permission to sink into the couch, sighing into the cushions like a man too tired to be bothered with breathing.

What might throw you off stride: Nine out of ten readers agree: we're still a bit dubious about that broken door. But, yes, it makes a nice symbol.

On Edge by Shadow (Sentinel) -- The author notes that this is a loose sequel to a zine story, which of this date is still not archived. But it's easily read on its own merits. 

"Don't move." A growling purr that reaches deep into my insides, grabs hold of my nerve endings and pulls.

I hold perfectly still. In fact, I barely breathe.

Damned good thing, too, because Jim's pulled the bottom of my shirt out of my pants, and suddenly I feel a coldness against my belly. Jim's army knife slides up through the silk of my shirt and I hold perfectly still. I'm trembling now, but not from fear. I don't even spare a second's thought to the fate of my nicest black silk shirt. Fuck the shirt.

What might throw you off stride: There are a few off-key phrases here and there, but mostly it's a smooth ride.

  Ripples in the Dirac Sea by Allaire Mikhail (Sentinel) -- This is the first posted Sentinel story from this author. I hope there will be more to come.

Rain was falling but her face was still warm as the touched it, traced the lines of her mouth and cheek, feathered a caress over her closed eyelids. He could feel every wrinkle, every tiny pore, could feel the fading warmth as her body slowly cooled down in the rain, the drops falling down on her face, mingling with his tears.

Blair touched the back of his hand, a comforting presence on the edge of the darkness closing down on him, bringing him back to the present, to Megan opening his mother's purse, using gloves to sort through the contents. She dropped the wallet and, accompanied by Simon's angry bark, a shower of various papers, cards and photos fluttered to the concrete.

What might throw you off stride: A few tiny formatting oddities, some repetition that doesn't seem to move the story forward effectively (as opposed to the repetition that does), and occasional reliance on fanon--e.g., the obligatory jungle metaphors--that comes across as a bit weak. But we all love a good jungle metaphor once in a while....

  The Kindred Spirit by Marilyn (Sentinel) -- I haven't figured out the sequel/prequel/continuity relationship between this and her first story, "The Last Experiment", but you can read this by itself just fine.

"What, you've never heard me say, 'Hooah'?"

"Well," Blair said, flashing a nervous glance at Jean, "on certain occasions...I didn't realize it was an actual word or anything...I think Al Pacino said it in a movie, once."

"Army slang for anything and everything except 'no'. Generally used when at a loss for words," Jean supplied.

"'Great, glad to meet you, I don't have the vaguest idea, I'm not listening, you've got to be kidding, yes, thank you, you did the right thing, that's neat, go to the next slide...'" added Jim helpfully.

"'...I don't know what that means, but am too embarrassed to ask for clarification?'" asked Blair.

"Hooah," chorused the veterans.

"Hooah," Blair echoed.

What might throw you off stride: Some plot twists may seem a bit contrived and some dialogue may be clever to excess. As faults go, there are worse.
 

  Love's Bitch by Lenore (Sentinel) -- The author says in her notes, "...this is more a fantasy on the theme of "Prisoner X" than a true adherence to its plot." Works for me.

It was just that watching Jenkins puff out his cheeks and stretch his lips around the skinhead's cock brought back to him the taste of the men he'd sucked off. His face went hot just at the thought of it, as if he were the one down on his knees giving head in front of twenty other guys.

As his orgasm approached, the Rock started to make noises in the back of his throat, loud and rattling, like a malfunctioning piece of industrial equipment. He grabbed Jenkins' ears and began to fuck his face in earnest.

What might throw you off stride: Characters with names like "the Rock" and "the Weasel", a few off-key notes ("clink") here and there, and--perhaps--a certain stylization in the characterization and drama. But then, is stylization bad? This is a self-labeled fantasy, after all; and in striking a balance between stylized kink and realist nuance, this is very accomplished. In a way, I think this is a measure of the author's skill: the boundaries of fantasy are not big enough to contain her.
  

  There it Is by Strandia (Sentinel) -- A first-time story by a writer who has just this single, lonely story in the archive so far. More? More!

The bastard was older than Jim, about ten years. Deadly handsome, with deep brown eyes and wavy black hair peppered with grey. He grinned at Jim, his eyes feral. "Do I look dead?" he asked, and he made a move toward Jim again. Jim avoided his touch, backing up quickly. He glanced at me for a second, his eyes apologetic and embarrassed. And a bit panicked, as well. Me, well, I was just watching in shock. "I was never dead Jimmy, just out of touch for a while. Like you were."

  Under the Radar by LynnZo (Sentinel) -- If this were a movie, I'd call it a 'sleeper'. Sneaky little thing....

Jim smiled down at him indulgently. "Yeah, Chief, sometimes it does." Blair's head found its natural place on Jim's shoulder again, and they stood there a while, in the warmth and the comfort and the darkness. Jim looked idly out the window at the rain, and then realized. Dark. As in, no lights in the kitchen. As in, no dinner. "What's for dinner, Sandburg?"

What might throw you off stride: God only knows. Do you kick puppies? Lock kittens in closets? Then you might find something to dislike here.
 

  Nature's Ascent by Francesca (Sentinel) -- A gratuitous rec, in some ways. But read it again. And for those of you who just came back from an expedition in Borneo and haven't read the Nature series, this story comes at a point well along in the series' progression, but it might be an interesting experience just to click through and read it anyway.

And Blair started telling Sarah and Megan about the highlights of Chicago, but all Jim was conscious of was the soft murmur of Blair's voice, and the warmth of Blair's body against his. Feeling oddly-self-conscious, Jim draped his arm around Blair's neck, pulling him closer. He felt totally alive, totally aware, in this moment. He had Blair close to him--this close--outside the loft, in public, in Cascade. Sarah and Megan were sitting close together, too, holding hands idly, long girl-fingers gently interlocked as they leaned back against the loveseat and listened to Blair talk about the roundtable and jazz nightclubs and the exploits of drunken academics.

What might throw you off stride: The ending, perhaps. But by then your stride is pretty much over anyway.

  Ministers of Grace by Lanning Cook (Sentinel) -- It's pre-slash, and if I recommend a pre-slash story, without sex, you can be sure it's without parallel in its creamy goodness.

Jim's head jerked up as the blow with a two-by-four became a stab with a knife. "That was a fucking low blow," he snarled. "You want to know how it felt? Fine. It felt like I'd just drowned the best friend I'd ever had with my own two hands. Like I'd murdered someone who'd done nothing but help me and stand by me. Like I was fucking damned for all time. Okay? Satisfied?" He started to rise, unable to stand the resemblance to Blair in Naomi's face, but Naomi laid her hand on his.

"That's how Blair feels," she whispered.

Jim froze.

Naomi nodded, eyes bright.

What might throw you off stride: The dashes are not formatted correctly.

  Paradigm by Sigrid (Sentinel) -- I'll break my standard and go to traditional summary, to say that this is a story that deals primarily with Blair's adjustment to being a cop.

"Is that how you see yourself, as my tagalong?" Jim's tone was forcedly casual as he concentrated on dropping coins into the slot.

"Oooh. Taking counseling courses, Jim? Learning how to reflect the speaker's comments back... 'So, you feel as if you're merely Jim's tagalong do you?'" Blair mimicked, leaning back against the wall. "'So how does that make you feel.'"

Blair watched in satisfaction as Jim stiffened, but the relaxation efforts failed to work this time. Provoking Jim was becoming a point of pride, and Blair found himself vaguely despising Jim for not pushing back, for letting Blair walk all over him.

What might throw you off stride: It's definitely Blair-centric. You Jimbabes might need to open your mind. But your heart will follow.

  Dominion by Destina Fortunato (Sentinel) -- Destina writes in PM and a whole heck of a lot of other fandoms. I'm thinking that I must go take a look at her Gladiator fiction...but first, back to our regularly scheduled fandom:

Jim was moving forward in an altogether normal way, but suddenly it seemed predatory to Blair and he took an involuntary step back. Too late; Jim had him cornered, backed against the door, looking at him as a hungry cat might look at a potential kill. Hands on either side of Blair's body, Jim leaned forward and their gazes locked, shades of blue darkening in surprise, reflected against a blue mirror of determination.

What might throw you off stride: Let me get back to you on that....

  Men by Miriam Heddy (Sentinel) -- The title says it all.

Jim went in first, leaning into the kid heavily. From behind the layered glass, Blair watched Jim do his thing, not listening, just watching, as Jim got right into the kid's face, then eased back, leaning against the wall. The kid rubbed his hands flat against his thighs, wiping the sweat off, and then reached for the cup of water on the table, drinking it unsteadily, not looking at Jim. Then he looked up, suddenly, as if Jim had said something, but Jim hadn't said a word. He'd just moved, lifting one leg and sitting down at the table, straddling a chair, the chair knocking into the table enough to jolt the kid out of his stupor.

What might throw you off stride: Men.

  Bid Him Come, Bid Him Go by Legion (Sentinel) -- Of Legion's stories, this stands out easily as a favorite.

It wasn't until the last bar of shadow had slipped back outside into the dying day that Jim came back to himself, eyes burning from staring so long. As self-awareness filtered back into Jim's mind, rage and self-hatred mixed with fear came with it, leaving him shaking in reaction. Wanting only to punch a wall or get drunk, or maybe both, he swung around intending to head for the door. His hip, held motionless for too long, gave way, his abused, scarred tendons and nerves screaming.

He managed to take the fall correctly, body going limp, one hand slapping the floor to expend some of the force. But there was no chance he was going to be able to get up any time soon, either, even if he had been able to move through the pain. Every muscle in his leg knotted up, cramps stabbing into him, and he pounded on his good thigh, trying to literally beat down some of the agony.

*Breathe*

What might throw you off stride: The premise. Suspend your disbelief, man. It's worth it.

  Anniversary by Kass (Sentinel) -- Kass has been known to describe her stories as "Pop-Tarts". I have a thing for Pop-Tarts. Strawberry. Toasted.

Blair's neck was bent and he was towelling the excess water from his curls, which is how he managed to walk straight into Jim, who was conveniently standing braced against the door to Blair's room.

Blair, startled, let go of the hand-towel and it fell. Jim just waited, arms crossed across his chest, looking at Blair appraisingly.

"You're kind of in the way," Blair said, going for nonchalant.

Jim's eyes glinted. "Move me," he said.

What might throw you off stride: Bitch!Carolyn characterization. But sometimes a good woman must be bashed to create good slash. (No, no, I'm just kidding. Jeez.)

  Ocean, Moon by Lemon Drop (Sentinel) -- The author writes, "Blair's sacrifice of his research and reputation obsesses me..." There have been many good post-TSbyBS stories, but this one stands out in a crowd.

I got a Friends of the Library card at the university today. It was easy; I just paid forty dollars and they gave it to me. I could have gotten one because I am an alumnus, but. I dunno. I just wanted a regular card, the kind anybody can get.

What was cool was that Jim came with me and got one, too. Like he'll use it, I know. But it was symbolic. Not that Jim would ever acknowledge that. He just said, Hey, Chief. Ya never know, I might need one on a case.

What might throw you off stride: Lack of quotation marks. I hardly noticed this style choice, and when having it pointed out, realized consciously that I liked the effect--a lot. So I'll just say that other readers mentioned they found this off-putting.

  Days Like These by Meredith Lynne (Sentinel) -- One of the few authors for whom I'll descend to 8k. <g>

Jim glanced down and smiled. The only part of Blair currently visible was his hair, tousled and smelling like Cuervo Gold. The lump under the blankets had grumbled for a bit, then fallen silent as the two cops had discussed the relative merits of the Geo Prism vs. the Honda Civic and whether to lease or just buy outright. Jim thought for a few minutes Blair had gone back to sleep, but then his guide had tossed out a warning about pennies per mile and balloon payments, all without emerging from the relative safety of his cocoon.

What might throw you off stride: Simon, dude. Take a hike. They can't have sex if you're looming over them with your sixfootwhatever.

  Tender by Resonant (Sentinel) -- Resonant has a pretty name. I like that in an author. And now that I've demonstrated my deep superficiality....

What?" Jim mimicked unkindly. "The backpack in the middle of the floor, that's what. You think I'm your fucking maid or something?"

"Hey, hey, hey, sorry, man!" and Blair was already halfway there to pick the offending backpack up. The placating voice and the I'm-no-threat-to-you-mighty-pack-leader gestures -- He might as well roll over and show his belly, Jim thought disgustedly. He won't fight, but he'll fucking run, won't he. Jim stepped into his path. "I'll just, I'll just," Blair was saying, and Jim forcibly restrained himself from placing a palm on his chest and shoving him.

"You'll just leave your shit all over the place for me to trip over, is that it?"

"Hey!" Blair's posture changed, subtly -- he seemed to get a couple of inches taller, and he met Jim's eye steadily. "I said I was sorry," he said, in that even voice that meant he was getting angry. "I'm going to take care of the backpack. What's the real problem, Jim?"

What might throw you off stride: Quotations serve as dividers between sections, which is nice--it furthers the story--but the spacing is cramped, so the sense of 'pause' is undermined. A case where more white space would actually be a good thing.

  Other Kinds of Things by Helen (Sentinel) -- Helen deserves special commendation for never writing anything below 50k or NC-17. That's my kind of writer--oh wait, and she's fucking good.

 "Got you a present," Blair said, handing Jim a paper bag. "S'heavy."

"No kidding," Jim said, accepting it. "Can I open it?"

"yeah."

"Wow, Sandburg," Jim had set the bag on the coffee table and was peering inside. "It's rocks."

"Cement." Blair slung his backpack and his coat into his room. "Some mud. And there's some shale at the bottom."

"well, when you set out to give a guy rocks, you don't fool around."

What might throw you off stride: Need I even say it? Helen's punctuation and style choices are unique. You either accept her house rules or eat your slash somewhere else. Me, I'm all for it. Nice to see a story once in a while that doesn't look like every other story.

  Inferences and Innuendo by Lenore (Sentinel) -- Oops, I've recced Lenore twice. Well...sorry, you'll just have to deal. This is actually a series of five stories, not unlike an episode arc.

The Marine laughed, and Blair noticed for the first time what an unpleasant sound it was. "I thought you'd get a kick out of that, sweetheart. Lots and lots of big men to stare at, to get you all turned on. And they'll love getting a hold of a sweet piece like you. I can promise you that. You'll have all the cock any faggot could possibly handle."

Vague fear turned into concrete terror. Pictures flashed furiously across his imagination. The austere interior of a Marine Corps barracks. Row after row of bunks. Throngs of men, all as big as Sequoias, gathered around him. In his mind, they pointed and laughed and made catcalls so obscene they burned his ears. He imagined himself trembling and mute with fear. He saw himself stripped, forced, passed from man to man, like a human party favor.

What might throw you off stride: The title. This was archived under the alarmingly long and rather off-putting title "Inferences and Innuendo: Club Doom, Threatened, Secrets and Lies, Past Bad Acts, and Coda".

  Housebroken by Brighid (Sentinel) -- Another exception to my usual rule of preferring (a) stories with explicit sex, and (b) longer stories. Brighid is pretty prolific and there are many of her stories to choose from, but this one has had the most impact on me.

"Like you've never cut the cheese in front of me before!" Blair protested, marking his place in the book with his thumb. "Hello, do you remember the Frazetti stakeout? The one where you said, 'Hey, Chief, whaddaya mean Mexican isn't a good idea?' We had to refinish the seats after that puppy! And my hair hasn't been normal since then. Half of it curls counterclockwise now!" Blair was grinning at Jim, and shifting a little in his seat.

What might throw you off stride: Real guys, farting. But, um, seriously--this isn't a story about farting. (That would be scary.) My first reading of this story was a bit of a shock; but after only a second reading I took it to heart and have cherished it ever since.

Warning: Just because Brighid can pull off a story that mentions farting, doesn't mean you can--and even if you can, don't. Please.

  Back to Good by Bone (Sentinel) -- Bone makes first-person point-of-view look easy. The rotten @#$%...mumble, jealous mumble.

Blair's sitting on the floor, surrounded by empty boxes, looking at some papers in his hand. They're wrinkled, with a jagged tear on one corner, and dirt smudges on them. I know they're some of his research notes. I knew it when I put them on the bottom of the box and poured in other stuff on top of them. I'm not proud of that. His mouth looks pinched and he's got huge dark circles under his eyes. He's filthy, which makes him look young, and shaky, which makes him look old. Underneath the dirt, he's pale. Too pale. He's right on the edge.

What might throw you off stride: "The end."

  Woe is You I: Pine and Stew by Mallory Klohn (Sentinel) -- A.k.a. Ethan Nelson, a name that should bring a nostalgic smile to the faces of X-Philes.

After cruising the grounds for almost half an hour, he found Jim sitting on the curb next to a bus shelter, his head propped up in his hands. The detective's face was free of expression, almost slack from it, and his eyes were cold. I sure do like them french-fried pertaters. Mm-HM. "Damn it," he muttered. "This isn't funny." He sat down on the curb next to Jim and touched his friend's arm. "Jim. You in there, man?"

What might throw you off stride: Fast-and-loose dialogue and characterization, if you really want to poke a stick at it. Plus, what's up with "Woe is You I"--where's II? Damn it, that's cruel.

  Aphrodite's Garden by Emily Brunson (Sentinel) -- Speaking of cruel authors.

A glance at the clock reassured him. Plenty of time, in spite of his slow awakening and miserable moment in the bathroom. He chose carefully from the neatly arranged clothes in his closet. A double-breasted gray suit, deep charcoal with almost invisible pinstripes. Pristine white banker's shirt, and silver-gray silk tie. He dressed and surveyed the result in the mirror. Impeccably professional, of course. He drew on thin black silk socks and eased his feet into the one pair of black shoes he owned. Getting just a little old, although a quick buff with a chamois made them look better than they should. He made a mental note to remember to look for a decent replacement pair.

What might throw you off stride: It's unfinished, damn her eyes.
 

Solitary Creatures by Aristide (Sentinel) -- Another writer who calls her stories Pop-Tarts, but I don't think I'll let her get away with that. This is more like a strawberry shortcake with fresh cake, and cream, and strawberries and maybe some chocolate drizzled over the top. Um...it's four a.m. and I'm hungry.

It was fascinating, in a mildly perverse sort of way-- all that girlish giggle and blossoming womanhood hurling itself at Sandburg like new cubs bringing down half-dead game; a practice sport, a warmup for eventual predatory violence. Jim watched as time and again Blair was brought to ground, handled and grappled with so forcefully that Jim would have been willing to bet there would be dainty hand-sized bruises on Sandburg's ass for the next few days. Blair was powerless-- he couldn't grab back; not when a defensively raised hand would most likely end up full of heaving, sixteen-year-old tit. He didn't seem to mind too much.

What might throw you off stride: I had to actively search for something to carp about: punctuation. It can be a bit scattershot, here and there. Parantheses, asterisks, unclosed dashes, ellipses...sometimes all in a single sentence. But I've been there, done that. I too know the slow mournful lure of the ellipses of the heart....

Ahem.
 

Skinsgame by Barb G (Sentinel) -- She came, she wrote a few stories...then she went Due South. Which I'm okay with, believe me, but I wish she'd visit Cascade on alternate weekends. Holds the distinction of one of the few authors I'll read who uses 'cum' instead of 'come'.

There was no way I would be expected to go along with this. No way in hell. This totally went above and beyond the call of duty. I took a couple running steps to catch up with him. "You don't understand," I said, speaking quietly so that only Fiddler could hear me. I tried to pass off the terror in my voice as embarrassment. "I am shit scared of the needle gun. I tried to, with the Rangers, but I couldn't sit still for it."

Fiddler waved off my words, and motioned me into his private chamber. He shut the door, leaving us alone. "I like you, Jim. I think what you did took guts. This is the final test of your convictions. If you get this done, then I'll know you are one of us. If you don't, I might think the whole thing was a setup. Believe me, Ellison, they will never find what remains of your body. I'll send your heart back to your ape supervisor with a bite out of it. What will it be?"

What might throw you off stride: The climax of the story feels a bit premature and the ending rushed, but perhaps that's just because I wanted this to be much, much longer.
 

Testing, Testing by Pares (Sentinel) -- So one day, long ago now, I was checking out recent additions to the archive and cried with discovery, "Pares is writing Sentinel!" Unfortunately, I don't think I ever wrote her to express my joy. Because I suck.

He shifts his hips a little, adjusting himself without taking his hands off my arm, and I can see the swell of his erection under his jeans. I can smell him now... he smells cloudy, thick. His arousal, I mean, it's like a fog, and the kid's churning out pheromones like a sex factory... I close my eyes, try to dial it down... I'm zoning a little, but I bring myself back from it when I feel him move into the curve of my arm and nestle up against me, burying his face in my chest.

What might throw you off stride: I don't know. My mind's a blank. Why don't you make something up and write and tell Pares about it and tell her this was a great story, but you feel she should keep writing more Sentinel stories until she gets it absolutely perfectly right--and we'll give her, say, ten years to accomplish this. Get cracking, Pares.
 

In Vodka Veritas by Gloria Lancaster -- If I actually had a section on classics, I might be tempted to call this one.

"Oh, well..." the young scared sounding voice cleared its throat and started again: "Erm, Blair's in a little trouble, man, he's - he's hiding under a desk and refusing to come out until someone called Blessed comes and gets him. He's - well, he's whining, actually."

What might throw you off stride: It cries out for a sequel, but it cries alone.
 

Salt, Tequila, Lime by Lyrica (Sentinel) -- Okay, what's with these X-Files authors? They come, they tantalize us with a few awesome stories, and then gently slink off again. Of course, I like to think they all have long WIPs just waiting to be posted....

Jim got his hands under Blair's ass, tilted his hips, and swallowed him again. He tasted so good, felt so good, pulsing against his tongue. Even though he'd licked Blair clean, his enhanced sense of taste could still detect a residue of sweet alcohol and tart citrus. It was almost as intoxicating as the idea of Blair coating himself with lime and tequila. Hiding in the restroom stall while he rubbed a wedge of lime over his cock. Or was Blair actually drunk enough to have done it in the bar? Slipping his wet fingers down inside his jeans while his friends stood nearby, oblivious.

What might throw you off stride: See here and substitute 'Lyrica' for 'Pares'.
 

Vow by Rhipodon Society (Sentinel) -- See also Vow, Part 2 and Vow, Part 3.

It wasn't much. Just a kiss on the top of the head, nothing sexual in it, no reason for Simon to stop and stare. He did, though.

Jim and Blair were in Blair's office -- his former office -- putting books into boxes. They were bent over the same box, Blair's eyes shut, Jim's mouth touching his hair. As Simon watched, Jim pressed Blair's shoulder and whispered something in his ear. They pulled apart and turned to face the door.

What might throw you off stride: The section breaks aren't clear enough. And this didn't need to be broken up into three story files; they're relatively short.
 

Strange World by Rhipodon Society (Sentinel) -- I have to make another Simon POV rec. It's rare to find stories that do this interestingly or well.

  Simon shook his head.
  "Sentinels everywhere. Doesn't that seem strange to you?"
  "Sandburg's been at this for years, looking for Sentinels. I swear he's probably mentioned this search of his to everyone in his field. He gets information on Sentinels from his colleagues all the time. It shouldn't be a big surprise that he finds the real thing every once in awhile. I just wish he'd give it up, because most of us don't seem to be particularly nice people."
  Simon suspected Jim might be including himself, but he left it alone. As he'd told Blair on one occasion, he wasn't running an encounter group.

What might throw you off stride: Formatting is off in places, the reclamation of book style--indents, no breaks--is a bit hard to adjust to, and brackets for thoughts should be outlawed.
 

"Hey, I thought you said I could have the bathroom first," Mack protested as Blair adjusted the water temperature for a shower.

"You also thought I called you 'honey,'" Blair retorted, stepping into the bath and pulling the curtain.

"You did call me 'honey!'" Mack concluded after a moment's thought. "And you said you had heroin in your car."

"A woman, not the drug," Blair lied for simplicity's sake. "I am not a crook."

"You stole my shower," Mack pointed out.

What might throw you off stride: Two-thirds of the way through you will suddenly realize you could never ever plot a story like this to save your life and you will slit your wrists and bleed to death. Or perhaps just eat a lot of chocolate and moan.
 

In the Air by Sandy H. (Sentinel) -- You might find yourself thinking, "Ah...Sandy, Sandy, Sandy--why the hell don't you write more stories, Sandy, Sandy, Sandy?" Lucky for you a new zine called Crossroads is coming out right now with one of her stories in it. Yay, Sandy!

Okay, now it was really official, he thought, trying to ignore a sharp throbbing behind his eyes. This day couldn’t get any worse. "Um, doctor. That’s probably not from the injury at all. That’s…um…" The words ‘receptive anal sex’ just didn’t want to come out of his mouth. He, Blair "I have no hang-ups about sex" Sandburg, was choking in the clutch here. He took a deep breath, and just spit out, "That’s from sex, earlier tonight; it’s not a problem," and then took three or four more deep breaths.

What might throw you off stride: Vigorous, raunchy, wrasslin' sex is impossible when you've been knifed in the ass, so you'll just have to make do with this.
 

Deja Vu by Lex, a.k.a. Alexis Gunn (Sentinel) -- Not found in the archive, not sure why. You can find it via her homepage, here: http://members.tripod.com/AlexisGunn/sentinelstory.htm

"Cascade, huh?" asked the trooper, looking at his license. "May I ask what you’re doing up this way, Mr. Ellison?"

"I’m a serial killer," said Jim, "and this is my next victim, Blair Sandburg."

The trooper glanced back up at him and nodded. "I’m going to have to write you a ticket," he said.

"For speeding or being a serial killer?" Jim asked curiously. Blair was too amazed to say anything at this point.

"If you could just sign right here," said the trooper, handing him the pad.

Jim signed "Charles Manson" in big, bold letters.

What might throw you off stride: You will be left with haunting repetitive nightmares that you are getting up out of bed, staggering into the shower, and going into the office, getting up out of bed, staggering into the shower, and going into the office, getting up out of bed, staggering into the shower, and going into the office...no, wait. That's just my life.

Inchworm by rgkinski (Sentinel) -- I feel a little schizoid reccing this. I like two-thirds of the story, and then wham, out of the blue, squicks start to drop on my head like little inchworms.

Blair realized he may as well have stamped beety hand prints all over the walls and expected Jim to understand the metaphorical imperative of such an act than try to explain the importance of relocating a lonely inchworm to greener pastures.

He decided to save the explanation for later - there was an inchworm that needed rescuing. He checked the garbage pail under the sink. Empty.

"I took it out," Jim explained.

"Do you always have to be so fucking regimented?" Blair shouted, on his way to the front door.

Jim grabbed him, held him fast. "If this is Blair having a nervous breakdown, tell me now."

"There was a...an inchworm...in the tops. I wanted to put him, it, outside."

Jim shook Blair a little roughly, still gripping his arm.

"If this is Blair on drugs, tell me now."

What might throw you off stride: Just stop at "'How's my karma doing?' he asked, heading towards the stairs," and you'll be fine. Just pretend it's the end. If you dare to continue further...don't blame me.