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crack_van2004-11-20 02:58 pm
st-crispins.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2004-11-20 02:58 pm
Entry tags:
Wicked by Cord Smithee (NC-17)
Fandom: THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E.
Pairing: Solo/Kuryakin
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cordwainer_s.
Author website: No, but the stories can be found at the Chrome and Gunmetal Madhouse, http://chromeandgunmetal.com/chrome/
Why this must be read:
On the slash side, Cord is a new and welcome addition to MFU fandom. In these stories, Solo and Kuryakin are fairly promiscuous and determinedly bi-sexual, easily jumping from one gendered bed partner to another, from one bed to another. They sleep with each other regularly, but they both genuinely like women, too, often sharing and passing around bed partners. Yet, all this adventurous sex never threatens the core connection, the trust, between them. They’re very comfortable with one another and very playful, an attitude that’s downright infectious for the reader. The sex between them is pretty hot as well.
Cord’s stories are also characterized by telling sensory details and a good grasp of canon. Most are short vignettes, and this one, a sequel of sorts to “The Fiddlesticks Affair,” is my favorite. Here’s Illya observing Solo:
I'm used to watching my partner dance.
He dances with the enemy. He dances around the truth. His eyes dance with merriment, and he leads me a merry dance, too. But right now, collar open in the evening's heat, he's dancing with a girl, a pretty honest-faced girl named Susan, who's finally stopped watching me out of the corner of her eye as if I might bite.
That's nice. Nice to know I've redeemed myself in her eyes, at least a little. I might bite her anyway, if Napoleon gives me half a chance.
She looks like the type.
I curl my fingers around my glass, swirling bourbon over the ice. It's the color of Napoleon's eyes, when I hold it to the light. Ice rattles against crystal; my hand is shaking. I drink quickly, to silence the telltale and kill the memory of Napoleon's flesh against my fingers, clammy as the glass I hold.
His heart hadn't stopped yet. And now he's dancing in Las Vegas, with the girl I won for him, the girl I've been teaching to count cards in blackjack, although the casinos frown on that. They frown on anything that might decrease their chances of rooking the marks, if it's legal or not.
Life is funny, sometimes, yes?
And here they are in bed together:
Napoleon slides into bed tousled, smelling of sex and a woman's perfume. My bed, not the untouched one across the narrow walkway. I smile in the dark. "You could have showered first."
"I can't hear you when you mumble against the pillow, Illya."
"I said--" I sit up "--you could have showered first."
Napoleon's smile is bright enough to shine through the darkness. "You didn't," he says, and pins me to the bed, his hands tight on my wrists, his face buried in the crook of my neck. "You smell like her. Your breath smells like her."
"I brushed my teeth," I argue.
"It doesn't matter. How was she?"
"You know perfectly well how she was."
"Nice, eh?" His mouth on my throat. He rolls between my legs, his cock as hard against my thigh as mine is against his belly. Yes. I saved myself for him, and he saved himself for me. At least a little. That's how it works.
Wicked
Pairing: Solo/Kuryakin
Author on LJ:
cordwainer_s.Author website: No, but the stories can be found at the Chrome and Gunmetal Madhouse, http://chromeandgunmetal.com/chrome/
Why this must be read:
On the slash side, Cord is a new and welcome addition to MFU fandom. In these stories, Solo and Kuryakin are fairly promiscuous and determinedly bi-sexual, easily jumping from one gendered bed partner to another, from one bed to another. They sleep with each other regularly, but they both genuinely like women, too, often sharing and passing around bed partners. Yet, all this adventurous sex never threatens the core connection, the trust, between them. They’re very comfortable with one another and very playful, an attitude that’s downright infectious for the reader. The sex between them is pretty hot as well.
Cord’s stories are also characterized by telling sensory details and a good grasp of canon. Most are short vignettes, and this one, a sequel of sorts to “The Fiddlesticks Affair,” is my favorite. Here’s Illya observing Solo:
I'm used to watching my partner dance.
He dances with the enemy. He dances around the truth. His eyes dance with merriment, and he leads me a merry dance, too. But right now, collar open in the evening's heat, he's dancing with a girl, a pretty honest-faced girl named Susan, who's finally stopped watching me out of the corner of her eye as if I might bite.
That's nice. Nice to know I've redeemed myself in her eyes, at least a little. I might bite her anyway, if Napoleon gives me half a chance.
She looks like the type.
I curl my fingers around my glass, swirling bourbon over the ice. It's the color of Napoleon's eyes, when I hold it to the light. Ice rattles against crystal; my hand is shaking. I drink quickly, to silence the telltale and kill the memory of Napoleon's flesh against my fingers, clammy as the glass I hold.
His heart hadn't stopped yet. And now he's dancing in Las Vegas, with the girl I won for him, the girl I've been teaching to count cards in blackjack, although the casinos frown on that. They frown on anything that might decrease their chances of rooking the marks, if it's legal or not.
Life is funny, sometimes, yes?
And here they are in bed together:
Napoleon slides into bed tousled, smelling of sex and a woman's perfume. My bed, not the untouched one across the narrow walkway. I smile in the dark. "You could have showered first."
"I can't hear you when you mumble against the pillow, Illya."
"I said--" I sit up "--you could have showered first."
Napoleon's smile is bright enough to shine through the darkness. "You didn't," he says, and pins me to the bed, his hands tight on my wrists, his face buried in the crook of my neck. "You smell like her. Your breath smells like her."
"I brushed my teeth," I argue.
"It doesn't matter. How was she?"
"You know perfectly well how she was."
"Nice, eh?" His mouth on my throat. He rolls between my legs, his cock as hard against my thigh as mine is against his belly. Yes. I saved myself for him, and he saved himself for me. At least a little. That's how it works.
Wicked
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It's just not one that works for me, personally.
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