★ ╎ SOLO

Independent Napoleon Solo. Est. December 2015.

[solofide-blog]

hey guys! sorry i haven’t been super duper active over the last few days. work at a chocolate shop, valentine’s weekend, all that jazz. anywho, school is revving up to hand me my ass over the next week, so my activity will still remain low so that i don’t flunk my classes.

thanks for understanding and for your patience everyone c:

[solofide-blog]

from russia with love

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bloodymists:

Dead? Illya looked to him as though offended, his muscles taut and jaw set. “I would have handled it,” he snapped fiercely. “I do not need your protection.” And Solo should have known that the KGB’s best would find this insulting. Illya wore his scowl like his pride, but Napoleon’s wounds festered his guilt nonetheless. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

The temper, the anger -- it was to be expected, but not any rise within himself. The aching head, the dry throat with a metallic taste, and the fact that he wanted to just take some painkillers and sleep for days had already eaten at his patience, reducing Solo’s words to nearly constant sarcasm. He sought a way to present his own thought process so that in the least, the Russian wouldn’t take it as such a personal hit. His hand dropped from attending to his wounds rather unceremoniously. “Peril -- I didn’t do that because I thought you needed help or protection. I did it because I wanted to.”

[solofide-blog]

ib00-28:

Too many drinks, but not enough to make her oblivious about the world.  Was the correct answer that danced with each long sip disturbing the maraschino cherry on Gaby’s drink. She had never met any of their handlers, for her they existed only in the negative space of her mind: Sanders was one of those Texans, with a heavy accent and cowboy boots, smelling like oil and unwashed horses. Oleg…. Probably wore turtlenecks and didn’t smile much—perhaps only after too many doses of vodka…. Anyhow, their non-existence in their lives was a good sign, maybe Waverly was able to snag the CIA and KGB’s best for himself—that was a good question to prod next time she was alone with their handler. “I don’t think that it was something that many men in Russia could do without raising suspicion. I mean, that could get him in serious trouble.”

After all, they both knew what a man with interest in female clothing must sound like.

Another sip, this time the last as the straw made an inelegant sound against the bottom of the cup, the mechanic seemed almost disappointed when placing the delicate glass along with its empty comrades on an overly decorated table.  “You are one to talk, Mr. Solo.” Gaby chewed thoughtfully the red cherry, observing the always composed American, dressed in a three piece suit that costed more than most people were able to pay. “You and Illya stand out like sore thumbs sometimes. You can get away by saying you’re a businessman, but both of you need to let go of your signature clothing sometimes.”  Gaby let the cowboy have a moment to dwell on the thought as she twirled the stem with her tongue—between the motion and the sea breeze, she remembers fondly of Istanbul, where the Soviet grunted under the harsh sun and Napoleon finally wore shorts and a light white shirt she picked from a nearby vendor. Their second mission was a distant, but comforting memory. “Hm.” She picked the stem from her mouth between fingertips, observing the perfect knot. “I have an idea that might be beneficial to all of us. The question is: will you be my accomplice? That might get us into trouble. “

Perhaps arguably the loveliest of the group was also the one who had been the luckiest in terms of employment -- not counting the fact that she had been living in East Berlin for quite some time and dealt with complicated family issues of her own. In the least, the group dynamics had been an interesting study for Solo, seeing how they all coped with their past and present, particularly with family. Kuryakin, always on edge and determined to prove everyone that he was capable. Teller, who spoke little of it and drank often. And himself? Why, not at all, save for clandestine calls back home on Christmas. At least the US was a little more forgiving than the Soviet Union towards these things, as well as towards fashion.

“No, probably not. Rodchenko didn’t get involved with Varvara’s textile work at all, if I’m remembering correctly.” It really was black and white, the boundary.

Hearing Gaby’s empty glass being set aside, he sat up straighter from the railing and finished his own, sauntering easily to the table to set it down as well, pausing to refill both of their drinks. Yet the woman’s words made him look up, eyebrow raised in mild surprise at her observations of him. While he didn’t mind the idea of standing out -- all the more reason to draw attention -- was it really an obstacle at times? Solo remained silent as he handed her a new glass, the last one, and got himself another scotch, processing the concept. In Istanbul, she had been so adamant on getting him to wear shorts and a slightly scratchy, loose cotton shirt she had picked up nearby; was that really the reason why she had insisted so much? And all along, he thought he looked every bit an average tourist, the fact having been mildly upsetting. The man returned to leaning against the railing, taking another long sip of his drink, pausing when she spoke yet again with an offer.

“Well, if there’s one thing you know about me, it’s that I don’t mind getting into a bit of trouble.” Count him in, whatever plan it was.

[solofide-blog]

backtolondonthunder:

Shaun grunts as Napoleon hoists him up and allows him to lean his weight against the man. Even though he feels on the brink on passing out, Shaun manages to pick up two things:

One — he’s American. Shaun feels like turning up his nose at this discovery.

Two — he’s handsome as hell.

Which, Shaun shouldn’t be thinking considering he was just beat to a pulp by multiple handsome men. The last thing he needs is to presume innocence by just smiling at a friendly face. As Jack speak, Shaun tries his best to assess his injuries — possibly a fractured rib (although the source of pain isn’t that bad, he probably wouldn’t be able to stand if it was broken), definitely a few cuts that would need stitches, and a handful of mighty bruises that would keep Shaun indoors for a couple of weeks.

“’m gonna need stitches, Jack” he mumbles, eyes fluttering closed before Jack’s words has him opening them again, panting slightly. “And bloody hell, who do you think I am? The Queen? No, I don’t have a medical team at home.”

Well, it was a good thing he was here for another job to help complete a certain someone’s collection -- his payments would ensure that he could get another suit to excuse the fact that there was blood staining his current one. The man, Shaun, wasn’t really to blame, nor was a suit any reason to leave him just lying in the street. And the way he saw it, even if he had intervened only moments earlier, it certainly wouldn’t be a guarantee towards the sanctity of his outfit. 

As the other mumbled and slurred slightly, feet pausing to drag, Napoleon had to pause himself to readjust his grip on the man, knowing he was on the verge of passing out. He gave the other another look-over, silently agreeing with the assessment for the need for stitches. 

“Well, no, that’s what I thought. You don’t hold much of a resemblance to her.” So much for finding out where a hospital might be. The American heaved a silent sight, resigning the solitude of his own hotel room to help a stranger live. He wasn’t a great believer in karma -- but this would have to count for something, right? Another glance was given to the man, Solo’s words slow and purposeful for the sake of clarity for the other. “Shaun, can you keep your feet moving? I know you’re going to pass out, but I don’t think I could carry you all the way to my room. I’m going to take you there so we can bandage you up.”

[solofide-blog]

blackyellowandread:

Barbara Gordon was logical. The CIA had recruited her at age eighteen because her mind worked like a computer. She ran through complicated algorithms and strategic patterns before most even knew there were issues. So to be unceremoniously shipped off to babysit a rogue agent? 

She knew she was cold. Barbara didn’t make friends in the agency or network like other analysts. Her connections with upper brass were Wayne, her CO, and Brown, a former operative. And even they tested her patience.

Napoleon Solo. Of course she knew the name. He was, after all, the CIA’s most effective agent. Despite that reputation, he was also known as slick, a con man, and a traitor. Barbara had no patience for a man who had no pride in himself or his country. She understood how the lines grayed when one was on mission. Solo pushed past those boundaries into the black. 

Possibly, the agency thought her no-nonsense attitude would keep him on the straight and arrow. but most likely she would kill him before reforming him. 

She slung her bag over her shoulder and trooped out of the terminal. Solo was supposed to be waiting for her, but she didn’t hold her breath. To Barbara’s surprise, there he stood. Sharp cut suit, slick hair, and sleazy charm. He held her hand as if she was a French socialite. Barbara’s eyes rolled so far back into her head that she was surprised they didn’t fall out.

“No more than the company, Mr. Solo.” Her smile was ferocious. 

Barbara gestured for him to lead the way. No way would she allow him out of her sight. 

When they reached the vehicle, Barbara placed a hand on his bicep to halt him, as well as to confirm that he didn’t bolt. Then she leaned into the front seat and whispered their location to the driver. Only once the car began to move did Barbara relax into her seat.

If asked, he’d openly admit that he was used to harsh treatment from his very employer -- Sanders was often an arrogant handful, quick to hang the threat of his prison sentence over his head -- and not many of the other agents he had ever met held much respect for him. Not that he was expecting this to be any different, knowing that many of them would disagree greatly with his criminal background no matter the effectiveness of his work. It was simple: the man enjoyed his freedom, not under any particular government, and understood that prison really wouldn’t be for him. His existence was opportunistic, sure, but ever the indefatigable optimist, he would have to make the best of his circumstances, such as he was being on loan to U.N.C.L.E. Solo wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he nearly enjoyed the presence of his partners, almost like friends would, Waverly helpfully overlooking his tendency to help himself with side jobs without also presenting it as blackmail as Sanders often would.

So the cold shoulder the woman immediately gave him wasn’t startling in the slightest, Napoleon deciding it was best to not comment on the eyeroll or the attitude, not wanting to dig up any rumors or gossip about himself that no doubt kept circling around. It was simply that he couldn’t be bothered to care, for if he was a self-made man, he would stick by it and hardly let anyone else shape his actions or reputation.

The walk to the car had been quick, the woman holding him back to give her own directions in only a hushed whisper. And this time he found himself resisting an eyeroll of his own, for not even Sanders treated him as if he might spontaneously dive out the window. When the vehicle began to move and Ms. Gordon settled back into her seat, Solo hadn’t immediately sought to strike up conversation, calmly watching the passing scenery in the window. Taking notes. 

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, who exactly ordered you to come and pay me a visit? I daresay there might be more effective ways to use your time here, like sightseeing perhaps. Madrid has some beautiful architecture.”

[solofide-blog]

“No, that’s not quite true...” he returned in his conversation with the other, leaning calmly upon the doorframe. “Bernini did Apollo and Daphne, you see, but Giuliano Finelli did the laurel leaves, an assistant.” There was a pregnant silence from Napoleon, face pinching momentarily as if he was collecting his thoughts. Words continually escaped his mind, everything distant and hazy as if he had faced a long night of drinking, static dancing on the peripherals of his vision. “Who we now recognize as a master in his own rights, of course, but Bernini was rather narcissistic, just like... a lot of... Baroque...”

Once more he began to trail, voice quieting as if he had too much scotch, but there was no glass in his hand, arms crossed. The American slowly blinked before redirecting his gaze to his companion across the room, focusing intently upon their visage as if the words from their mouth were of utmost importance. But it didn’t sound quite familiar, not in any language he knew, everything muffled. The shapes their mouth was making were incomprehensible -- blurry -- and it only made him focus even more, yet still nothing came of it.

The world wouldn’t cease spinning despite his efforts, and at last the floor rushed up to meet him, blackness swallowing his sight.

[shutupvital]

Forgive and forget?              I’m neither Jesus nor do I have Alzheimer’s.

[solofide-blog]

just imagine.........

napoleon being sick with a cold & being a total baby about it, but only whenever someone else is around just to see if they’re willing to shower him with attention. (otherwise he’s totally fine on his own and just reads/naps/sips hot tea because he’s an adult man y’know.)

or like

napoleon passing out in front of his friends. like okay settling on a couch once he realized he was drugged was one thing, but not realizing the fact or just trying to hide trouble from them so they won’t actually make him a priority and just hitting the floor in the middle of a conversation

[solofide-blog]

"If you had listened to me, you would not be hurt," Illya hissed, his concern hot with rage.

Scold my muse for doing something stupid.

“And if I had -- you’d probably be dead.” Napoleon’s tone was light enough considering the situation, vastly understating the severity of his own injuries in favor of winning a debate with the Russian.

[solofide-blog]

"Please tell me you didn't actually blow the street up on your way out."

Scold my muse for doing something stupid.

“It was Plan C, admittedly.” A shrug and a bit of a grimace was all he could manage, knowing the cleanup and paperwork would be just as bad as the event, if not worse.

[lannasroleplaymemes]

Scold my Muse for doing something stupid.

[guidetoclassy]

[solofide-blog]

NO I AM NOT SCOURING UR BLOG LOOKING FOR A STARTER CALL TO LIKE BC I’M ACTUALLY A GIANT CHICKEN BUT WOULD LOVE TO WRITE WITH U

[solofide-blog]

@faithfulx

Lawyers were trouble, at best -- often intelligent and shrewd, capable of deducing that he wasn’t always what met the eye, which often made his own job trickier. But they didn’t call him the CIA’s finest for nothing, and any protests he had were to be shot down regardless. There was no need for the man to take a steadying breath as he entered the building, the epitome of collectedness in a sharp, Armani suit. His head turned as he walked, gaze momentarily following a woman crossing the lobby who, in the least, looked like she held significantly more power than the receptionist. Her red hair was full of volume and wave, bouncing lightly as her heels made a statement on the marble tile.

The image was shattered as he ran into the security guard rather hard, enough to nearly knock them both off their feet, limbs entangled for the slightest of moments. Landing squarely on his backside, Napoleon looked over to the guard, of course having been totally aware of the man’s presence, but seemed personally affronted and nearly hurt. Regardless, it had caused enough of a ruckus to draw plenty of attention, but he needed to be sure . . .

“Can you believe this? I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention--” he began to profusely apologize, rising slowly and helping the guard up. A simple misunderstanding, right? Enough of one so that the man wouldn’t notice his pass missing until the end of his shift. “I, uh, I was distracted,” Napoleon continued, glancing over to the so-called object of distraction, pausing to smile almost gently at the auburn-haired woman. “Sorry, again. Is that dress Alexander Wang? It looks stunning on you.”

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sassmergency:

She had no intention of going home as home was a word she didn’t quite know how to use anymore. Plus, this man’s company was better than the emptiness of her hotel room. The music was by far. Alex wasn’t sure if he was bothered, not that she much cared, she would not be dictated where she could go and be at any given time. Even by a gentleman. “Why thank you. A scotch, neat.” A smile, one that lifted her lips a little. “Please.” 

With a single motion, he held up two fingers for the bartender, deciding that the woman had good taste -- and probably good sensibilities, a bold change of pace from the usual martini and wine glasses he normally saw perched within delicately adorned fingers of several equally classy ladies he had met before. After all, a drink didn’t necessarily embody a person. Napoleon’s initial concern for her well-being had begun to fade; if she could still handle herself after that drink, there was no reason for a man to step in as he figured. “You have good taste. I hope you didn’t spend the whole evening alone, however.”

[v-ersacrum]

Sebastiano Ricci, Venus and Cupid, c.1700