dontcallmeteddy-blog

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mosteffectiveagent‌:

        Napoleon finds it’s quite a tumble down from grace, when he thinks back to their lives long ago. Suppose it’s no surprise, how he’d found himself drawn to Teddy back then; a man whose artistic nature drove him to create such immaculate pieces, and oh, it was achingly romantic, being the subject of private portraits, being the muse of such a talented artist. Now that — that could nearly be something out of a fantasy, if he’d ever given it that much thought prior to meeting him. As it was, when he did have it, Solo found there was nowhere better to be than in a delicious recline, the luxury of a sheet draped over him just so, Theodore watching him with a look of such devotion. Perhaps to him, or to his painting. Both, he’d liked to think, eyeing him with the faintest hint of a smile, so as to not disrupt his own expression when Teddy painted the bow of his lips.

        Pity. He’d meant it, too.This isn’t the man he’d met so many years ago, with such exuberance in his eyes and such adoration for life, and their lives together, all translated into positively divine beauty that Napoleon could say he would not be surprised if he had come across one of his paintings at any of the galleries he had visited. This? This is pitiful, seeing him now, stance uneven, down on his knees and collecting the shards of what Solo now only sees as contempt for him; he feels a distinct lurch in his chest, to consider that kindness and passion no longer comes to Teddy as it once did. This is a cold husk of what had once been, and it chips away at him, steadily, at a heart he does his best to hide behind the veil he’s worn ever since he’s become an agent.

        ❝ Anything for you, of course, ❞ he answers dryly, as he approaches the cabinet where fine spirits are kept, and he decides something strong would do quite nicely. Teddy, on the other hand… ❝ Though, I happen to think you’ve had enough, ❞ Napoleon comments, fetching two glasses regardless, uncorking a decanter for an even serving of brandy in each. He isn’t here to bestow a lecture upon him, after all; if he wants to get absolutely drunk, that isn’t Solo’s business. He does imagine, however, that Theodore will hardly be pleasant company if he keeps it up at this rate.

        Napoleon’s gait is as certain as it always is, when he approaches as he’s spoken to. Money had long since been out of the picture, when it had once been avarice that lured him in, like a moth to a flame. But he had adored Teddy over time, and it was that which made this sight so terribly dismal. He had truly seen him, years ago, and he found himself wondering if any shred of him was left.

        ❝ Our differences aside, I have wondered how you’ve fared after all this time. ❞ And it’s honest. Which is, perhaps, the most shocking part about it. He’d be lying if he said he’d never considered him after his arrest and deal, never reflected back on their time together, and what had led Teddy to turning him in; there was a faint measure of guilt beneath the anger, but it had once been a selfish guilt, solely because of where his actions have led him. It simmered, for a time, then died down, but seeing this man now has it budding again like blossoms in the spring. ❝ Is that a crime? ❞

                       This is his element. What once was filled with paints and poetry, was now empty veins. Empty, apart from his unsavory vices. The truest depiction of a living hollow; a shadow the sun refuses to meet. Woe is him, though he doesn’t cry because of it. Doesn’t pretend like the state of things are no longer his fault. They are. They’ll always be. But choices had to be made, he’ll justify. As they do now ------ now that Napoleon’s steps bring him dangerously close. Closer than the two of them have been in years. The brandy is held out to him, just as he’d requested of him, despite his fair observations. He’d had more than enough, already. Enough to harm his self preservation, chip away at his steeled defenses, and all because the man was there. Fucking there. Standing. Beautiful, christ, like he’d always been. Taller, too and with charm more refined than before. Before the heavens closed by strike of his own hand, and hell having swallowed them both up. 

Glazed eyes do venture up, braving the chance to meet his once more. To lock eyes and not falter, not while he takes the drink. Fingers overlap, intentionally? he doesn’t wish to think. But they do. They touch. Skin to skin. Like nausea, the wave overwhelms him; the thoughts of old summer nights, and the following sunrise. Of bare skin flush, needing more -------- an insatiable appetite for the softness of his hair, the hum of his voice. Memories of peppering sugar against the skin solely for the pleasure of kissing him clean. Paintbrushes littering the bed sheets; paint with traces of their love staining it. How truly devastating, to remember so vividly what he fought for so long to erase. A life he’d nearly lost until the simple press of fingertips, and the kind that rise too ---- beyond just napoleon’s. Further than they aught to, and worse so being his instinct for digging beneath the sleeve of his jacket so that digits may wrap around his wrist. He brushes the skin lightly, tenderly, before it’s rest at the pulse. Steady, he holds.

❝ I make the rules in this house. So when I’ve had enough, i’ll say i’ve had enough, ❞ he says it while pulling him in, dragging him down to his level. It’s a soft release, a dainty pull of the glass from Napoleon’s hand. Crystal rests against his lips, teasing, before the plunge. Almost half of the brandy consumed in one go. It’s when he lowers his eyes, does he realize the glass still cradled in his other hand. A huff before it’s carelessly tossed over one side of the armchair. Hand wipes along the run of his thigh, before a second drink ---- nearly, before  

 ❝ Are you disappointed ? At the state of things, I mean. At how things are --------- or does it make you glad, Napoleon? Honestly and truly. You must feel something, some sort of joy or vindication. You look at me, and you know me --- so tell me what it is you see. ❞  

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James Bligh 😎

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Billie Eilish // Ocean Eyes 

I’ve been watching you For some time Can’t stop staring At those oceans eyes

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“The world is not gonna end, James. Just let it out… Just let it out.”

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Good luck.

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Tom Hardy - Mad Max ❤️❤️❤️

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mosteffectiveagent‌:

        don’t, he begins, and napoleon already knows the subject had been a sensitive one, like a pinched nerve, raw and sharp and aching, needing an indiscernible amount of time to heal. truth be told, he could guess it from the moment he’d first run into teddy, after one instinctive move had him carted off in handcuffs. he looked the same, and then he didn’t; there was no resemblance between the soft, focused countenance of theodore tracing luxurious brushstrokes across a canvas, and the hardened look in his eyes that he had now.

        there is no life in this space, as there once always had been in teddy’s presence; it feels very much akin to mourning the death of someone held close, solo realizes distantly, a quirk of his brow upon the shattering glass, the sound of its shards raining down onto the floor.

        perhaps he’d died all those years ago.

        ❝ — pity, ❞ napoleon remarks, simply, lips pursed. ❝ i don’t suppose asking if i might have a drink is a stupid question. ❞

      He looks heavy when he hunches over like that. Eyes regretfully having to pan over the mess he’d made. Waste of a glass. Such a short temper, particularly for a man you couldn’t make mad if you tried. Once upon a time, at least. It seemed rather foolish now ---- now that the glass glistened in the pale light of his desk lamp. The only light he’d bothered to utilize. Curtains drawn, just to watch the sheets of rain pound against the large windows. A dreary sort of solitude, but the only kind Theodore cared to bother with. Napoleon was the only unexpected element. The sole reason for imbibing beyond his limits, on this night. Well, that’s the excuse he’s going to use. It doesn’t really stray far from the truth, if you stripped everything away; opened him up until he was nothing but bone. No place to hide the sins he’d swept under the proverbial rug. 

Pity, he says. Pity, and Theodore only sneers. Mumbling to himself, naturally ---- obscenities directed at the American, as feet shovel him toward the collection of broken glass. It isn’t a mess he’d need to clean, and yet he’s bringing himself down onto all fours ( wobbily, god ). Piece after piece, he settles them carefully into one palm. Cradling the chunks like a crippled chick. Like they were remaining pieces of his own soul. Even with his focus ( questionable at best ), it’s still reckless enough to feel the prick at his skin. Gentle red swelling on fingertips. A bemused huff, before recalling anything Solo had actually said. 

❝ Of all the stupid questions you could have asked, this one’s rather tame. I’ll accept it. And while you’re helping yourself to my spoils, be a doll and pour me another drink, won’t you? ❞ It’s less a question, and more a suggestion. But he figures the man aught to know the difference and not disappoint. A fourth brandy was hardly a sound idea, sure, but this was his house --- his rules. Who the fuck was going to stop him? Not Solo, that was for fucking sure.

Laziness won, and he forgoes the remaining few shards in the better interest of rising to his feet and returning to his favorable chair. A heavy drop onto the cushion, with one leg hanging over the arm. The glass still in his stinging hand, while the other wipes at the sweat of his brow. There’s nothing left to occupy his gaze, save for Napoleon Solo. Thick legs framed in expensive trousers. Tailored, from bottom to the top. Every bit as pretentious as he knew him to be; a man who lavished in the life of luxury. At first, the feeling was light. Familiar --- splendid. And very quickly did it rot in his stomach. There isn’t much room for things outside of guilt, and anger. 

❝ ---- you never did say just why you’ve come. Or maybe you have -----i just wasn’t listening. If it’s to do with money, you can’t have it. If it’s about that stupid fucking relic, that art piece from the gala, well, again ----fuck you, you cannot have it.❞

[dontcallmeteddy-blog]

Alain Delon

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something special

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me: teddy is his own fucking character, with so much backstory, so much history and angst and emotions. lot of depth. so much to offer. he’s a good boy deep down. 

me also at me: teddy’s blog is essentially a napoleon solo appreciation blog lbr

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Henry Cavill as Stephen Colley in I Capture the Castle (2003)

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mosteffectiveagent‌:

@dontcallmeteddy  liked .

        ❝ you know —— i’d always wondered if you kept painting. ❞

           and to think, he nearly got away with a peaceful evening. instead, he got napoleon solo. like a fucking fly pestering at the face. and yet, here teddy was ---- allowing it. maybe it was the third glass of brandy that lowered his resolve. assisted by the amphetamine, no doubt. whatever the reason behind his sudden tolerance for that familiar face, it did not prepare him for that. that inquisitive mind, that curiosity that felt like a red hot poker plunged deep into his chest cavity. 

❝ ---don’t, ❞ and then a pause, just to suck down the remains of the third drink.  ❝ spare me your cheap conversations, solo. wondering if i still paint ---- all you want is your vanity stroked! could i find a worthier fool to fuck. well, fuck you.❞ he rises from his leather armchair, the one he sleeps in most nights, just to avoid the commitment of laying beside his ‘dear fiance’.  ❝ have a look around, napoleon. does it look like i fucking paint? ❞ onto the wall, clattering into pieces against tasteless decor, goes his brandy glass. it’s a drab space. professional, expensive ---- but nothing like the old teddy.  ❝ anymore stupid questions?❞ 

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also, things i like to think about:

how a free spirited, rich and romantic artist in paris turns into either:

theodore; where he’s completely taken his father’s likeness in business, heartless, devious, dangerous business. suave as hell. bitter. on the verge of throwing hands like 90% of the time.

or, alternatively

teddy: who destroyed his own life due to grief, regret, guilt, anger ---- and hasn’t been seen by his family in years. lost. an addict ( though in near any verse he’s a user ), but just, you’d think he was some poor guy, or homeless guy just starring at paintings in a museum or something. like, aww, poor chap ---- not even realizing it’s a fucking Ainsworth. A bit of a mental case. Probably in trouble a lot. 

And neither one of them touching a paintbrush for the life of them, since napoleon solo. 

i just. *cHIN HANDS* think about how devastated Napoleon’s life became because of him, and also how much his was in turn. aaaa, full circle pain. i love it. 

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a tumbler of brandy set down nearby, another in his hand that he lifts for a thoughtful drink; there's a quirk of his brow when it's not immediately lifted, solo eyeing the man for a time before there's a faint twitch at the corners of his lips. "i distinctly recall you being a fan of this particular brand, teddy." and, oh, how sweetly does that name leave him. he doesn't wait for a reply, easily sauntering off, quite a knowing glint in his eyes as he does.

║ @mosteffectiveagent​ ;

      once upon a time, fingers would have hounded the glass the minute brandy filled it to the brim. grateful lips smiling to host before the pucker of guzzling it down. so much had changed, over the years. favored brandy forgotten in favor of newer, stronger vices. whatever numbed anger, and erased his guilt. sins of a lover scorned, which had seemed to resurface -------- expecting consequence. For there he stood; body thick with muscle and curve, still as ever desirable as a greek sculpture. a marble god. ebony hair that he tried so hard to smooth away, when theodore knew first hand what sort of wondrous curls naturally set. this was agony. 

       worse even, was the fact that solo remembered such things. intended to seek his better side, for some purpose surely. then, god, did he say it -------- that name. the only one he’s ever hated so devoutly, and loved all the same. loved, only, when falling from his lips. that voice, smooth and so sure -----used to melt every bit of cold from his fingertips and toes. made him feel special, alive. like he were the only one alive, apart from him. and now? it sweltered. the heat it provided too much for the stone cold fortress he’d forged since then. god, he hated it. he hated that name -------- hated him.

    and yet, couldn’t get him out of his head. theodore couldn’t erase the memories of naked hips swaying on a paris balcony, or the way it felt to press lips against the low curve of his abdomen. lower still, until they were taken to heaven. this was hell, here and now ----- and he was the devil, coming to collect. 

    the tumbler remained untouched, no matter how tempting the ghosts of good times may be. this cannot end well, he knows this. even with napoleon acting so civil, theo knows. this will not end with them in paris. nor lips locking, or bodies slipping into one another like they were made for one another. he had changed too much. they both had. he had become every bit his father, and worse. what a disappointment it must have been...

    ❝ a long time ago, perhaps. i haven’t a care for it now,❞ he’s less curt, this time. and yet...no objection to the name he hates most. oh, the fool. he wanted it. craved it.