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cryinginthebackseat · 3 years

Text

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part iii

part i part ii AO3

Fandom: Call Of Duty

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 6.572

Warnings: here’s where the smut tag comes into play, boy with a copious amount of power play and yeah, it’s messy af

Author’s note: after three months, a couple of brainstorming in the bathtub, delays, revisions and self-doubt, chapter 3 is finally done. i hope you'll enjoy it. also, i don't think i have to warn you what will go down in this chapter.

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Fast forward to twenty-four hours since he discovers that Bell is fucking someone, Lazar drops about half a dozen of dusty manilas on his desk. Adler’s eyes sweep over them. He recognizes Bell’s handwriting etched across the memo attached to one of the folders right away.

He picks it up. It’s becoming second nature to him lately; drawing himself to her, an ineradicable magnetic force pulling his end of the pole.

A muscle on his jaw twitches.

For a moment, Adler despises her. He allows himself to really despise her. She’s started something in his head- a war; an intangible, unmanageable riot and if he lets her, she’ll rearrange him until he’s insane.

And he can’t let that happen. He’s the one holding the leash here, not vice versa.

“This is what we have on Dragovich’s activities in Yamantau,” Lazar informs him, pulling him back down to earth.

Adler stands, keeping his face easy, neutral. “Is this everything?”

“So far, yeah. Bell says she’ll let us know if she digs up something more from the archives though.”

Bell- the Bell in question- can be heard sighing, like she turns the corner and finds herself at a cul-de-sac; hunching over her desk, reading, her fingers keep buttoning and unbuttoning the top of her shirt, madly distracting (him).

She remains in her seat, for pretty much the remainder of the day. Eyes glued to the pages before her, factory-like dedication. She hardly looks up when Sims borrows her pen or when Park stands over her, sipping her coffee, inquiring about her progress behind a plume of smoke.

The only- truly time Bell ever lifts her head from her work is when Mason approaches her desk. She gazes up at him, notes forgotten, a kittenish smile etched across her face, come-hither eyes that could have time hung in motion, or held at ransom, perhaps. Mason’s own smile is full-blown, too wide, too genial, as he stalks closer and closer to her table, her whirlpool.

Adler does a double-take, like his eyeballs only functioning for the first time. He might as well be hallucinating it because no... this can’t be right, can it?

But then Mason is touching her hand, a blink-and-you-miss-it movement that was not lost on Adler and oh, she’s looking at him hopefully now.

The knots in Adler's stomach are vertiginous. Realization rings in his head like a gunshot, nearly leaving him in a daze. There’s no denying it. Not when the exchange unfurls before his eyes like a broken, warped film reel and there’s nothing to stop him from seeing it.

The thought of her and him haunts the rest of his waking hours, until there’s absolutely no telling how far he’s fallen into his own pit.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ( Alex Mason fucked her that night.

Mason was in her bed; beside her, above her, under her. Inside her. He imagines her fingers digging into the mattress as Mason rolled her onto her stomach, mouth trailing down the ladder of her spine. Their breaths intermingled in the seraphic glow of her hotel room.

Alex Mason fucked her. It shouldn't leave an acrid taste in his mouth, but it does.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ She haphazardly reaches for the mug and takes a hearty gulp of its content. It’s not hers.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Bell says, mortified and places the mug down noisily on the desk. “I’m sorry, I thought it was mine.”

The rim of his mug is now stained with her lipstick. Adler bites down on a careful retort.

He thinks he knows now. Why he lets it happen, why he thinks of her in metaphors, why she gives him that vertigo. The answer is at the tip of his tongue- he can almost taste it, like spoiled milk or rancid gardenia. But it’s much easier to ignore it until the words grow diminuendo and disappear, that he thinks he imagined it all along.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You can’t obsess without turning around and getting lost in the middle.

Or losing a part of yourself in the process.

The idea of obsession, to obsess, perhaps is a far riskier thing for a person to have than playing the knife game, blindfolded with absolutely no telling where to start.

Yet we all do it, despite knowing the very dark flipside it possesses.

Perhaps it’s the very nature of humans, tucked deep within the pigeonhole of our minds, suffused by the very promise of bogus achievements that usually leads most of us insane, thinking that obsession is essential to living. But without it, artists are corporate slaves, slack-jawed know-it-alls moving stiffly in the middle of the hullabaloo that is our world; Paris would be just as unrecognizable today without Napoleon’s artistic legacy.

Obsession is good.

Obsession is dangerous.

The very dichotomy should have us all warded off of it.

Yet, again, we all do it. Again, and again, and again until it taints our veins. And it’s always far too late until you realize, that yes, now all you see is her, the air has been poisoned by her perfume, that her name is now forevermore engraved in your skin, like an overgild tattoo.

That you end up in downtown Berlin, out of sight, out of mind.

He finds them there, in a shoebox-sized cafe. Ill-lit, low-ceiling, coffee-stained floor that shows the wear of three decades worth of boots, pantoffels and high heels and Adler is sitting in his car, nursing a beer with but one all-consuming, perplexing thought:

Bell and Mason.

Someone told him they arrived together, about an hour ago. The cafe has become their usual haunts, his source said, ever since they’ve returned from Ukraine and Adler just can’t wrap his head around this- them. In his head, they’re wholly different entities. Two proper nouns separated by a conjunction, or a comma if mentioned in a list.

They’re the kind of opposites that he thought don’t attract, yet here they are.

Perhaps it's inevitable, both are products of brainwashing. Maybe they sensed one another, speaking in code, like detecting an RF signal from a nuclear bunker.

Then the doors to the cafe swing open. They step outside, cheeks flushed, his arm wrapped around her waist, her lips glueing on the slope of his neck. Shaded eyes watch them from the opposite street, his disgust obvious.

Now, Adler wonders how this all began. Someone must have made the first move.

He wonders if it was her. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"You wanted to see me?"

Adler looks up from his desk and nods. "Lock the door behind you."

And Alex Mason, the root of all this trouble, obeys. Looking somewhat uncertain under the scrutiny of the harsh lights, and shuts the blinds. Unlike Woods, he takes a seat at the chair Adler sets up before the desk.

"What is it?" Mason asks, after a long, almost unending silence. His curiosity seeps through the room.

There is very little control when the first domino falls. Oftentimes, once it starts, it’s like crossing the Rubico n and the next thing you know, you are lying flat on the ground in some theater, 23 fresh stab wounds decorating your body and the beat of your pulse seems dim and distant, everything feels cold except your blood; warm, bright and thick like gasoline, crawling into every space until it goes into your throat and strangles you, kills you. Fini, kaput.

But then again, he's not Caesar and this isn't Rome.

Adler pushes the first tile.

"How long has this been going on?" he asks without fanfare, tight and composed as ever. Never mind the way his eyes ignite like cold blue fire behind his glasses.

"How long has what been going on?"

“You and Bell." And Mason blinks at him in surprise. Bingo. "I saw the two of you leaving for her hotel from a cafe in Downtown Berlin last night. So don't bother skirting your way around this.” Adler leans forward across his desk. He’s a man on a mission- there’s no stopping him now.

“Now, let me rephrase the question, how long have you been fucking her?"

"Hold on, hold on, you were stalking us?" Mason asks, waspish.

Adler winces inwardly. "I was keeping an eye out for my asset.”

“Asset?” Mason hisses, like Adler just blasphemed. “Jesus Christ, Russ, is that all she ever is to you? An asset? She’s your protégé, for god’s sake- a person! What is wrong with you?"

"Plenty. Or apparently, so I've been told.”

"I don't find you amusing.”

“I'm hardly ever,” Adler parries. Mason remains silent, yet the tilt of his lips translate exactly what words can't. "And you haven't answered my question."

“Bullshit. I don’t owe you anything."

"Listen, Al-"

"No, you listen to me. You may be calling the shots around here, but this has absolutely nothing to do with you. Whatever- or whoever - we're doing in our spare time is none of your business, do you understand? So you can just drop it," Mason seethes, bitter, and, much to Adler’s surprise, rises to leave. “We’re done here.”

"That's where you're wrong."

Mason has only managed to put a few paces between them before he turns around, once again stepping inside this metaphorical boxing ring.

"What?"

"This has everything to do with me," Adler says coolly. "You said it yourself, I'm the one who calls the shots here. Meaning, anything that could potentially fuck up my operation is my concern and I have the right to intervene should it needed. This, being a case in point."

Mason looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What the hell does fucking her have to do with this whole operation?”

“Everything.” He says it like quiet resignation. It’s time to acknowledge the truth, he thinks, to that unusual idea that has been swirling in the deep recesses of his mind, that everyone’s weakness is varied.

Achilles had his heel, and Adler has her.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to, Al. You don't even know her."

Mason gives him a level stare. "And you do?"

Adler is so hard-pressed to say 'I made her' but even he wouldn't stoop that low.

"That is beside the point,” Adler tells him instead as he turns to his vice- one of them, at least- and lights it.

“There is literally no point to this conversation.”

“The point is, stay the hell away from Bell. I'm saying this for your own good."

"My own good or yours?"

Adler does not flinch, but his hand does ball into a fist under the table, how the fingers curl and then flex.

"Don't be ridiculous. I gain nothing from this except assurance." It's a lie, it's the truth. There's no in between. He doesn’t know which is which anymore. "You, on the other hand, I'm sure the old ball and chain wouldn't be near as thrilled about hearing this if word ever gets out."

Mason is quiet for a beat.

"Is that a threat?"

"Only once I pulled the pin," Adler replies, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

But the thing with Mason, he'll come to realize later, is how much, like with Bell, weaving through his mind is like trying to grasp for purchase in the dark as he, once again, does the unpredicted and smile- a venomous grin warps his face, like he’s mocking him, challenging him to move his piece on the board and make this mistake.

Adler stares back, surprised despite himself.

He shocks him further by saying, "Go ahead, then. Pull the pin, throw the grenade, tell her. See if she cares."

Adler’s eyes narrow at his askance. He then drags his attention to Mason’s left hand, and something grave and familiar rises in his chest.

The absence of the metal band around his ring finger tells him why.

“You know where to reach her. If anything, I’m sure she’d trust your words better than anyone else’s. So please, do it.” And Mason’s so goddamn sanctimonious about it. He’s clearly expecting this particular reaction out of Adler. It only leaves Adler angrier.

Another long pause stretches, heavy and unkind.

"Fine. Maybe she won't mind, but I'm sure the Agency wouldn’t be as tolerant.” Adler takes one last drag of his cigarette. He has that ‘Having nothing, nothing can he lose’ look on his face that makes Mason frowns. “Not when you’ve been fraternizing with the enemy.”

"What?”

"Bell. She’s not who you think she is, Al. Tell me, who do you think is the sorry bastard we saved in Trabzon?”

Mason blinks. His face is blank with shock, then he shakes his head. And he keeps shaking it, almost manic. If he laughs, which one would come first, he wonders, the gun or his fist pummeling the side of his face?

“You’re lying.”

“And why would I lie to you about this?”

"No, no, no, Woods- he told me the guy’s dead,” Mason says, his words are shaky.

“He’s not. And he wasn’t a he."

A crease forms between Mason's eyebrows, the starting of another frown.

“Hold on, if she’s helping us get Perseus then why is she the enemy?”

"Because she doesn't know that."

"Doesn't know what?"

"That she's the enemy."

Mason holds his gaze for a moment, his expression tense, like a slingshot.

And that cold elastic band finally snaps.

“What did you do to her?” He’s openly glaring at him now, mouth tight, an icy fury that is no longer dormant and for the first time since Adler has known him, he finds the man dangerous.

Adler takes a steadying breath. “We did what had to be done.”

"You sick son of a bitch. You brainwa- You-” Mason clamps his mouth shut, trembling hands finding his head. “Shit. How could you?"

Adler ignores his colorful outburst.

“She resisted every form of interrogations we threw at her, Al. We had no choice but to implement MK-Ultra as a last resort. We needed what’s in her head.” Mason is silent in reply. Adler continues, “Look, it’s nasty business, I know, but some of us have to cross a line just to make sure that line's still there in the morning. And as much as I hate agreeing with Hudson, he’s right. We need to preserve our way of life.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to play God,” his voice is resentful and crisp. “Do you have any idea what you are doing? You could jeopardize everything, and for what? You’ve seen what this- this experiment did to me, this won’t end the way you think!”

“Lightning never strikes the same place twice.”

"You’re really willing to gamble on that?”

Adler scowls. “I don’t gamble, Mason. I calculate. And if by some chance I was given a second chance, I’d do it all over again. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Mason doesn’t say anything at first, his loaded gun stare never falters. Then, “The flag may be different, but the methods are the same.”

"What was that?”

“Someone warned me, a long time ago, about how people like you will use people like me or Bell as pawns in your own game. You’d do whatever it takes to get what you want- and my, how you get results, don’t you? But you’re actually no different than the rest of the assholes you're fighting against,” Mason tells him, like he’s spitting out acid in Adler’s face.

“Bell may be the enemy- heck, she could be the architect behind all the chaos Perseus has done, but what you’re doing to her is vile and unethical. There are many ways to make her spill the beans, yet you chose the most immoral method there is out there. I sincerely hope you rot in hell for this."

Before Adler could formulate a response to his tirade, Mason stands to his feet.

“You want me to stay away from her? Fine. Consider this as my formal resignation. After Yamatau, I’m done. I’m out of the team. And if you know what’s good for you, you stay the fuck away from me because I don't ever want to see your face again, do you hear me?” he snarls. “If you think Woods is dangerous, Adler, just remember I nearly could have killed my own president."

Then Mason turns on his heel and walks out of the room, once and for all. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The fist is very much expected, and so does the pain that follows.

"You're out of your fucking depth, shithead," Woods spits, venom lacing his words.

Adler doesn't even bother to retaliate.

He doesn’t see the point. He didn’t think it would get this far. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The garage grows quiet and stodgy with now Mason and Woods are out of the picture. Everyone settles back into their own normal rhythm, the same routine before both men set their feet here almost a week ago.

Hudson doesn’t take the news of their departure kindly, naturally. He stands in Adler’s office, pacing, fuming. Adler ignores him, trying to nurse the skull-splitting migraine he's having at his desk instead. The nasty black eye hidden underneath his glasses. A secret locked, the key thrown away.

His headache, thankfully, has subsided when Sims takes a seat on the other side of the desk, hours later after Hudson left.

"I'm not trying to cause an alarm here, but you'd better watch your back."

Adler's brows furrow but doesn’t look up from the papers before him. "And why's that?"

"'Cause I think you just pissed off the wrong beast," Sims tells him. Adler pauses, then lifts his head to look at his cohort. There's genuine worry flashing over his face.

“Are you talking about Bell?”

“Who else?”

If she's a beast, then what am I? What he wants to ask, but there's a knock at the door and he swallows the words down his throat.

"Come in," Adler says, pretending to be reading again.

The door opens and Bell, fucking Bell, enters his office. It's like watching a tiger pass by your hiding spot in near dark. Neither he nor Sims breathes a word.

Bell's gaze immediately swings to him, like a cosmic pull. She's watching him as she wanders over to the desk and the weight of her stare burns him like Greek fire.

He pushes the documents close, all the while returning her stare. He is never the one who backs out of a challenge, and at this point, he knows that she probably knows that. Maybe that’s why she initiated it in the first place.

"Bell, what is it?" Adler asks firmly, in possession of his full power in this place.

Bell produces three diskettes from her pocket. Something odd definitely shining in her eyes.

"These have been lying on Lazar's desk for hours, but he's busy, so I thought I'd deliver them to you myself," Bell says. And he's trying to work out on her angle but she is unreadable. As always.

Adler nods, frustrated and indignant. "You can leave them here. Thank you."

It is only once the woman leaves that the two agents share a dark, significant look. That was too close.

And it goes without saying, something needs to be done about this. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

March 7th. A's insistence on raising the dosage is illogical. Recent behavioural analysis indicates depression. Will monitor for the next few days. Considering lowering the dosage instead. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The elevator reeks of smoke, cheap Soviet air freshener and something far more poisonous than the devil’s spider, silky hands.

It embodies the woman standing next to him right now- this special animal, emotionless, a constant mystery wrapped with a warning sign.

Adler is tempted to shut his eyes.

Or get out of here. He doesn’t dwell well in this atmosphere, this limited space shared with her alone. He probably should have listened to Hudson about taking Bell for this mission, but she’s the only one he trusts who won’t fuck this up. Not to mention her spotless Russian has proven to help them blend in with the crowd seamlessly.

He needs her, whether he would admit it aloud or not.

But she puts his head in such a spin.

She’s been near-mute since they departed from Germany. She barely acknowledges his questions and orders, barely looks at him. She’s been treating him as if he’s another shadow on the wall.

He rubs the side of his jaw. Something does need to be done about this.

“Are you going to stay quiet forever?” Adler asks. He’s bad at this, but he can’t stand her silence for much longer. Not to mention, they’re at the Lubysnka- the fucking lion's den. If she wants to wallow over Mason’s absence or sinks into whatever melancholic feeling she’s in, she can do it later.

Bell hums, her mouth curls up like serpentine. Adler sketches a confused frown. And she says, “I don’t know. Should I?”

And then, sudden and swift, Bell undoes the cuffs of her uniform. Beady eyes never leave his.

The sight catches him off guard. Somewhere in his mind, he curses something like ‘you’re a beast’ and ‘what the hell are you?’ at her, all in negative connotations. The effects she inflicts on him is maddening.

“What are you doing?” Adler doesn’t bother to hide his surprise.

Bell shrugs and gestures to the duffle bag at their feet. “Gearing up.”

Oh. Embarrassment wells up in him. Fucking hell, this woman will be the death of him.

Her fingers quickly move on to the buttons, still indifferent, nearly tearing them from the seams. The first glimpse of her skin and Adler can’t help but give in, openly stares at her in a way he has never imagined before. Her clavicles like daggers glinting in the lamplight.

Curiosity is a dangerous and heavy load.

He should have closed his eyes.

“Enjoying the show?” Her voice pulls him back from his musings. Her eyes still zero in on him, cutting him to pieces.

Her cleavage comes into view.

The lines on Adler’s face grow taut.

“What do you want, Bell?” He asks, intending for a bark but it ends somewhere like a plea.

“I want many things. As of right now, I want Alex’s cock inside me.” And Adler nearly chokes on his own breath. Bell, eagle-eyed as ever, caught the movement. “But it seems someone insists on being in control of everything, isn’t he?” she snaps.

Adler’s back goes rigid. Trepidation bubbles up in his chest.

Of course, she knows.

“It's not about control.” Adler turns around. He doesn’t quite know what he’s avoiding at this point, her flesh or the truth. “It’s about what’s right.”

He hears her uniform touches her floor as she laughs, mirthless, like broken chandeliers. “I didn’t know whose cock I’m riding is any concern of yours.”

“It is when he’s a member of the team,” he seethes. “What you’re doing with Alex will only lead to complications. And I can’t have tha-”

“Because this is all about you, isn’t it? It’s about upholding your precious reputation in the Agency, controlling the narrative the way you want it no matter how many characters you kill off in the process. It’s always about what you want.” Bell interrupts, not missing a beat. “You selfish motherfucker.”

"This has nothing to do with my reputation in the CIA."

She scoffs. "Spare me the crap, Adler."

Adler turns to fully face her again and holds his arms open, the way someone is facing the firing squad. “Fine. Fine, yes, I’m a selfish motherfucker. I did it because I thought it could ruin the operation. Is that what you wanted to hear? Now, what are you going to do about it?”

She says nothing at first. He silently catalogues her movements as she steps towards him now, half-naked and furious. He feels pinned.

Then, “What do you want me to do about it?”

His mouth dries at the implication. She is temptation, benediction, the coarse ice block before the carver.

How terrible it is to lose control, even just once.

A knowing, vicious smirk flashes over her face. Adler feels like he’s just shown his hand.

“You are one selfish bastard and a coward to boot, aren’t you?” Bell sneers before he has a chance to respond. “At least, Alex was brave enough to make the first move, but you…” her gaze raking up and down his figure coldly, a jeweller presented with second-grade imitations. Wind her up and this honey bee stings.

“You’ll always be the man who hides behind his shades,” she says, dry as dust, and steps back and snatches her clothes from the bag.

This is, without a single doubt, the longest elevator ride he’s ever experienced in his life. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler arrived back in Berlin breathing a little harder. Worry wrapped around his neck like a noose, placed by Bell herself; the judge, jury and executioner.

The knot tightens every time his mind refers to her.

The agency trained him, specifically, to keep calm under pressure. He didn’t coin the title “America’s Monster” from his colleagues for nothing. They don’t fear him because he’s hot-headed or thinks in large-scale violence— guns blazing, napalm-induced flames over the hill in the morning, bloodied knuckles and fractured jaw, blood-soaked soles tarnishing the white marble floor. Someone can point a fucking shotgun to his face and he’ll barely flinch. Only monsters remain impassive to direct threats of violence.

But there’s something about Bell that elicits this visceral, primal reaction out of him. Something strange and new; lightning about to be uncapped from its chains.

It chokes him, frightens him to the core.

How gauche is it, don’t you think, that his own mind is conspiring against him?

Now, in the garage, where it dawns on Adler that she’s probably the only person who can make him walk around the city, feeling like a fool, he decides he’s had enough. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I’ll drive you back.”

Adler apprehends Bell outside the garage. He kind of assumed she’d have a pistol aimed at his head right now, but she spins around, hands shoved deep inside her pockets and clayey mouth curls in distaste.

“Get in the car, Bell,” Adler says tightly, almost adding please.

But he would not beg.

The brunette remains rooted in her place. For a moment, a calculating look crossed her face. Always, always that sharp mind of hers turning and he wonders where it would take her this time.

“Try asking nicely,” she demands.

Adler’s eyes flash. She really is testing him. But fine, he'll play her game.

“Bell, would you kindly get in the car?” He is all but snarls, teeth gritting. Bell hardly wavers- he wishes she would waver for a change.

She does what he asked of her, finally, the shadow of a smirk on her face mocking him. Adler follows suit, teeth still clenched together, and starts the car and drives away.

It's sort of like a deja-vu, he supposes; him and her in this very same car, except that stupid krautrock music is absent this time. Neither says anything for the first twenty minutes. Everything feels heavily still.

Until he realizes she’s probably waiting for his move.

This might gloriously blow up in his face, yes, he knows this. Especially remembering the last time he was alone in a tight space with her, it had cost him his pride.

And his mind.

But he’s been here before, in the eye of the storm. He was at his calmest here. He has his cards prepared now.

Adler inhales deeply.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he utters resolutely. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t want to. “I was out of line, I admit it. Your affair with Mason should be no concern of mine but I really am just trying to look out for you.”

It’s weak, he knows. The words feel more like an anchor than an actual apology in his tongue anyway, but Adler didn’t expect that Bell would give him nothing. Not even an acknowledging hum, a scathing retort, a scoff. Nothing.

A twinge of irritation brews in his stomach. Why does she insist on playing games?

The car comes to a stop. They’ve arrived. Adler wrests his hands from the steering wheel to say something harsh to her, but Bell is already stepping out of the car.

She stands on the sidewalk; an enigma in royal red, and her lethal, all-seeing eyes gravitate to him in the night.

There is a long paralyzing beat where they just stare at each other- which seems to be a running theme between them lately. Adler is fuming, as he is confused.

It feels like hours, centuries, eons, but, like all magic, the spell is broken. Courtesy of a stranger hailing a cab behind his car.

Bell turns and walks inside the building. She doesn’t bother sparing him the final glance or extend her appreciation for the ride back and Adler thinks to himself, this universe, god fucking damnit, nothing makes sense here.

But it is also in moments like this that the world spins, when he notices a singular, significant detail that makes his stomach roll, nearly throwing him off balance:

Bell left the passenger door open.

And he’s insane- he has to be, right? He’s looking too much into this. It doesn’t mean anything. His mind conjures an image, like a graphic guideline or something, step one: get out of the car, two: make your way around and close the passenger door, and third: zoom out of the neighborhood while your sanity is still intact, all in that order. Easy to comprehend, to follow.

Adler only does the first two steps. He’s ass-backwards doesn’t even bother to digest the third step.

He enters the hotel instead and takes in the surroundings. The lobby is pointedly bare, but warm and smoky. The concierge is reading behind the counter- a young, wiry boy with shocking bleached hair- with headphones on. It’s late, he probably doesn’t expect anyone to check in at this hour.

A movement by the staircase catches his interest. He sees Bell climbing up the steps slowly, leisurely. Adler makes his way there.

Halfway reaching her floor, Adler has the inkling that she knows that he’s following her. Also, because the next she does is glancing back at him over her shoulder. He waits for her to push him down the stairs or wrap those delicate hands around his neck. She does neither. She doesn’t want him gone.

Yet, his mind betrays him. Only because she doesn’t know what other atrocities he’s committed to her.

She stops by her door, opens it and goes in first. Adler, without waiting for a formal fucking invitation, slips in behind her.

Her room is much smaller than his. The TV is still on- a German dubbed of All the President’s Men is playing- a stack of books and meds lying haphazardly on the desk table.

The door clicks shut behind him. Bell wanders over to the table and turns off the TV. Her back to him.

She doesn’t bother turning the light switch on. The green neon of the hotel sign outside illuminates the room, bathes her in it, making her look even stranger and faraway.

He doesn’t take off his sunglasses.

“What do you want, Bell?” Adler is all but snarling. His anger comes in a bottle with a twist-off cap. “I’m fucking sick of playing your games. I apologized, I admitted I was wrong- I fucked up, but what more could you want?”

Jesus, and now he’s losing his temper over a brainwashed Russian who rarely talks. How did it come to this?

She tugs off her gloves. Once again, barely acknowledging him. Apparently, if ignoring him is an art form, she is the fucking Monet.

Until:

“Take them off.”

Adler blinks hard behind his glasses. Like he’s just stepped into a whole different earth.

His mouth moves.

“What?”

“Your sunglasses. Take them off.”

He stares at her back. Trying really, really hard to make sure he’s not hallucinating this, but then Bell turns around, a finger tapping against her arm, waiting.

Realization hits him like an uppercut in the face and nearly leaves him in a daze. He’s walked into a trap. That much is clear as day. She wants him to suffer as she does. An eye for an eye.

Adler holds no modicum of control in her domain, not unless she gives the reins. Once again, she plays the judge, jury and executioner at her own court.

But, like before, he’ll play her game.

There, the glasses are off. His eyes, bare, blue like fractured ice, meeting hers. In the dark, he feels her eyes shift to assess his bruise.

His heart booms against his ribs.

"Kneel,” she says glibly.

He obeys, again. His legs and hands don’t shake, but his mind is much less governable than his limbs. No, the CIA didn’t prepare a manual for situations like this and he doesn’t trust his instincts to help him dance his way around this.

Nor does he want to.

The thought fucks him up to a degree.

Adler should have known that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees, no, no. That would have been too easy, anyway. Although history has dictated and taught him that women are never to be underestimated, Adler hasn’t expected that one woman would be able to do the deed and succeed.

But then again, when that woman is Bell, he supposes anything is possible.

When Bell approaches him, he’s unable to take his gaze from her. Her eyes spangle with determination, an avenging soul in the neon lights. Her fingers work on the sash of her coat. The line of her mouth is flat and inscrutable. The air crackles with electricity and a promise of the unsayable, the unattainable.

She stands over him now, gloveless and coatless. She’s powerful like this and he can only crane his head up at her, ceding his fate in her hands, against his better judgement. She catches that.

Suddenly, something unpleasant breaks on her face, like when one’s smelling something foul or pungent.

Bell reaches down and grips his jaw painfully in one hand, her nails digging into his skin, and tilts his head sideways. Strange that his stomach leaps at that.

“Say you’re sorry,” she spits furiously. “And say it like you fucking mean it.”

He feels, suddenly, triumphant and chuckles darkly. Eight fucking long weeks and the beast finally shows her claws.

“Try asking nicely,” Adler parrots her words from before, not a beat missed. Two can play that game, he thinks. "Or are you above niceness, Bell?”

Her grip tightens.

"You’re one to talk,” Bell says. Then, rubs the pad of her thumb over his scarred cheek and it feels like forgiveness, or the beginning of it, at least.

His confusion spikes.

Her nose skims down his jawline.

A better, sensible man would apologize. He'd squander it until his tongue burns acid, he'd beg for her forgiveness like a man asking for repentance before his god.

“Why did you do it, Russell?” Bell whispers against his skin now, baleful and raspy. Her chest rising and falling too rapidly.

But he’s a sick bastard, a selfish motherfucker, a heartless monster. All he does is hurt the people around him. He doesn’t get to take from her, not after what he's done.

Still, Adler catches her wrist. Relishing the way her wrist bone grinds under his hold. He pulls his face back to look at her.

“You know why.”

Her eyes flick dangerously to his lips.

Desperation really can make the most vulgar things tolerable.

“Then prove it.”

So he does. As his hand reaches up to her neck, past the delicious column of her throat and with a precise swift, Adler grabs a fistful of her hair, the feminine gasp escaping her mouth is like a jolt to his groin, and kisses her.

Bell responds in kind. That little beast. She grasps his collar and drags him up to his feet, impatient with want. She laps at him, bites and sucks. His free hand snakes around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.

She pulls away, catching her breath, and his teeth skim down her jaw, her neck. He bites her there in retaliation, on the delicious junction of her neck and shoulder, into the fabric of her shirt, making his intentions clear. Bell chokes in surprise and scrapes her nails over his scalp.

It hurts. But with pain, along comes pleasure and it’s good. It’s so good, Adler melts with a shaky breath.

His gloves come off first. Next, she pulls him free off his jacket, his sweater and snakes a hand between his legs, stroking him. He bites off a strangled ‘fuck’ into her throat. He’s worked up real fast already. Adler manages to make a short work of her shirt, unclasping her bra before he’s all but pushes her onto the bed.

Adler settles above her, capturing her lips in another feverish, hot-blooded kiss. He tugs her zipper down and slips his hand inside her pants. Her cunt’s everything he’s come to expect: wet, warm and oh-so wrong. She sucks in a breath. Her hips move against his hand. His blood sings. She throws her head back against the pillow, while his finds her earlobe.

“Has this proven my point, Bell?” he asks. His answer starts on a moan and ends with a breathless ‘yes’.

He doesn’t let her come that easily. No, he wants to drag this out for as long as he can until it drives her mad. So, Adler peels the rest of her clothes away, pulls her shoulder and turns her onto her stomach. He pins her down, hard. She gasps loudly against the white pillowcase, her hand fists into the sheets.

Adler slots himself behind her. His hand tracing along her spine, followed by his mouth, just how he fantasized once upon a time. His other hand quickly undoes the snap of his pants. Everything has been poisoned by her and her only; she is in his tongue, his veins, his mind, his lungs. She takes the centrefold of his mind and it's ridiculous.

He presses himself against her ass. His mouth falls open. Her body trembles. She’s all sin and racing hearts and sweaty flesh. She’s perfect. His now free hand slides up to the nape of Bell’s neck, reaching her throat, pressing down. She makes this high-pitched, demanding noise as she moves her hips back against him, leaving him wanting, helpless at the thought of having her right here, right now, in the warm neon glow of her hotel room.

“Please,” Bell begs. He groans in response and he gives it to her. Fuck, he’d give her anything if she begs just exactly like that.

When Adler is finally inside her, he thinks his world drops dead. He sets a merciless pace. He is not a gentle man and there is nothing gentle in the supple arch of her back, a rose bent backwards in the wind, as he pants along her neck before he pulls out, twists her onto her back again and pushes deeper into her until she comes apart underneath him (he’s made sure she begs for it- please, Russell. Oh god, Russell)

(He didn’t have to. Russell Adler is never the kind of man to fall for his dark side, but Christ knows he is only one man)

#russell adler #russell adler x bell #adler x bell #cod cold war #cod bell #cod #call of duty #call of duty black ops #call of duty cold war #alex mason #frank woods #helen park #lawrence sims #jason hudson #lazar azoulay

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kunstpause-archive · 3 years

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Wip Wendesday

Thank you @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold @dismalzelenka @wardenari @noire-pandora @another-rogue-trevelyan and @midnightprelude for tagging me

From an upcoming chapter of Insatiable:

“You know what is happening with my sister,” Cassia broaches the subject. “I assume you pretty much watch everything important going on here.”

Emet-Selch’s eyebrows rise as he gives her a curt nod.

“I am aware of it.”

Cassia swallows once before she gives herself a push.

“Can you help her?” she asks softly and for a moment Emet-Selch is very still before he starts to frown.

“Excuse me?”

“If you can bring back my memories from a time that seems impossible, can you help her remember too?” Cassia asks “Please, I don’t know what else to do.”

“So you didn’t want me to stir any memories for you, but now you want me to help your sister instead?”

The look on his face is almost unreadable and Cassia can’t tell if he sounds intrigued or dismissive or maybe both at the same time. But no one has even a vague idea how to help Adriene and this feels like her best hope. Cassia swallows once, before her eyes find his.

“If you need an incentive, you can do whatever you want with me, as long as you try to help her!”

Emet-Selch’s eyes widen for a moment. It is barely noticeable before he catches himself and gives her a calculating look.

“My dear, that is a very dangerous offer to make to anyone. Let alone to someone like me.”

His eyes are piercing but Cassia doesn’t let herself be deterred by what she sees in them. She can’t afford to.

“I’ve made that offer before and I’ve been just fine, thank you,” she answers firmly. Emet-Selch’s eyes wander over her like he is sizing her up and she fights the urge to fidget with her dress under his scrutiny as his eyebrows rise.

“You may have offered your body, but what I would want from you goes far deeper than that,” he says in a low voice. His gloved hand trails along her cheek in a soft caress and Cassia swallows. There is something in his voice that sends a shiver down her back.

“What do you want from me then if not my body?” she asks, both curious and concerned. “My mind?”

At that, Emet-Selch lets out a laugh. “Why, all of you, my dear.” There is a smile spreading over his lips. “I would want no less than to claim your very soul.”

He sounds almost light-hearted, his soft tone being in complete contrast with the way she sees his eyes burn, and Cassia knows he means every word he just said. Probably quite literally. A sliver of the same fear she had felt a few days ago when surrounded by the broken city runs through her at the prospect. Again, what he wants seems too vast, too incomprehensible for her to not fear at least a little where all of it may lead. But at the same time there is a longing inside her. Has been since the moment they first touched, maybe before even. A deep-seated need to understand. Together with her determination to help Adriene, it overrules whatever fear lingers.

“I don’t care! It’s my sister,” Cassia finally answers. “I’ve told you before, she and my cousin are all that I have left.”

It sounds like half a lie, she thinks, to phrase her agreement like this is the only thing that matters to her when there is so much more to it. Then again, it is at least her most pressing concern.

Emet-Selch gives her a long look before he finally inclines his head with a nod.

“I shall see what I can do for your sister then,” he agrees and Cassia has to blink away the beginning tears of relief that spring to her eyes the moment she realizes he is indeed going to help her.

@ashalle-art @elfyourmother @elveny @exposed-whimsy @allycryz @edencalder @captainderyn @tishinada @curiousthimble @dalish-rogue @tightassets @zuendwinkel @okami-zero @jentrevellan @a-shakespearean-in-paris @hollyand-writes @charlatron @lavellanvibes @blarfkey @kemvee @hobo-apostate @queen-kass-the-writer @thefoxinboots @enigmalea @coffeebirdafterdark @alamhigyoooo @sixthmagic

#wip wednesday #ffxiv #wol x Emet-Selch #Kunstpause writes stuff

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damienthepious · 3 years

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uhhhhhhhh TUESDAY. i’m gettin’ OLD SCHOOL.

The Rite Of Movement (Chapter 5)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ch 4] [ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep, Original Monster Character(s), Sir Marc, Sir Talfryn, Sir Angelo, Quanyii, Sir Caroline, Original Human Character(s)

Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Engagement, Domestic, Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Poetry, Presents, (this is the MOST self indulgent tooth rotting fluff I've ever ever EVER done please enjoy), (i love my ridiculous scalie/scaley trio), Monster Customs, Dancing, Second Citadel, Post-Season/Series 02

Fic Summary: Arum has a surprising revelation about his own feelings, and then decides to take matters into his own claws since his humans don’t seem to realize what they are denying themselves.

Chapter Summary: Continuations of two conversations.

Chapter Notes: Don't.... pay attention to how long this fic has been left hanging. Also don't..... hold me to regular updates for this in the future either, lmao i've proven myself unreliable in that context XD i swear i'm doing my best! this one is very freeform tho and sans plot i have trouble kicking things along. ALSO, EDIT, @shorter-than-her-tbr-pile inspired the second half of this chapter pretty directly!!! and i love them dearly with my whole heart!!!! aaaaaaa<3<3<3

“They cannot stay here,” Arum says, managing to both snarl and speak under his breath at the same time. It’s- a little impressive, actually. Rilla watches him pace a tight circle at just enough of a distance from the portal that Puck and Tetch probably can’t make out his words. “They cannot. I do not run some sort of- of halfway home for wayward miscreants, be they human or monster or- or anything else.” He pauses, then scowls darker and gestures with a hand, claws slicing the air. “And yet, they cannot leave because they have seen you and if anyone were to bring our- our- to bring us as we are to the attention of the Senate or the humans, all of our lives would be- and with the wedd-” he cuts off, shooting a suspicious look towards the portal again, where Puck appears to be examining the vines that make up the frame the magic fills.

“I am going to have to kill them,” Arum says flatly, eyes narrowing and hands clenching, and Rilla can’t help it anymore. She bursts out laughing.

“Arum- Arum we’re not going to kill them. What are you even- seriously, pay attention, here. Who would they possibly tell?” She smiles, just a little exasperation creeping into her tone. “Look at them, Arum. Look at them and tell me what these two would gain from talking to the Senate or the Citadel.”

Arum looks at Rilla, instead, for a long moment, his jaw clenched tight, and then he sighs, flicking his eyes to the mismatched pair.

Puck runs their hands along the vines of the portal, their face bright with a delighted sort of curiosity. Tetch is behind them, still out in the swamp. Within reach, tense as if anticipating a blow, anticipating the need to defend, but mostly just- watching. Watching Puck, with her head tilted just slightly to the side, her fuzzy antennae twitching.

He presses his lips together, then looks to Amaryllis again. “What does it matter,” he mutters, his tone a little stilted, “if they happen to- if they are-”

“Like us?” Rilla suggests gently.

“They are not-” Arum snaps his jaw shut again, growling low, because-

“You know that they are,” Rilla says. “I mean, I figured we couldn’t be the only ones, but- if I’m being honest I didn’t really expect that we would ever meet another-” she shakes her head. “Not the point right now. Arum, I’m not saying we should let them move in or something, but- it’s not like the swamp is tiny. If all they’re looking for is a place where they can be safe for a little while… it’s not like that would be a difficult thing to help with, would it?”

“Amaryllis-”

“They can’t tell anyone about us because anyone they would tell would hate the pair of them just the same,” Rilla says. “Honestly-” she pauses. “Honestly, Arum, aren’t you even a little bit curious? Or… or even a little bit tempted by the opportunity to talk to someone who’s gone through something like what we have?”

“No,” Arum grumbles, looking away, but Rilla steps closer and lifts a hand. He flicks his eyes to the strangers when she cups his cheek, suspicious of the scrutiny, but they don’t seem to be paying attention, so he only rumbles low in his chest and meets her eyes again. “I care about you,” he mutters. “I care about Damien. They have nothing to do with me, or us. The pair of you and my Keep are my only priorities, Amaryllis.”

Her thumb brushes soft over his cheek, and her smile goes a little more gentle. “I know,” she says, “but helping them too doesn’t take away from that. You’re allowed to do unselfish things, you know. No one here is going to make fun of you for being kind. Honestly, if you just pointed them towards a patch of swamp without any traps that they could camp in for a day or two, they’d probably be grateful enough, but- but I really think we could help more than that, don’t you?”

Arum grumbles, still standing stiffly to keep himself from gathering her close as he truly wishes to. He cannot embrace her, not while they might see, because-

The moth (Tetch, his mind supplies unhelpfully) stands close behind the human as they examine the portal, close enough to wrap a gentle wing around their shoulder like a cape, and even at this distance Arum can see the easy way that Puck leans back into that contact, the light smile that curls their lips.

He pulls his eyes away, and realizes that Amaryllis is still looking up at him, is still waiting for him to answer.

“We… could help. Theoretically.”

Rilla’s own lip curls, then, into an indulgent smirk. “Theoretically,” she echoes.

“There are…” he hesitates, eyes flicking around the room and not settling on any one thing in particular. “A number of outposts in the swamp, of course, similar to the one…”

Rilla’s smirk breaks into something softer when he hesitates again. “Like the one you brought me and Damien to, after… after Fort Terminus? Where we went to talk?”

“Y-yes,” he says. “Smaller places. Technically Keep-grown but not within its direct consciousness, without effort at the very least. Most are… hidden. Indistinguishable from the surrounding flora. Places no one would look, even if they somehow managed to penetrate the outer defenses of my swamp unseen in the first place.” He pauses, and Rilla doesn’t interrupt. She can tell he’s not quite finished, and she doesn’t wanna scare him off of this particular thought. “It… it would not be difficult, of course, to- to allow… rather… I suppose, if all they require is… is a place to exist for a short while…"

Arum pauses again, and again Rilla waits, lifting her other hand so she can cup his face. He glances towards the other pair again, and this time one of them is returning his gaze.

Or- he thought, for a moment, that they were. Puck's expression is even, curious, vaguely fond as they look at Amaryllis, something like recognition in their eyes. They do glance towards Arum, then, only the barest sliver of hope shining through them as they lean back into Tetch's wings with a very, very small smile. They drop his eyes, turning to laugh at something Tetch says in their ear, then, and Arum blinks back to himself.

Rilla waits, and Arum is grateful for her patience in a way he is never quite sure how to voice. He is grateful for every ounce of her being, though, and the small part of that gratefulness devoted to her patience is easy to lose among the whole. Arum sighs, resting his face in the safety of her palms, and then he curls his mouth into a wry sort of smile and lifts his own arms. He has wanted to hold her since he saw her in the doorway, despite his concerns.

Let them see.

Why should he be concerned? He is her betrothed now, after all, and that certainty pools warm at his center as he gathers her in his arms and tugs her against his chest. She breathes a light laugh against him, surprise and delight, one of his favorite noises in the whole of the Universe.

"… until the patch on her wing sets properly," Arum says, very quietly. "I- we will provide a place for them until then. It was my trap that damaged her- her own fault, of course, for- for trespassing, but- nonetheless, my handiwork. It seems … appropriate, to provide some… to provide some small degree of shelter. Until then."

Rilla leans back enough to look up at him, her eyes dark and warm and fond, and then she leans up to kiss him, just gently on the cheek.

"Okay," she says simply, still smiling, and then she reaches and takes two of his hands in her own, slipping her fingers between his, gently playing his digits between her own. "That sounds reasonable. C'mon, let's go let them know, yeah?"

“Angelo-”

“Almost there, Sir Damien! Patience for a few moments more, and all shall be revealed."

"I trust you with my life, Sir Angelo, but-" Damien ducks his head, weaving slightly to avoid thunking his head off of a stalactite. Ahead of him, Angelo moves with a deftness of foot that really should not surprise Sir Damien at this point. Sir Angelo the Strong was once simply Angelo of Quarry, after all, and he knows rocks and caverns as Sir Damien knows syllables and rhyme. "But- but we are rather deep, I think, and-"

"Oh, hardly! Why, Sir Damien, I've been in caverns a full three times deeper than this little hole, darker and with far more interesting formations of rock! We are not here for my interest today, though, my friend." Angelo grins wide over his shoulder, the light from the torch in his hand dancing orange and gold over the both of them.

"And… why are we here, exactly?" Damien tries, not for the first time, and an expression of near-comical mischief slides across Angelo's face.

"Soon!" he says by way of an answer, and then he presses his free hand over his wide grin, muffling a laugh. "Very soon, Sir Damien. Just a little further!"

"But you said that same thing," Damien pants, "ten minutes ago, I'm certain it must have been, and I would like to return to my-" he lowers his voice, despite the impossibility of being overheard in this moment, "my fiances before it is too terribly late in the evening, certainly you must understand-"

The narrow cave opens out, revealing a yawning space, an enormous wide bowl of a cavern with a cool, utterly still pool of water submerging the floor of the far half, the ceiling completely covered in wavering forms of stalactites stretching down from every corner. In the low light of the torch the water looks like glass, and the cones on the ceiling gleam with subtle moisture, and the noise of their footsteps resounds softly through the space.

"Angelo," Damien murmurs, "this place is… where are we?"

"I used to come here often when I was young," Sir Angelo says, fond and wistful, placing a hand on the uneven stone of the wall as he carefully arranges the torch to stand on its own in a crack between a pair of rocks. "I am rather boisterous even by my own family's standards, and this was one of very few places I could come where I would not prompt any number of complaints about my- well, my volume."

"Oh," Damien says gently. "Oh, Sir Angelo-"

Angelo turns, grinning wide and delighted, and he grips Damien's shoulders. "Which is why I knew it would be perfect for you, Sir Damien!"

"Er- come again?"

"You must speak your heart, Sir Damien," Angelo says, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world, and Damien-

Damien could laugh. He's said those words often enough, he supposes. It is the most obvious thing in the world.

"You are not meant to hide your love in whispers, Sir Damien. You are not meant to keep yourself so quiet, and I thought- I thought, perhaps, that you could use this place as I once did. You may speak as loudly as you wish, here, and you need not fear being overheard by anyone at all. If no one ever heard me, they will certainly not be able to hear you, Damien. Not even if you shout."

Damien blinks up at him, feeling his heart rise in his throat, and Angelo only grins a little wider, squeezing his shoulders.

"I thought, perhaps, that you might wish to shout, to make up for all those whispers."

"Angelo," Damien says, his voice wavering as he lifts his hands to grip Angelo's wrists.

Angelo's eyes sparkle with delight, and he squeezes Damien's shoulders once more before he releases them, stepping aside and patting him on the back instead.

"Now, Sir Damien," he says, his voice conspicuous and loud and his expression exaggeratedly sly, "I believe that you had news to share with me, did you not?"

"I-" Damien inhales, breathes a watery laugh, looks around at this wide, empty, private place that his best rival chose to share with him. "I- Sir Angelo, I already-"

"Come now, Damien, don't be shy! What did you wish to tell me?"

Damien presses a hand over his mouth against his own smile, pressing back against the laughter that he is certain will dissolve into tears. Angelo continues to grin, and he waves his hands in the air, encouraging and nearly giddy, stoking Damien's smile even wider.

Damien inhales, then exhales to try to soothe his overwhelmed, thrumming heart.

"I… I am going to be married," he says, and the cavern bounces his voice back to him in a subtle, soft wave. "Arum- Arum asked us to marry him. He- he wants to," Damien says, the surprise of it still coloring his tone, his voice beginning to raise as the enthusiasm wakes, shivering off his fear. "He wants us, he does, he wants us as much as we want him- he wants us to be married, Angelo, he's going to-"

Damien laughs, wild, reckless.

"I love them so, so much, Angelo, I love them with all of my heart, and they- I want to marry them, I want to be with them for the rest of my life, and they want it just the same! They want to marry me! Me, Angelo, oh Saints above, I-"

He pauses, pressing his hand over his heart, and Angelo waits, patient, his hand pressing as a gentle anchor on Damien's shoulderblade.

"I so rarely feel that I know what I am doing, Angelo. I am- so frightened. I am always so frightened, of dangers real and imagined, of failure, but- but with them I feel safe. Always. Even when they bicker, even when Rilla is exhausted and short-tempered, even when Arum and I cannot see eye-to-eye on a matter, even when I fall into the mire of my own mind, I still and forever feel safe with them, and I know- I know, beneath the terrified churning of my mind, I know in my heart that I am loved. I know that I am held beloved by them, and now I know- I know they wish to stand with me in marriage, they wish for us to pledge ourselves to our union. I am- I am held beloved by the most incredible woman I have ever met, and a regal, stubborn, glorious monster. A monster."

"A monster," Angelo echoes, steady and soft.

"I am…" Damien exhales slowly, then lifts his chin, and his next words are not a shout, but they are firm and confident and so, so proud. "I love a monster. I am loved by one in turn. My beloved flower Rilla loves and is loved by a monster just the same. I love Amaryllis, and I love Lord Arum, and I intend to love them both forever. For as long as they want me. I love them, and they love me, they do, and I- I am going to be their husband."

Angelo's eyes go bright, and his grin approaches the quality of a bonfire, and he throws his arms around Sir Damien's shoulders in a crushing hug.

"Congratulations, my friend!" he booms, his voice loud enough to rattle the space, sending droplets down from the stalactites to ripple the surface of the water. "Congratulations! I am so, so happy for you, Sir Damien. I will be so proud to witness so joyous an event!"

Damien-

His tears are as joyful as the congratulations, and Damien cannot help them in the least. He returns the fierce hug, sniffling against Angelo's shoulder as his eyes well.

"What- what did I ever do, Sir Angelo," he keens, his voice wavering hard, his throat aching, "to deserve this? To deserve to be the husband to such beautiful, radiant, loving, clever beings? What did I do? How could I ever be worthy of-"

Angelo tightens the hug, holding his best friend, best rival steady in his arms. "You loved them, Sir Damien," he says, "as much as they loved you. You loved each other, and you chose each other as your family. That is what you did."

Damien sniffles hard, burying his face in Angelo's shoulder and smiling through his tears. "And you as well," he manages, and Angelo makes a questioning noise. "You are my family too, Sir Angelo. Thank you. For this. For- for standing beside me in every dire conflict, for always encouraging me to grow, to strive, for-"

Angelo lifts, and as Angelo hugs him tight, Damien kicks his feet in the air with a squeaking startled laugh.

#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #amaryllis of exile #sir damien #sir angelo #the rite of movement

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saedii-gilwraeth-simp · 4 years

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Another World - TDC Holidays - Day 5

Like, comment and reblog please and thank you

DAY 5

AU: HIGH SCHOOL

POV: KATHARINE

I need a car was the conclusion Katharine came to when she nearly hurled in the school parking lot after stumbling off her sister’s motorcycle. Arsinoe chuckled as she rubbed her back and gently tugged the helmet off Kat’s head to let the fresh air in and Kat breathed, slowly standing up and glaring at the dangerous monstrosity her sister called “her baby.” Usually, she would ride in Mirabella’s car but their older sister was sick at home.

“Never doing that again,” Kat said as Arsinoe pulled their backpacks from the seat compartment and put Kat’s helmet in there, her own still perched under her arm. She locked the bike and cast Kat a look.

“It’s not even that bad, I don’t get what you and Mira don’t like about it,” Arsinoe says, handing her her pack. Kat growls, takes it and turns towards the front steps of their school. Arsinoe calls out to where Jules stands at the base of the steps before kissing Kat’s forehead. “I’ll meet you here after school, yeah?” Kat nods and Arsinoe jogs across the road to join her friends. Kat crosses after, not looking over at her sister. She knew Arsinoe would invite her over if she asked, but Jules, Joseph, Billy and Emilia were Arsinoe’s friends, not hers. She didn’t belong there.

She quickly darted up the stairs into their school, passing through the halls like a ghost to get to her locker. She unlocked it and tugged at it with all the force she could muster, growling at the jammed door.

Kat didn’t even notice the person coming up beside her until her locker swung open and hit something that went “umph.” Kat frowned and half closed her locker again to see a girl rubbing her nose. Kat winces and steps towards the girl, feeling awkward and guilty.

“I am so sorry, are you okay?” The girl nodded and Kat gently took her wrists so that she could check the girls face. She nearly swore.

She had just hit Bree Westwood, also known as the head cheerleader and second most popular girl in school, in the face with her locker. Shit. This was it, this was the end, the moment where no one would ever interact with her again. They watch each other for too long and Kat ignores the way her heart races under the scrutiny of this tall and pretty girl.

“I’m okay. Are you?” Bree says and Kat frowns in confusion, “no one opens a locker that aggressively if they’re perfectly fine,” she clarifies and Kat nods in understanding.

“I’m fine, the door just got stuck so… yeah,” she says rubbing her arm nervously. “Sorry about hitting you in the face,” Bree laughed and Kat rubbed the back of her neck nervously.

“It’s fine, locker grate bruises are all the rage these days,” Bree affirms, her voice warm. The bell goes off behind them and Kat jumps slightly. “I’ll see you around Kat Queen,” she winks and then is gone.

“I’m just saying that the greatest bop of all time is Shania Twain’s ‘Man! I feel like a Women’ followed by Nelly Furtado’s ‘Promiscuous’ and then the entire Queen discography,” Arsinoe rants as Kat sits beside her, gesticulating like she’s a professor on the subject. Her table laughs and Kat questions her sister’s sanity.

“I think you’re too deep in nostalgia. Modern rappers have changed the landscape of what consists of a bop,” Billy contests, waving to Kat. Arsinoe turns to her boyfriend, pointing a fork in his face.

“Is this your way of saying you think ‘WAP’ should be at the top of this list? Oh and Kitty, Bree Westwood is staring at you,” Arsinoe says the first part with incredulity and the second so fast Kat almost doesn’t catch it. Kat snorts before her brain registers all of the information. She looks over to the “popular table” and catches Bree Westwood indeed staring right at her, warm honey eyes curious and smiling. Kat smiles back with a small wave, hoping that the bright fluorescents of the cafeteria washed away the blush striped across her cheeks. Bree winked at her and the blush got worse.

“Arsinoe, what’s she like?” Kat leans over and asks into her sister’s ear. Arsinoe turns and considers the question.

“Mira says she’s nicer than you might think. If you want to talk to her you should. Get out there again, y’know?” Arsinoe assured her gently. Kat nodded and stood from the table.

“I’m gonna go practice my piano,” Arsinoe nods and squeezes Kat’s arm lovingly.

Arsinoe is unsuccessfully trying to coax Kat back onto her motorbike when someone behind her calls her name.

Grateful for the opportunity to stall, Kat turns, only to begin to wonder whether the motorbike would have been a better option. Bree Westwood approaches her and Kat tries not to be distracted by the fact that she’s in her cheerleading uniform because that amount of leg and what it does to Kat’s heart should be considered criminal.

“Hi Bree,” Kat says awkwardly, “What’s up?”

“Hey Kat,” Bree says happily. “I was wondering if you might like to get dinner with me on Friday night? Like, a date?” Kat doesn’t speak, her brows furrowing in confusion. She thanks everything that that is the moment Arsinoe nudges her in the shoulder blade.

“Uh, I- yeah, that sounds good,” Kat stammers and Bree smiles so wide Kat assumes it hurts her and then skips off.

“Get it Kitty,” Arsinoe says as she pushes a cycle helmet into Kat’s arms.

“I can’t believe you’re going on a date with my best friend,” Mirabella murmurs as she helps Kat get ready for her date. Kat hasn’t been able to stop blushing. “It’s so exciting,” she continues as she puts a light layer of makeup on Kat.

“Yeah, nicely done Kitty,” Arsinoe affirms from her perch leaning against the bathroom doorframe. “But text me if it starts going badly, I’ll make up some emergency,” Kat snorts gently.

“With you, it’s not often that you have to make up an emergency,” she teases and Mirabella puts down the mascara wand, giggling.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I am a completely responsible young adult who never gets herself involved in emergencies,” Arsinoe says, sticking her nose in the air snottily. Mirabella seems to not be able to handle it, wheezing heavily as she laughed, curling over, coughing the dryness from her cold-impacted throat. It’s impossible that Kat and Arsinoe won’t also catch the same cold next week and the week after that respectively, but for now, they giggle closer to each other.

Finally, finally, they manage to sit up and Mirabella finishes Kat’s makeup. The doorbell rings and before Kat can stop her, Arsinoe is out of the bathroom and undoubtedly sliding down the stair banister even though Mirabella asks her to walk down the stairs every day. Mira helps her to her feet on the low silver heels she wears.

“You’ll be fine, Bree is super nice,” she says, before letting Kat go in front of her down the stairs.

“… and have her home by 11, which is a really chill curfew, so don’t break it,” Kat hears as she comes to stand next to Arsinoe’s shoulder, finally seeing Bree, looking like something out of her dreams with a sky blue dress that reveals miles of leg and makes her eyes pop.

“11, got it. Hi Kat, you ready?” Bree says with a smile of a thousand suns. Kat took a breath.

“I’m ready,” she takes Bree’s hand and lets her lead Kat to her car.

Tag List: @poisonerrose, @nataliaarronn

#three dark crowns #one dark throne #two dark reigns #five dark fates #kendare blake #queen katharine #bree westwood #queen arsinoe #queen mirabella #billy chatworth #another world #holiday special 2020

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tenroseforeverandever · 5 years

Text

Wonderful Tonight - Chapter 2

Characters: Tentoo; Rose Tyler; Jackie Tyler; Pete Tyler; Original Character, Wilkins from Vitex Patents

Tags: hurt/comfort; angst; romance; fluff; love; Pete’s World; sexual content; drunkenness; drunken confessions; swearing; songfic

Story Summary:

On the first anniversary of the instantaneous biological metacrisis that created him, the same day he and Rose had been unceremoniously dumped in Pete’s World, the Doctor can think of a few gazillion different ways he would prefer to spend the evening, and the Annual Vitex Gala is not one of them. All he truly wants is to spend a quiet, intimate evening at home alone with Rose. But when Rose doesn’t acknowledge the significance of the date, the Doctor finds the strain and rejection he has worked so hard to overcome surfacing again, leaving him feeling vulnerable and insecure.

A song fic, based on the song Wonderful Tonight, by Eric Clapton.

Notes:

Once again, a multitude of thanks to my brilliant betas mrsbertucci and @rose–nebula. I couldn’t do it without you!

Written for @doctorroseprompts‘s Tentoosday event.

Four Chapters, posting on Wednesdays