#Control System Online Help
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bixels · 4 months ago
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As cameras becomes more normalized (Sarah Bernhardt encouraging it, grifters on the rise, young artists using it), I wanna express how I will never turn to it because it fundamentally bores me to my core. There is no reason for me to want to use cameras because I will never want to give up my autonomy in creating art. I never want to become reliant on an inhuman object for expression, least of all if that object is created and controlled by manufacturing companies. I paint not because I want a painting but because I love the process of painting. So even in a future where everyone’s accepted it, I’m never gonna sway on this.
if i have to explain to you that using a camera to take a picture is not the same as using generative ai to generate an image then you are a fucking moron.
#ask me#anon#no more patience for this#i've heard this for the past 2 years#“an object created and controlled by companies” anon the company cannot barge into your home and take your camera away#or randomly change how it works on a whim. you OWN the camera that's the whole POINT#the entire point of a camera is that i can control it and my body to produce art. photography is one of the most PHYSICAL forms of artmakin#you have to communicate with your space and subjects and be conscious of your position in a physical world.#that's what makes a camera a tool. generative ai (if used wholesale) is not a tool because it's not an implement that helps you#do a task. it just does the task for you. you wouldn't call a microwave a “tool”#but most importantly a camera captures a REPRESENTATION of reality. it captures a specific irreproducible moment and all its data#read Roland Barthes: Studium & Punctum#generative ai creates an algorithmic IMITATION of reality. it isn't truth. it's the average of truths.#while conceptually that's interesting (if we wanna get into media theory) but that alone should tell you why a camera and ai aren't the sam#ai is incomparable to all previous mediums of art because no medium has ever solely relied on generative automation for its creation#no medium of art has also been so thoroughly constructed to be merged into online digital surveillance capitalism#so reliant on the collection and commodification of personal information for production#if you think using a camera is “automation” you have worms in your brain and you need to see a doctor#if you continue to deny that ai is an apparatus of tech capitalism and is being weaponized against you the consumer you're delusional#the fact that SO many tumblr lefists are ready to defend ai while talking about smashing the surveillance state is baffling to me#and their defense is always “well i don't engage in systems that would make me vulnerable to ai so if you own an apple phone that's on you”#you aren't a communist you're just self-centered
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bluehairmisfit · 6 months ago
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Not to make “tag vent sunday” a thing but Idk how I can go from having a great string of days where I feel happy and confident to just. Randomly fucking dropping. And feeling like the actual worst.
#okay so here’s the thing#QB and I have been doing lil activities online lately#which helps him with his stuff he has going on and helps me to not feel fucking lonely all the time#bc i had another hangout friend but I Very Much Screwed That Up Tee-Bee-Aych#so I’ve been late to most hangouts. i constantly have little issues pop up where I’m so sure I’ll piss him off#friday night like an hour into the hangout I went ‘idk how to say this but like i recgonize I’m being quiet and if you want me to talk more#please lemme know’ and he told me that he was having some worries attached to that so we talked things out and it was fine#ITS ALWAYS FINE#AND SOMETIMES THAT IS WHAT PUTS ME ON EDGE OR MAKES ME START FUCKING CRYING (off call) WHICH IS EMBARRASSING TO ADMIT BUT LIKE#LOOK I LOVE THAT HE’S PATIENT AND UNDERSTANDING. ONLY OTHER PERSON I KNOW WHO HAS THAT LEVEL OF CHILL IS MY ACTUAL PARTNER#BUT I’M SO FUCKING SURE THAT I WILL SCREW IT UP TERRIBLY. LIKE DISASTROUSLY.#SO LIKE WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO? BECAUSE PART OF MY BRAIN IS TELLING ME TO JUST GHOST EVERYONE AND RUN AWAY#SO THAT I CAN AT LEAST CONTROL THE OUTCOME BUT LIKE#I REALLY WANNA BE FRIENDS WITH QB AND WB AND BB AND I’M STRUGGLING SO HARD WITH THIS#like lowkey the thought of screwing up in the same way I always have is literally painful and my chest is killing me I just—#god I fucking hate this shit#can I get the stardew heart ranking system please?? so I know exactly where I stand all the time???#I don’t necessarily trust people to tell me what I’m doing wrong until it’s too late
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skillzissuez · 1 year ago
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Depression is all fun and games until your skipping school even though you’re weeks behind because you quite literally can’t get out of bed
#god I hate it here#not to mention you mother and father#SEEING this#simply decides to ignore you like your Alr dead#like damn okay 💀💀 fuck you too ig 💀💀#I don’t know how to fix this#I’m literally gonna be held back or taken to court bc I’ve missed so many days#but oh well the sillies r keeping me alive#Also I told myself I wouldn’t vent online anymore but I honestly don’t care anymore 😭#it’s so bad though#I tried to do some of my homework last night and ended up throwing up from the stress#and it’s not like my friends just forgot about me they are GOOD friends I’ve just been pushing them away; telling them I’m just sick etc.#it’s my fault so I’m not mad at them for not knowing what to do. The closest ones try to call me#sometimes I answer and we talk. sometimes I don’t and they leave me a message abt how their a good listener and they KNOW something’s wrong.#Truly I love my friends but at this point I just need to be medicated or in a mental institution ong#but again; it’s not like my parents actually care. they canceled my therapy that was court appointed to me#My support system otherwise is gone; my older siblings have moved out and I’m supposed to protect my younger ones from my parents#but deadass my entire family is well aware that I’m useless in that department#I shake scream and sob everytime my parents yell at us so I’m no help; really#I mean recently I’ve been able to keep my emotions under control but the only reason why is because I’m dead inside 💪#As I’m typing this out I’m realizing that I should be telling the world this especially not in my mental state but like. I dunno 🤷‍♂️#I know most of you don’t care or if you do your just concerned or feel bad bc you know what it’s like and I thank you.#seriously; I thank you for being human and reminding me the world can be kind#if anything im just distracting myself from whatever this is. whether it be playing a silly game or drawing about said silly game it helps#but it also makes me feel guilty bc I RLLY should be focused on trying to pass this year. but I’m pretty sure it’s too late now.#anyways; that’s why I’ve been inactive lately so I apologize#it’s funny bc I’m typing this out but I rlly don’t feel anything while explaining this to you guys#I’ll tag this properly; I don’t know why I’m posting this and I might delete it later I dunno#tw vent#tw mention of abuse
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hamadisthings · 11 months ago
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HELP US STOP CHAT CONTROL!
If you live in the EU, you absolutely need to pay attention to what's to come. What is Chat Control, you may ask? In a (failed) attempt to combat child abuse online the EU made Chat Control, Chat Control will result in getting your private messages and emails to be scanned by artificial intelligence aka AI to search for CSAM pictures or discussion that might have grooming in there. And on top of having your private conversations handed to AI or the police to snoop in, like your family pictures, selfies, or more sensitive pics, like the medical kind, only meant to be seen by your doctors, or the "flirtatious" kind you send to your partner, you either have to ACCEPT to be scanned...or else you will be forbidden from sending pictures, videos, or even links, as said here.
Kids should absolutely be protected online, without question, but the things that Chat Control gets wrong is that this is a blatant violation of privacy, without even considering the fact that AI WILL create tons of false positives, this is not a theory, this is a fact. And for all the false positives that will be detected, all of them will be sent to the police, which will just flood their system with useless junk instead of efficiently putting resources to actual protect kids from predators.
It also does not help that politicians, police officers, soldiers etc will be exempt from Chat Control if it passes. If it's for the sake of protection, shouldn't everyone get the same treatment? Which further prove that Chat Control would NOT keep your data of private life safe. Plus, bad actors will simply stop using messenger apps as soon as they know they're being tracked, using more obscure means, meanwhile innocent people will be punished by using those services On top of this, the EU also plans on reintroducing Data retention called "EU Going Dark". Both Chat Control and EU Going Dark are clear violation of the GDPR, and even if they shouldn't stand a chance in court, its not going to prevent politicians from trying to ram these through as an excuse to mass surveil European citizens, using kids as a shield. Even teenagers sending pictures to each other won't be exempt, which entirely goes against the purpose of protecting kids by retaining their private photos instead. Furthermore, once messaging apps are forced to comply with Chat Control, the president of Signal, a secured messaging app with encryption, have confirmed that they will be forced to leave the EU if this is enforced against them.
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If Chat Control also ends up targeting any websites with the option of private messages, you better expect Europe to be geo-blocked by any websites offering such function. I would also like to add that EU citizens were very vocal in the fight against KOSA, an equally bad internet bill from the US-- and it showed! Which is why we heavily need the help of our fellow US peers to fight against Chat Control too, so please, because we all know if it passes, the US government will take a look at this and conclude "Ooh, a way to force mass surveillance on citizens even more than before? don't mind if I do!" It's always a snowball effect.
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KEEP IN MIND THE EUROPE COUNCIL WILL LIKELY VOTE ON CHAT CONTROL THIS 19 JUNE OF NEXT WEEK TO SEE IF IT WILL ENTER TRILOGIES OR NOT. Even if it does enter Trilogues, the fight will only be beginning. Absentees may not count as a no, so it is crucial that you contact your MEPs HERE, as well as HERE, and you can also show your support for Edri's campaign against Chat Control HERE.
You can read more on Chat Control here as well, and you can find useful information as to which arguments to use when politely contacting your MEP (calling is better than email) here, and beneath you will find graphics you can use to spread the word!
YOU CAN ALSO JOIN OUR DISCORD SERVER (linked here) TO HELP ORGANIZE AGAINST CHAT CONTROL NON EU PEOPLE ARE MORE THAN WELCOME TO JOIN TOO!
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https://discord.gg/FPDJYkUujM
PLEASE REBLOG ! NON EU PEOPLE ARE ENCOURAGED TO REBLOG AS WELL CONTACT YOUTUBERS, CONTENT CREATORS, ANYONE YOU KNOW THAT MAY HELP GET THE WORD OUT ! Let's fight for our Internet and actually keep kids safe online! Because Chat Control and EU Going Dark will only endanger kids.
PLEASE REBLOG! NON EU PEOPLE ARE ENCOURAGED TO REBLOG AS WELL CONTACT YOUTUBERS, CONTENT CREATORS, ANYONE YOU KNOW THAT MAY HELP GET THE WORD OUT !
Let's fight for our Internet and actually keep kids safe online! Because Chat Control and EU Going Dark will only endanger kids.
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theambitiouswoman · 3 months ago
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How to heal your nervous system after a lifetime of abandonment
If you’ve only ever experienced abandonment—whether emotional or physical—your nervous system has likely been in survival mode for most of your life. This means your body and mind have adapted to expect instability, making safety feel unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Healing isn’t just about “thinking positively” or “moving on” but about rewiring your nervous system to feel safe in connection, in stillness & within yourself
When abandonment becomes a pattern, your body learns to stay hyper vigilant, always scanning for signs that people will leave. It will emotionally shut down to avoid further pain. You will attach yourself quickly to people because you are scared that if you don't, you will lose them. You will feel unsafe in healthy relationships and sabotage them
This isn’t a mindset issue—it’s a nervous system issue. Your body is conditioned to see abandonment as inevitable, which is why true healing must happen on a physiological level
So to take control, you have to teach your body that safety exists (even if you don't believe it). And since you probably don't know why that is, you have to start small
I have spoken about these things before, but I am going to explain what they actually do, so that you see that even though they seem silly and pointless, they are very important. You thinking everything has to be a struggle and difficult is just you thinking from a place of survival
Grounding exercises - Grounding actually engages your sense to bring you back to the present moment and help reduce anxiety. Walking barefoot, holding something warm, or pressing your feet into the floor sends signals to your brain that you are physically here and safe. It activates the prefrontal cortex (the rational part of your brain) and quiets the amygdala (the fear center) helping you feel more in control
Weighted blankets- Trigger the release of serotonin (the "feel-good" neurotransmitter) and reduces cortisol (the stress hormone). Deep pressure mimics the calming effect of a hug, which lowers heart rate and blood pressure. It helps regulate the autonomic nervous system, shifting you from fight or flight mode to a state of rest and relaxation
Breathing exercises - They activate the parasympathetic nervous system (PNS), which counteracts stress and signals safety to the brain. Inhaling for 4 seconds, holding for 4 and exhaling for 6 stimulates the vagus nerve, which lowers cortisol and increases feelings of calm. Longer exhales specifically slow your heart rate, reinforcing a sense of control and relaxation
These small habits may feel insignificant at first, but over time, they help retrain your brain and body to recognize safety—not as something foreign, but as your new normal
Abandonment leaves deep emotional wounds, often from childhood. If no one ever soothed you, you must learn to soothe yourself
Affirmations for safety: Instead of just saying “I am worthy”, try “I am safe in this moment” or “I do not have to earn love”
Inner child work: Imagine speaking to your younger self. What would they need to hear? Start telling yourself those things daily
If you’ve only known unpredictable or inconsistent love, you may chase people or push them away before they can leave. Start practicing security within yourself first by keeping small promises to yourself. Surrounding yourself with emotionally safe people, even if it's just online or even books at first. Something that feels SAFE to you
Your nervous system might be wired to assume people will leave, so you either cling or detach first. Instead, start training yourself to trust in small ways by watching for people who are consistent, emotionally available and respect your boundaries. You are taking back control by paying attention to their actions and deciding if you want them in your life. When something feels safe, let it last as long as it should, don't sabotage it just because you are expecting the worst. You are worthy of good connections
Teach your nervous system that love doesn’t have to be earned. That you don’t have to fight for people who are meant to stay. You are not broken—you are healing
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flightrising · 3 months ago
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Maintenance Update
Happy Wednesday, everyone! While we’re waiting for the engineers to do their thing with today’s maintenance and update, we wanted to touch base with you ahead of time about accessibility and today’s update.
If you’re someone who is sensitive to moving lights, images, or colors online or if you just don’t like them, you have the option to force a setting globally, called prefers-reduced-motion, through your operating system:
Windows 10: Start > Settings > Ease of Access > Display > Show Animations in Windows
MacOS: System Preferences > Accessibility > Display> Reduce Motion
iOS: Settings > Accessibility > Motion> Reduce Motion
Android: Settings > Accessibility > Remove Animations
While not all websites respect the prefers-reduced-motion flag (yet), the update we’re launching today does! What’s especially helpful when you use this setting is that today's update will respect your motion preferences even when you’re logged out!
If you’re sensitive to such animations, this down time is a good time to set your global preferences.
There will also be a toggle in your Account Settings that will allow players to completely turn off the feature if needed or desired. We’ll have more information about the level of individual control a player has with this feature for you when maintenance concludes.
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nerdygirlramblings · 3 months ago
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Hello! Ive been binging poly!141 and I keep coming back to your writing for my fix (because by now its basically an addiction😅)
I had this idea that the 141 are together with a civilian reader. And civilian reader works in retail, part time, and is mostly at home. Normally, they would be home by the time their boys came home, welcoming them with open arms, a hot plate of food, and time to rest and relax. But this time, the 141 get home early and realize where reader works: Walmart (or equivalent). Reader has been keeping this a secret cause they know its not cute like a coffee shop or cool. Its just their job. And now the most important men in their life know. Im thinking the 141 found out because they went grocery shopping and happened to come across reader or something similar to that.
I work at Walmart and it sucks🥲 thought that maybe something like this might help😅
Tysm, nonny! So happy to hear you like the writing. I hope this does your idea justice. (Walmart doesn't have stores in the UK, but they own ASDA.)
Also, thank you for my first request! 🫶🏻🫶🏻
pure fluff, bad accents (per usual)
Your boys find out you work part-time at ASDA on a random rainy Thursday in March.
You don't really need a job. All four of your lovers are officers with the British army. Prior to you, they all lived in base barracks. Prior to you, they lived fairly Spartan existences. Prior to you, most of their income sat in the bank, quietly accumulating.
They have plenty of money saved up that they love using to spoil you, when you let them. You know that if you asked, they'd give you everything, but you draw the line about asking them for an allowance like some tradwife. You want some pocket money of your own. Thus, the part-time job at the ASDA in town.
You're a people person, good at handling big personalities. You need to be to keep up with your boys. Between John's need for control, Simon's stoic dominance, Johnny's aggressive enthusiasm, and Kyle's blinding charisma, you aren't some shrinking violet. Within a week of your hire, your manager watches how you weather a nasty piece of work trying to demand concessions you aren't permitted to give and immediately puts you in customer service.
You're nearly unflappable in the face of frustrated pensioners and harried parents and entitled young professionals. Over and over, you're the one they call when a customer is going spare. Which is how your boys find out about your job.
They've been deployed for over two weeks, and you have no idea when they'll return. John had originally said they'd be gone for at least a month, so you aren't expecting them home any time soon. However, they'd come home much earlier than anyone thought, and they wanted to surprise you.
You're always so good about making the house feel like a home, with your bright smile and warm laughter, your home cooked food and soft touches in decor. You make them feel like people, not weapons, and they want to return the favor. This last deployment had been hard, and all four of your boys were missing your sweet voice and tender care. They wanted to show you that they loved and cared for you the way you always showed your love and care for them.
It was Johnny's suggestion to prep a meal for you as both a surprise and a thank you. After debrief, they pile into the car and decide to stop at ASDA for everything they need before heading home to surprise you. It's John who causes the code call.
You hear Susan's voice over the store-wide address system. "We could use a little Sunshine in the floral department." That's your cue. You finish with the pensioner at your till as Jacob, your manager, comes over to relieve you.
You take a deep breath and square your shoulders. In your experience, a Sunshine call in floral is a man angry the store doesn't have the fancy arrangements listed on the website. You wish the signage on the site would be more clear that the beautiful bouquets are online orders only. It would save you having to explain why the offers in store are so limited.
You hear him before you see him, smokey voice grumbling, "But if they show the bloody thing on the site as available, you should have it hear." You'd recognize the voice anywhere. He's not angry, not really, but Susan doesn't know that. Add in the sheer size of him, and Simon looming over his shoulder, it's no wonder she called for support.
You have never wanted to walk away from a situation as much as you want to right now, but before you can make an escape, Susan notices you over John's shoulder. Her little wave is enough for your men to notice, and they turn as one to see you coming towards them. Immediately their demeanor shifts. Simon's back sags as though his strings were cut, leaving him loose-limbed. John stands a little straighter, chin up as if to impress you. They've both broken out in smiles, though Simon's are only evidenced by the laugh lines you know to look for. It's only as you get close do they zero in on the badge on your shirt.
"I've got this, Susan," you say to your co-worker. "Jacob's on my till. Can you cover?"
Susan wrings her hands. "Are you sure you don't want me to stay and-"
"They're nothing I can't handle," you tell her, cutting off her worried rambles. There's a cheeky glint in your eye as you flick your gaze at your men. You clap your hands together and say, "Right, let's get this settled, then."
Susan takes one quick look between you and the now slightly less intimidating men and heads towards the front of the store.
Once she's out of earshot, John's face breaks into a frown. "What're you doing here, love?" He glances at your name on your chest again. "You work here?" He sounds almost hurt by the revelation. You can tell Simon wants to reach for you, and the only thing stopping him is you working.
You hear heavy footfalls behind you as Johnny's Scottish lilt reaches your ears. "Och, Cap! Ye said ye'd only be a moment. Gaz and I had a hell of a time getting the trolley on its lift ta find ye. How hard is it to buy bon..." His question dies on his lips as you turn around. "Bonnie?" He, too, sounds hurt to find you working here.
You can see Kyle over Johnny's shoulder, confusion written across his features. This is not how you wanted your boys to find out about your job, if you ever wanted them to actually find out. You thought maybe you'd surprise them with tickets to Hereford FC's opening game in a few months. And if they asked how you afforded them, you could handle this conversation then, but it's out of your hands now.
And as much as you don't want to have this conversation, especially not in the middle of the floral department, you can't stop the wide grin at seeing your boys again, home and whole.
"Hi, boys," you say, opening your arms. Disappointed he might be about finding you here, Johnny's no fool. He immediately steps into your embrace, and the others quickly follow suit. You're swallowed up by the smell and feel of them. The hug lasts one minute. Then two. Then they all slowly step back.
You can see the questions and cut them off before they get started. "I have another three hours before I'm off. We can talk at home, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."
John nods first. He recognizes your tone. You won't let them derail you for answers now, and they would be wasting their breath to try. "You heard the lady, lads. Let's get home."
They start to walk away when you tease, "Captain? Was there a reason you were arguing with Susan about the flowers?"
He halts his steps and turns to you, flush creeping up his neck. He brings his hand up to rub it as he says, "Er, I, we, wanted to get ya something nice, but they don't have the same ones as online."
You melt a little, watching the way your men shift nervously behind their captain. You smile softly and reach over, plucking a bouquet of rainbow poms from the rack. "These are what I usually get for myself when you're away."
John takes them gently from your hand and passes them to Gaz to put in the trolley. "We'll see you at home, love," he murmurs, leaning over briefly to kiss your cheek. Simon kisses the top of your head, fabric brushing your hair. Johnny pulls you in for another bruising hug and kisses your other cheek. Gaz puts his hands on your waist, drinking in the sight of you, before taking your hands in his and kissing your palms.
You watch them leave, wondering how you'll make it through the rest of your shift.
Three hours and fifteen minutes later, you cross the threshold of your shared home to the most delicious scents wafting from the kitchen. After slipping your shoes off next to the piles of boots at the door, you follow your nose back to the kitchen and the spread laid out on the large wood-topped island. There's a roast and mushy peas and mashed potatoes and stewed carrots and battered cod and crisps and spinach all surrounding the flowers you'd suggested, nestled in the vase you love most, the Caithness one Johnny'd bought you on your first trip with them to Scotland.
At the table, your men sit, plates made for everyone, waiting on you. They've changed since you saw them. Gone are any traces of fatigues and tactical gear. Instead they're all in casual civvies, truly home for the first time in nearly three weeks. Simon stands as you come in and pulls out your chair, smile on his scarred lips. "Come sit, doll," he tells you, not quite an order.
You look quickly around. "Let me change," you say, tugging at your uniform top. "I won't be but a minute." You back out of the room before they can stop you. You hurry to your bedroom, pulling your top off as you go. Once behind the door, you slip from your trousers into comfortable leggings and a large jumper, one of Kyle's you think.
By the time you make it back to the kitchen, your men are more than a little antsy. Simon's smile is a little strained, Johnny is fidgeting, Kyle keeps glancing between you and John, and John is staring at you. Your chair is still out. He waves a hand at it, and gently says, "Come sit, love." It's couched as request, but you know a command from your lover when you hear it.
You take your seat at the table. "Listen-" you start, but John cuts you off.
"Are we not providing for ya, love?" You see the hurt in his eyes, how much it bothers him to think he, they, aren't doing enough for you.
"Oh, John, dear, no!" you reply, putting your hand over his on the table. "It's not that at all."
"Then what?" Simon asks.
You look at them all, the expectant faces waiting to hear how they failed you. "I get restless sometimes. I love you, and I love our life. I'm happy to take care of the house and make sure you're all fed after a long day. But I wasn't built for sitting around doing nothing. I like people; being home on my own all day can get lonely. Especially when you're deployed. I also like having my own pocket money."
John opens his mouth, and you know what he's about to say, so you continue. "I know you'd give me any money I need or want, but I like having my money. Money I earned myself." You look around at them, willing them to understand. "It's only part time. Helps me keep a little busy and have a little extra to spoil you and me with."
Johnny is frowning, but you see Kyle, head cocked, looking at you as a puzzle. "I think I understand," he says softly. "You were making you way just fine before us, and you gave up everything for us."
At his words, the crease between John's brow deepens, and you're sure he's remembering the job you had, that you'd somewhat enjoyed, when you'd first met them. You'd been working at RAF Lakenheath, living in a cozy flat in Cambridge, near The Backs, when the 141 had been coming through the base after an op. An injury had put Kyle in the med center for a week, and while he could have been transported to Hereford once stable, Laswell had worked it out for the whole team to have some R&R near the base.
You'd quite literally run into John one day, rushing to your office, after which he suggested lunch as an apology. You quickly became close with all four, smitten with them from the start. In turn, they fell hard for you. They wooed you over the course of several weeks, stopping through Lakenheath on deployments to spend some time with you. Six months in and you were completely gone on all four of them, so when they'd asked you to move to Hereford, you did without ever looking back. But it meant giving up the life you'd led.
Somewhere along the way, your happiness overshadowed all you'd left behind. After a few weeks, being home alone while your men worked started to feel isolating. You liked being a little busy, and there weren't enough projects around the house to keep you busy enough. You'd always been independent, but you didn't want to be stuck in a job with long hours anymore. You wanted to be home for your men. So you'd found the job at ASDA.
Kyle reaches over to where you hand is still on John's. "I'm sorry we didn't ask how you were coping us being gone all day," he says. He looks you in the eye as he continues. "I understand wanting to do something, wanting to be a little busy, and if this makes you happy, then I'm all for it, doll." He gives you a small smile and squeezes your and John's hand.
"Gaz is right," Simon rumbles. "We were so happy to have you here we didn't think about what you did all alone all day." He puts a heavy hand on your thigh, the warmth of him seeping through your thin leggings. "'m glad you have something to keep you from getting lonely."
"Sorry, hen," Johnny murmurs, just above a whisper. "We didnae think a' ye enough." You smile widely at him.
"Johnny, you think of me all the time. This isn't about neglect at all!" You try to catch his eye, but he's looking hard at the table in front of him. "You did nothing wrong, love," you tell him gently.
He looks at you, blue eyes bright. "Ye sure?" You've never seen him this nervous before, and you break a little.
"I'm sure love."
He smiles then, a little smile, but it brightens his face and shifts the mood in the room. You look at John who's been surprisingly quiet this whole time.
He's smiling, but it's a little sad. "I know ya said we didn't do anything wrong, but we feel like we did. We didn't notice you were bored, didn't ask if you were lonely." He flips his hand over under yours and threads your fingers with his. "Yer giving us a gift by not blaming us, and we'd be stupid not to take it, even though it feels like yer giving us an out. Thank you." He brings your hand to his lips and kisses it softly.
"Thank you. I was worried you'd be mad," you admit.
"Never could make us mad with something like this, hen," Johnny reassures you. "I'm sorry we had to spoil your day is all."
You turn back to look at the food on the island. "You didn't spoil my day. You made it. You're home early, and you made such a lovely spread. I think we should tuck in, yeah?"
Simon chuckles. "Point made, doll," he says, scooping a heaping helping of mash onto his fork. The rest take it as a sign to start eating too.
The room is silent save for the sounds of food savored until John pipes up, "Why'd ya come to florals, love? We might have missed ya altogether if not for that."
You giggle. "The sunshine call, John."
"Yeah?" He clearly doesn't understand.
"It's the shop call for a difficult customer. When I'm on shift, it's my job to handle those." You look at each of your lovers in turn. "Seems I've got a knack for dealing with muppets," you tell them with a smirk.
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princeofstarspost · 10 months ago
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𓍊𓋼~All the letters of the Alphabet~𓋼𓍊
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Type: Short headcannons
Description: This is another one of those dirty alphabets, each letter has something pervy and it's all for my love Billy~~ I'm normal about him I promise...
Rating: Explicit!!
Reader: GN, Afab
Warning: Kinky, be prepared for anything, he has attachment upgrades that he can pick a size or type of...iykyk.
Featuring: Billy Kid
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Billy Kid:
Aftercare:
Let's start off sweet here. His ideal type of aftercare is helping you clean up and then cuddling under the covers as you both watch Starlight knight. The two of you do end up falling asleep pretty quickly though as the party before can last a long time..
Body part:
His favourite part of your body is your chest, wether you have big tits or perky nips, he loves it. He could spend all day squishing and pinching at them, watching and listening as you get flustered by his touch.
Cum:
He's mostly robot so you might think that means no cum at all, but with upgrades...anything is possible~ And he can adjust the amount too, though his favourite setting usually leaves globs of his cum running down your entrance and legs. It's satisfying to watch, what can he say.
Dirty secret:
One time while shopping in a adult shop, you found a pervy starlight knight outfit and you were just to curious to not try it. To say he enjoyed it would be a understatement, now it's kept hidden away for when the two of you want to really spice things up.
Experience:
If you think he has no experience, you're very wrong. Who knows if it's because online porn or maybe another upgrade in his system he bought just for you, it doesn't matter really, cause all those things make him that much better at pleasing you. And he does.
Favourite position:
He loves doing things in upright positions, standing doggy style infront of the mirror so he can see your face and touch your chest, or bending you over a table so he can go as deep and fast as you want.
Goofy:
Yes, he can get a little goofy in the bedroom. Especially if there's any roleplaying, he might end up actually making himself laugh, or making you laugh. He can't help it, he's a cheerful silly guy.
Hands:
They are metal, so he's always very careful with them, but it also give him a advantage. He can warm them up for you or make them cold with a bowl of ice and they never get tired...so as long as hes gentle he could truly make your body melt.
Intimacy:
He can be very intimate, like the first time the two of you did anything. He was nervous, but he was always showing you how much he loved you during and that can happen after a dangerous mission too. If he was worried about you or thinking something could happen to himself, he prefers to take things nice and slow.
Jacking off:
You've never caught him getting off without you and he doesn't really have the need to, but you have to imagine he's probably done it at least once for practice or just to know what it was like. If anything it's not often.
Kink:
He has a few~ but maybe the most notable is the roleplaying. His favourite scenarios usually involve being a hero of some sort and rescuing you. Though he also likes being seduced by his beautiful partner and trying desperately to not fall for it...even when he always does.
Location:
He's a more at home kind of guy, not really wanting to risk getting caught doing something somewhere you shouldn't be.... but, he would like to try using a remote controlled toy on you in public. At least just once.
Mouth:
He doesn't really have one (a shame honestly), but he enjoys when you use yours. He won't lie, he likes when you choke a little, even if you do it intentionally it just makes his circuits overheat.
No:
A absolute turn off is when you get hurt, even if it's a accident or not even his fault at all, he can get very upset. He's mostly metal and if he were to get too rough you could actually get injured permanently and he's terrified of that. The second you say a ow or act like your in pain he stops everything and makes absolute positive you are okay.
One or more:
Share you with others... absolutely not. The two of you are exclusive, he doesn't want anyone else and he doesn't want to see anyone else with you. He can get a little pouty just having a handsome guy sit next to you...let alone touch you.
Pace:
Any you'd like, he's very good at regulating his movements and loves to take things slow, drawing himself out of you inch by inch, but he also could cum deep in your stomach as he rails you at max speed. It's all good to him.
Quickies:
He's been late multiple times to cunning hare meetings because a quickie turned into going multiple rounds and having to clean up the bed...again. He may not be good at time management but he tries.
Rough:
He has a limit, playful rough just like you like is as far as it goes, but pace and the amount of pleasure...that can get pretty rough on your walking abilities the next day.
Stamina:
He could literally go on forever, he sleeps but he doesn't actually need to. If you want to stay up all night sitting on his artificial dick, he's up for it. You want him to keep going as the sun comes up...it's his pleasure.
Toys:
The two of you have gathered many at this point and many attachments for him too, different sizes...shapes. One of his favourites is a rather large vibrator that he can turn on after you've been cocksitting awhile and need a release.
Unfair:
If he can tease you he will. He finds it so cute when he's bought you a new gift to try out and your face gets red or you stutter just a little at the thought. "Awe, is someone flustered? Just wait till we actually use it cutie~" He'd probably wink too, leaving you caught between thinking he's a dork and hot at the same time.
Volume:
The neighbours have complained, the people walking by have complained...even the ramen shop a street away said he'd sworn he'd heard him once. It can't be helped, he's loud and when he's making you feel good, he loves hearing you be loud too.
Wildcard:
If you wanted to, he'd let you peg him. He's even hinted at it before, just out of curiosity...and temptation. Hes never used those sensors before and thinking of you taking the lead also has him feeling horny.
X-ray:
Under his pants was alot at first, but you got used to it quickly and got weak at the knees even quicker. He has a area to attach vibrators or dildos and a area with loads of sensors for if you ever did want to peg him.
Yearning:
His yearning for you is straight out of a movie, you're his obsession, his muse, his favourite thing. He talks about you all the time and yes he wants you privately alot. Your body at his disposal and your mood delighted by him alone. It's like a dream.
Zzz:
Closing it off with some fluff. He goes into a rest mode as soon as you fall asleep and truthfully his favourite thing after all the fun...is when he wakes up next to you. It makes him a feel all giddy inside seeing you sleeping soundly, curled up under the covers. Pleased and loved. He's lucky and he knows it.
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I love how I call this short headcannons when it's literally a long ass post. Idk wanted to write a few pervy things about Billy cause there isn't much and I love him.
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marimoscorner · 1 year ago
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Consumerism & Witchcraft
Written by Marimo (he/they)🌿
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I’ve seen a turn for the better in some witchy spaces regarding consumerism in the past few years, but overall it still tends to be an issue for us as a community. I’ve decided to try and breakdown the pitfalls I’ve noticed in my own journey, in the hopes that it will inspire and assist others. I’ve also provided alternatives and ideas on how to make small changes in our practice to help us better protect the Earth, stick it to the failing system and still acquire our bits and bobs we love so dearly.
As always, I am no authority on any subject nor am I perfect—but we’re all learning as we go, so let’s dive right in 🌿
A Preface
There are some things that should be made entirely clear before we begin:
You are not a bad person for wanting an aesthetic
You are not a bad person for unknowingly falling into pitfalls. Only if you continue to purposefully do so after knowing better
You are not a bad person for consuming content/objects or for not always making the most sustainable decisions. At the end of the day, we can only control our small part of environmental impact, while the rest is left up to the major corporations that make more pollution than any of us ever will
You are only human. Show yourself some grace and understanding that the internet so lacks.
My Experience in Consumerist Hell
I have fallen victim many times to consumerism in witchcraft. Starting my journey at the ripe age of about ten years old and heavily in the broom closet, I was quickly drawn in by the shiny rocks, the brand new candles and scents, the promise of new tarot decks and pendulums and other fancy, shiny new equipment. I was consuming an online aesthetic along with my ideals, and it distracted me from starting my journey by learning well.
I began to spend my birthday and holiday money on the aesthetic of things. While, granted, I still did buy a few literary resources now and again from my local secondhand bookstore—I was stubbornly ignoring the sage advice to learn and understand first before diving in headfirst.
I purchased statues, crystals, too many tarot decks to use. I purchased osteomancy bones I later returned to the earth, for I had not done enough research to know that that animal was mine to practice with. I had a tankard full of incense sticks, and even a growing pile of books that would not be read. While I liked to consider myself crafty with my homemade Maypole and various hand-bound Grimoires, something was becoming apparent: this was all a distraction.
The aesthetic I was partaking in was providing me with a false sense of progress and practicality.
When I’d go to do a tarot reading, I’d become far too overwhelmed with choosing a deck to read in the first place. When making an offering to a deity, I’d feel pressured to also bolster the altars of all the other deities I’d set up, and with my wide pool, the connections felt muddy. Often times I’d be off-put on a project or spell because I knew I needed to film it and it needed to look nice.
In the long term, I don’t have many of these items today. I’ve sold and donated a vast breadth of them. Feeling overwhelmed costed me a few years retreat from my craft to recuperate. However, what has stuck with me is the knowledge I picked up along the way.
So, What’s the Issue? TL;DR
I’ve noticed a few issues here in making these mistakes myself.
Consumerism absolutely distracts you from learning and your craft
Overconsumption leads to environmental damage. If everyone hoarded supplies, there would not be enough to go around. And with what gets thrown away every year…it paints an ugly wound on the Earth
We damage our learning abilities by not allowing ourselves to be anything less than perfect
The need for aesthetic creates barriers to entry within the community and creates a divide of haves and have-nots
You won’t be able to truly follow your individual path if you are only consuming and not creating for yourself
Consumerist culture promotes appropriation. Metaphysical stores carry items from closed practices (such as white sage and palo santo, or coyote bones) because someone is buying them. Don’t be that person, and find alternatives relating to your own culture instead
Consumerism can influence your spiritual decisions based upon monetary inclinations (where some may sacrifice a quality ingredient over a higher quantity of a lower quality ingredient)
So, what can we do?
Firstly, I want to clarify that I am not against collecting, nor am I against maximalism or the beautiful visual aesthetic we carry as a community.
I am an artist a very visual person and understand the longing for a beautiful home and workspace. However, this aesthetic shouldn’t come at the cost of irresponsibly harming the Earth or another community.
Thus, I’ve compiled a list of small things that I will be incorporating into my practice to make it more mindful and sustainable. I hope that you’ll join me in a few of them.
Minimize Supplies. While I used to have a huge selection of stationary for my Grimoire, I now limit myself to a simple pencil and watercolor set if I’m feeling artistic. This helps me actually use my Grimoire for study, rather than to keep perfect. It’s also friendlier on my wallet!
Thrift Supplies. There are plenty of perfectly good items that get donated daily. You can get high-quality candles and holders, old crystal bowls for altar offerings, spare crafting supplies, fabric for alter cloths and even clothing if you so wish—all for a fraction of the cost new and while saving the planet just a little bit more. Hell, you can sometimes even find good silver!
Share Supplies with your Community. You can create a sort of barter system with other witches in your area. Perhaps you create a sigil for them, and they provide you with a candle spell. Play to your strengths and grow together!
Look for Creative Outlets. Do you really need to go buy an altar statue that’s been mass-produced? Or can you give your deity the personal gift of a drawing, painting or even hand-modeled or hand-carved rendition? This will also deepen your connection to your craft and your magic, and make it more meaningful and stronger. If you really like something, though, go for it!
If you aren’t the artistic sort, consider supporting an artist before going to a large company. While I haven’t purchased from them myself, Blagowood on Etsy has beautiful deity statues carved from wood by their small team in Ukraine for a comparable cost to the standard mass produced metal statues. I consider this extra labor of love going into these pieces and those of similar small companies to be much better energy for my practice. I myself may put out some art prints and other handmade supplies in the future, but I will likely spread them around my community first.
Try Secondhand Books. While not available in every area and further still not as available for witchcraft and occult books, you may strike luck! Not only are secondhand books less expensive, but you’ll be supporting a local business. That’s not to say you can’t buy firsthand books, but some searching around may be beneficial to the earth and to your wallet in the long run.
Be mindful of where you source supplies and decor. If you are a fan of taxidermy decor, make sure that you source cruelty free. Bats can practically never be sourced without cruelty, so if a shop carries them, I’d be mindful of their other specimens. The same goes for if a shop decides to forgo a culture’s wishes and carry supplies sacred to them, such as white sage or dreamcatchers. Supporting folks who turn a profit off of others’ suffering is not something many would wish to include energetically in their craft.
Search the Wild for Tools. Find sticks, flowers and other plants out in the forest. Learn how to rockhound in your area for crystals. Your craft will be more powerful the more connected it is to the land you are surrounded by. Be sure to reference guides for safety and legality!
Get Creative with Purposes. If you are having difficulty finding exactly what you need by thrifting or searching, make another tool multipurpose if it would do the job good enough. Find supplies that are easy to source and work as substitutes for other ingredients (ex. Quartz as a stand in for other stones)
Spend more time Doing. Go out into the woods (safely) and advance your connection to the earth instead of worrying over the perfect item for your collection. Your craft will benefit
At the end of the day, all of this is your decision. Take what you like, and leave what you don’t. Even if we don’t agree, I thank you for your time and open mind. I will continue updating about how I incorporate these steps, and I will also hopefully post more on witchy crafting in the future.
I wish you well, and hope you’ll decide to follow along on our journey!
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raymurata · 5 months ago
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Just scroll (or go ahead and block my #dav critical tag) if you don't wanna read me whining abt Bellara's Archive choice again, but I'm not done with the salt.
What bugs me isn't that the choice to destroy the archive exists, it's that the game frames it, through its UI (which is the closest thing we have to a nonbiased narrator in this medium), as equally weighted against the opposite choice.
If they had worded it like this:
"Free the archive (the knowledge will be lost)" x "Keep the archive (the knowledge will be kept)"
With no extra commentary, then that would be better. If you got to be openly racist against the Dalish or openly in favor of the Dalish, period. Just like in previous games.
Bellara says "(the archive would help us) get back what made us who we were," and "With it, we could be that again."
Which is funny because... People don't study history to return to the past. It's fine if Bellara is idealistic and saying whatever unrealistic, grandiose dreams she and Cyrian had, but the Dalish would never (could never) become like the ancient elves again. For starters there is a Veil now. So what it would in fact do is help them understand where they come from, what they've been through, and trace the changes in their culture.
Of course our modern historians and scientists have tried to reclaim lost technology, too. They've figured out how the Romans made their extra sturdy concrete, and scientists in Brazil have long been trying to replicate the extra fertile Terra Preta from indigenous peoples that lived in the Amazon basin, and several South American historians would love to know how exactly the Inca used the quipu as a writing system aside from counting tool, etc... And that's super cool!!! And maybe (but that's a big maybe) the Archive could give the Dalish a technological edge to carve a corner of the world for themselves without the constant struggle with Tevinter trying to enslave them or Andrastians trying to subjugate them.
But I personally don't think anyone's reading Aztec accounts of human sacrifices to replicate the same practices in modern cults, or that there is an army out there utilizing Roman decimation as a method of discipline. We're using different horrific methods of control now, lol.
But let's say a modern general does decide that the best way to punish a battalion for one man's insurgence is to force every group of ten soldiers to violently murder the 10th man.... Do you really think that the fault would lie with the historian who unearthed that information and put it on Wikipedia? Or the insane general that decided to do this? Would modern morality and laws allow for that punishment to be executed? Do you think that the existence of that article online is inherently dangerous and controversial, and that it should be taken down? Do you think this general would have been a good and non-violent general if he hadn't ever read about Decimation? Or is it clear to you that violence and ingenuity are both inherent to mortals as a whole and can't be so easily blamed on the spread of knowledge?
Because it's not clear to DAV. The game (not Bellara, not Varric) words it very unambiguously as a dichotomy: The only safe way to deal with this Archive is to destroy it. Keeping it is inherently dangerous because the knowledge could fall in "the wrong hands."
What Bellara says is "Cyrian is gone because of what that thing knew," and "what about the bad side, the other things we did?" and "We stole the dwarves' dreams."
Again, she gets to say whatever she wants because she's a character and she's an anxious, idealistic mess. Love her for it. I like that she feels guilt here too because she has been established (through her way of dealing with Cyrian's first death) as someone who takes the blame for mistakes she didn't even commit (She certainly isn't responsible for Solas' actions). She's someone who drives herself sick cooking up the most horrific scenarios in her mind, and she's so compassionate she can't stand the thought of being the one perpetrating violence against innocents. Her misplaced guilt and dread are the emotions that lead her to consider destroying the Archive.
But no matter how guilty a young german may feel about the holocaust, destroying knowledge about gas chambers is not what will prevent other genocides from happening around the world. Individual guilt is barely productive.
Furthermore, Corinne Bursche says that DAV gives you a choice between "destroying" or "sharing" elven knowledge, which is not how the game worded it. But the point still stands even if the Veil Jumpers, for some condescending plot reason, completely lost control of this knowledge, or were so flippant as to put everything on Thedas' wikipedia without curing it at all.
Let's accept, too, that the Archive contains knowledge of how to build something equivalent to nuclear weapons, which one could argue is in fact truly dangerous, but... Well. Do you think it's fair that the countries that have nuclear arsenals are some of the most vocal about the dangers of other countries ever developing their own?
Because that's what it feels like, to me, when the game calls elven knowledge dangerous without ever allowing you to question -- what about Tevinter rituals and magic? Tevinter's millennium of slavery, still in practice at present day? Should we destroy all their libraries too to keep the world safe from dangerous magics? Why do we only get to tell the Dalish, the nomad nations severely subjugated in present Thedas (If you ever played the previous games and have the context, at least, since this game that happens in Tevinter somehow manages to completely gloss over racism against elves as if it never existed) to destroy a one-of-a-kind, ancient trove of knowledge? And have it be framed as good and safe? As "moving forward"?
If you choose to free the archive, Rook says "The elves deserve the chance to chart their own course" to which Bellara answers "Right. Define ourselves by who we are, not who we were," but once again that writing just makes me question Bioware -- Do they not understand the point of history at all? Do they think indigenous peoples are monoliths stuck in the past if they choose to study the history they lost to colonialism? What purpose do they think that keeping that history and culture extinct serves? Who do they think it benefits?
If you step outside of what the game is telling you as fact and think for yourself, with the context of the other DA games in mind, do you still agree that it's inherently dangerous to keep the Archive? Do you still think these are equally morally weighted choices?
Or would you agree that DAV has to subtly convince you, out of character, that keeping this knowledge is inherently dangerous to make this dichotomy make sense?
Again. This wouldn't bug me if they just owned up to the fact your protagonist can, once again, genocide elves/their culture, just like in previous games. And scapegoat present elves too for the sins of their thousand-years-old tyrants, now suddenly returned (it would make so much sense for characters in the narrative to scapegoat the elves, and for us as heroes to fight against that. But no, they don't even go there except through Bellara's guilt.). It's just bizarre to have an elven historian guiltily agreeing with destroying the Archive and then telling us "The Evanuris broke us and kept us broken" without anyone, either Rook or her, ever mentioning a thousand years of Tevinter slavery and several centuries of Andrastian persecution and subjugation.
No. The Evanuris are the be-all and end-all of evil and everything bad that ever happened in Thedas, ever, can be traced back to them.
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animefreak1145 · 5 months ago
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Rest(Adler x Bell!Reader)
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Summary: You’re here only because of what you heard about Russ. Out from the shadows of another life Adler carefully constructed for you(with a few edits with your own hand) back into the fold. You immediately tracking him down to Bulgaria in those months(because of course he doesn’t want you involved, that arrogant bastard of a man), doing your best to help him out this pit of a trap that he’s pinned in. That someone else pinned on him.
They’re dead once you figure it out.
(Or where you discover that you and Case don’t work well together. You despise mirrors being thrust onto you.)
| Only hints to imply how Bell is alive and being a secret throughout the story. Nothing clear cut. Fill the lines yourselves. |
Created with @makeyourpeacenow. Cross posted on AO3
Words: 24k
Tags/Warnings: Post-The Final Countdown Mission | Solovetsky Ending, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Angst, Action/Adventure, Drama & Romance, Codependency, Bell and Adler are obsessed with each other, Everyone is concerned about the psychos, Mostly Marshall, Manipulation, Mind Games, Bell does it this time, Adler too of course, Reader-Insert, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Mild Smut, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Older Man/Younger Woman, Character Study, Case Deserves Love, Bell too, Justice for Case and Bell, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault but not true, Mind Regression, Hallucinations, Cognitive Dissonance
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You tried to go solo at first, picking up the crumbs of the bread trail Russell had left you. 
Finding Rook was no easy feat, but it’s not a discovery you find worth celebrating, not as the circumstances stood. Commotion from down the cliff-hugging road had driven you into the bunker, derelict as the rest of the house. Unaware of who had arrived, friendly or otherwise, had left you with little choice but to corner yourself there. 
Your only reassurance was the old soviet-tech surveillance that you nearly managed to reconfigure, the familiarity of it nearly foreign as you worked to fix it, mentally cursing whatever idiot had wired the home in such a convoluted way. 
Audio… online. 
It was gritty, the audio cracking through the old speakers in a volume that nearly had you jump—of course the headphones you plugged in weren’t picked up by the system. 
Your heart skipped a beat when you heard it. Woods. 
Right. Friendly, then. Other voices, too, but you didn’t care much for that. It’s enough for you to holster your firearm and to work up the nerve to crawl out of the bunker you’d isolated yourself in.  
You didn’t cower at the gun that trained on you, opting for an unimpressed quirk of your eyebrow. The young man wasted no time in dragging you before Woods. Later, you’ll discover his name is Marshall, Troy Marshall. 
The shock on Woods’ face when he saw you was paralleled by your own. 
Your equal shock at seeing Woods, all movement and loud and free, being stuck in a chair and more reserved must’ve snapped him out of it.
“What the actual fuck?! Bell?! Is that you?!”
You winced, your hands that were raised moving slightly so you could put a finger to your ear. “You’re still loud. Knocking any extra mannequins on the floor with that tank of yours?” 
Woods stared before letting out a guffaw, hand slapping to his head.
“It is you, you little shit. What happened to not a word?”
Your lips quirked, teasing as Marshall and Case looked at each other in confusion.
“I feel I can get a break. The whole dead thing breaks off smalltime deals, I think.”
“But you’re not.” Woods straightened in his chair, and you spot just how quickly his mind was working while you assessed one another. “Adler has a shit ton of explaining to do.” Woods glanced towards Marshall and Case whose guns remained trained on you, quick to inject levity into the situation. “What are you doing? This isn’t a fuckin’ cowboy-duel. Put your guns away, trigger fingers!”
Marshall hesitated, allowing himself to tear his eyes from you, glancing at Woods while Case lowered his firearm, postponing holstering until he could properly grasp the situation.
“Are we supposed to know who this is, old man? This isn’t Sevati.” Marshall looked at you, brows pinching as he tried to figure you out. You could spot where his heart is without him even having to say his next words. “Did Adler send you here too? For Pantheon?”
Your brows relaxed at the verbal confirmation, friendly. Definitely friendly.
“You can say that,” you nodded, shrugging your shoulders casually.
Marshall’s brows only pinched more as Case merely tilted his head at you, quiet. “It either is or isn’t. Who are you?”
Oh no. You’re having fun.
You smiled sardonically, hands moving to your hips as Woods sighed.
“Depends who calls.” You could spot the young man’s growing irritation while the other only continued to assess you, not taking his eyes off of you. You met the quiet man’s eyes, something pulling you to. It felt familiar. “You can call me by my name.” You offered your name before looking to the side out the window, the Black Sea unusually quiet. “My friends call me Bell.”
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It pissed you off that you couldn’t be involved in grabbing team members. Woods had torn into you when you complained, accused you of not being companionable enough to those that had yet to earn your trust. You’d only huffed then, and muttered something about how Woods had really stepped into the mentor role. He used to hate rookies, called them fuckin’ idiots due to their inexperience. 
You’d been stuck with Woods who was trying, and struggling, to pick up the pieces of what happened in the last decade. You were good at skimping on the details, stubborn as always. 
Although, you also supposed you only had Woods to truly talk to about any of this, decade and now. You’d only given him tidbits. More than what you would say to the others, but less than what he wanted.
There was a look in Woods eyes that he’s not satisfied with your answers but it seems he’s still nosy for another useless question. You could feel his stare burning your head from the other side of the room from where you worked, computers open, routes mapped out for where they’ll go in to get Adler.
“Can you spit it out already, Woods?”
“Thanks,” Woods sarcastically spat before you heard him lower his beer bottle on the table by his cot. “How long you’ve been fucking the bastard?”
You startled, ears turning hot even as you turned your chair to look at him in a mix of askance and disgust. You hadn’t forgotten how coarse he could be, but it didn’t soften the blow each time he reminded you. 
“Woods!”
“What?! I’m just asking!” Woods raised his hands as if to surrender, but he clearly liked getting a rise out of you. Just like old times, always through Adler. “I thought the fucker would be icy for his whole life, but all he needed was someone like you to match his psycho.”
You turned your body back to the computer, throwing him the finger as you grumbled while he only laughed.
“You’re so nosy,” you remarked, your tone tainted with a sliver of disbelief. “You’ve turned into a gossip in your old age, old man.”
“That’s uncalled for.”
You went back to reviewing the map after a roll of your eyes. Near silence, save for the sound of glass against wood each time Woods took a drink and rested the bottle on the table. You were starting to feel your brow twitch in annoyance, you could hardly work when you knew he was there, undoubtedly staring at you for your attention. 
“I didn’t realize you were so prissy when it comes to Adler.”
“Oh my God,” you groaned under your hands, rubbing your temples. “Your ‘kids’ need to hurry up and bring these people in before they find your dead body on that chair.”
“You got something against disabled vets?” It was so sudden, so out of the blue, that you pulled a face at the absurdity of his words.
You turned, ever so slowly in your chair, gobsmacked. Eyes wide.
“What?”
“Prejudiced.”
Your exasperation was growing as you shook your head at him. Woods who had the special ability on how to pull your leg.
 “I’d be prejudiced if I—if I didn’t kill you for your constant poking and prodding like I would for anyone else… !”
Woods looked up in mock thought.
“I don’t know. Still sounds prejudiced to me.”
“I’m going to ignore you now,” you finally said, undignified, and turned back to your work.
“You can try,” he warned with jest. Maybe it was the alcohol, or that fact that was just you and him in the safehouse, but he seemed lighter than he had been before. Looser. “But you got a decade’s worth to catch up on me fucking with ya. It’s a lot to work with.”
You clicked a little louder on the keyboard, your fingers a little more forceful than necessary.
That Marshall and Case needed to hurry up. 
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Case found that the woman, ‘Bell,’ was… interesting. Mysterious.
Her answers were short each time he asked a question, tight-lipped in an annoying yet smooth way. Her eyes were either cooly assessing or seeming to have found him funny somehow, while other times she appeared bewildered by him. He wasn’t sure why.
He first noticed her analysis of him immediately when they met her. He dismissed it at first; he was used to people trying to figure him out, being scrutinized under a microscope. Yet somehow… it was disconcerting—messing with his head. From how she’d tilted her head at him when he denied treatment for the blow to his head—courtesy of Sevati’s part of the deal—to now when he’d asked what she thought of Adler.
“...you’re odd,” Bell stated by the computers to the wall near Felix’s own desk. The remark had been rather abrupt, Case could only blink.
“That’s rude,” Felix said, typing away behind his green shades. “At least that’s what others say when I also point out the obvious.”
“You think I’m odd?” He didn’t know why; he thought he was fairly normal. (Better.) “What makes you say that?”
Bell only pressed her lips together, frowning at him.
“I hear from Woods you’re pretty calm,” she started tamely, and Case agreed with the sentiment. He was calm. “Quiet. A good shot. Nearly invincible at times. Although, I don’t call your head being cracked by a butt of the pistol, invincible. You’ve been with Marshall for years.”
“Yes, and?” Case poked. He didn’t see the point in her statements, if there was any.
“And nothing. That’s it. You don’t talk about much else, even to your longtime friend.” Bell pointed at him, motioning all around his body from down to up. “Odd.”
Case decided to leave her and move on to talk to Felix. Her eyes never seeming to leave him even after he left the room to find Marshall and talk. Marshall never looked at him like there was something to be seen, something hidden to be unearthed. Just there.
Just Case.
It was only later on in the day, that Case found himself with the same observation Bell had of him, towards her. “What are you doing?”
Bell was crouching near Woods’ chest, seeming to stare intently at a certain item Case couldn’t see from the angle he’d stood at—just at the entrance of the room with the evidence board. He was torn between averting his gaze to avoid staring at her behind untowardly and scrutinizing her snooping.
Bell turned around and gave Case a dry look. “Well aren’t you nosy,” she remarked, supplying another one of those non-answers that she’d perfected.
Case’s brows pinched, incredulous of the hypocritical nature of it. “Are you self-aware?”
“I don’t know. Are you? You trail back to every conversation there is in this house.” 
“… not every one.” That wasn’t the point. “You shouldn’t look through people’s stuff.”
“Uh huh. I’m just… making sure of something.” Case noted the slight upturn of Bell’s lip, an imperceptible smile at the little picture with Woods and the recently deceased operative, Alex Mason. The moment was over before Case could properly comprehend it, and Bell stood, crossing her arms at Case. “You look through people’s stuff too.”
“Your accusations are baseless.”
“Uh huh...” If possible, the woman even looked more unimpressed with him than before. Something in him bristled. He held it back. Like always. “You normally look through Marshall’s drawings and people’s files in their own rooms or do they happen to just fall in front of you?”
Case eyes slightly narrowed, tilting his head. 
“Are you watching me?”
Bell shrugged.
“Someone has to. Especially somebody who claims he isn’t nosy. And odd. I’ll give you this, you don’t have good tracking skills like I do when it comes to information.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” He kept the air nonchalant, blasé with his raised eyebrows and dubious look. 
“That’s what I’m calling it. I’ll let you get back to your little chase, Case.” Bell snickered before leaving the room.
Case remained standing, looking down at himself in quiet thought.
Am I really that nosy?
It happened again, right after they arrived and achieved in getting Adler back to the Rook.
Case was in the room where he was certain Adler had been residing, whilst the man was downstairs with Bell, organizing for Iraq—if their mild arguing could be called that. (Case lost interest when it seemed they were going in circles over Bell’s role in all this. Rare for him, losing interest. But something in Case… pricked at how Bell watched him. Like he was ready to turn, and she was prepared to pounce and bite his neck once he does). Bell not touching the room since they’ve been here, it made Case wonder once more at their relationship; Woods had painted it like they were Bonnie and Clyde. He already fiddled with the voice recording earlier, now he was trying to see what kind of medicine a man like the infamous Russell Adler took and what exactly he was hiding to need to cover the label. And to take it with whiskey as a shot.
“Good luck finding anything here.”
Case jumped, his eyes darting from the medicine on the bedside table to Bell leaning at a doorway.
She looked around as if she hadn’t said anything, eyes trailing over the room in mild concentration.
“He keeps his room clean. Any possible information you can gather from what you can see is because he’s letting you look, everything else is hidden; I haven’t had time to check the boards or the walls.”
“...I’m not trying to get information about Adler.”
Bell finally faced Case, eyes cool as she tilted her head, a nonplussed “Oh?” being released from her lips, carefully expressionless. 
Dangerous, Case supplied in his mind. He could see the threat of teeth, a bite worse than her bark.
“I was just taking a look,” he admitted, unashamed. His curiosity was only surface level, anyway. Bored. If they told him to stop, he would. “I wasn’t planning to dig around more than what’s already out to be seen.”
Bell raised a brow.
“You’re… polite. Still nosy. Though, not as nosy as me; I dig until I’m satisfied.”
Case didn’t quite understand Bell’s play, he only knew there was one. “You know everything about Adler, then? Is he trustworthy?” Maybe she’d answer now.
“You tell me. And not what Marshall repeats to you. You’ve seen him in action now. What do you actually think of America’s Monster, Russell Adler? Not Woods. Not Marshall. Not Sev. Not even Felix. You, Case.”
“Is this… a test of some sort?”
“Yes. You’re failing so far,” Bell said simply.
Case tried to think of what he gathered since he first saw the man to what he’d observed around the safehouse.
“… he’s capable. Knowledgeable. Seems to have good camaraderie with Woods, so he cares for those he knows. Appreciates loyalty. Secretive as you’ve said. I… have so far not seen what others say about him. For that moniker.”
“It’s gonna scare you off if you see it?”
Case’s brows furrowed.
“Why would it? He does everything for a reason surely. Not baseless.”
Bell blinked and the cool look in her eyes disappeared before she seemed to look at him in a new light. He couldn’t tell whether or not he’d displeased her yet.
“Careful, Case. You shouldn’t follow him baselessly.” 
“Don’t you?” Case quipped.
Bell smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. Displeasure, then.
“I know what goes on in his head, you don’t. You have no reason to blindly follow someone like him. You need to be careful who you take orders from, or you’ll find your own moniker slapped on your face.”
“What would that be?”
“Case the Doormat, that’s what.” Bell snapped. Case wasn’t sure where this was coming from. He was having a hard time reading her; was she upset at him for willingly following her lover? Frustrated? Jealous? Something else? “You need to stick with your own morals and ways and not whoever you’re around. Pick someone to shadow and at least commit to it.”
“I follow whoever gives the order at the time.”
Bell’s brows furrowed, and Case could see she was analyzing him again. Turning over what whatever information she saw with each word he intoned. Every twitch of muscles and shuffle of his feet.
Dangerous, a voice said in his head.
“The Perfect Soldier type. Not used to someone like you. Follow all and loyal to none. What would Marshall say?”
“Marshall is my friend, I’ll do what he wants.”
“Right. But say you’re not near Marshall. He’s not in the team. You’re his friend so you know how Marshall sees things. How he works. Friends usually have the same moral code or views. So,” Bell finally stepped away from the doorway and took a step towards Case. “If you were ordered to do something the exact opposite of what Marshall would do, would you do it?”
She was trying hard to make sense of him, to find a loophole in how he functioned. He wasn’t intimidated by it, it was clear to him, after all. “I thought you appreciated me having my own opinion. Why should I copy Marshall’s? Which is it?”
Bell huffed out her nose, stepping back with a shake of her head.
“You’re fucking frustrating for a pawn,” she said bluntly, and somehow it felt incomplete—like she was vying with more to say but somehow thought better of it. “I don’t know whether it’s pathetic or pitiful.” Then, softer, quiet enough that he almost didn’t catch it: “You remind me of myself somehow.”
Case blinked. That was new. He thought she didn’t like him.
“Really?”
Bell gave him a look, meeting his eyes.
“Somehow,” she repeated and she left the room again in deep thought.
Case later on, slumbered on the couch with the TV—and wondered if he passed the test. He wondered why he felt as if she was right about them being similar.
He wondered if she hated being someone’s shadow and what she saw when she stared at him, able to so formlessly follow anybody.
He wondered why it bothered her so much—it didn’t bother him.
But… was that also the problem?
Case wondered if, inversely, the other problem was how easy it was to see her as nothing but Adler’s shadow, it was certainly a sentiment Marshall held—not that Case strictly had or agreed with all of Marshall’s sentiments—and Case felt it were apt enough, for a surface level descriptor. 
She’d called him a doormat, and he ought to have been offended—but he wasn’t. It just was. Then she’d claimed he reminded her of herself—and Case found himself considering that. 
If she was Adler’s shadow, who was he? Everyone’s shadow? Shadow for all. He wonders if that would be his moniker.
Case—Shadow for All, maybe. 
… America’s Shadow? He snorted at the imagery it inspired. Maybe not.
Everything reached a head when they found the facility on American soil in search of information on the Cradle. (The Cradle.) 
Bell was already irritated—miffed at how she felt she was slowing Adler down from tracking Gusev, with him back in the safehouse going over his resources, making phone calls and exhausting his connections in the area, working to track the Russian there as he waited for her with a sort of patience only reserved for her. (Their relationship was more, Case observed. Where Bell goes, goes Adler nearby—always in the corner or the next room, never further. Orbiting. Where Adler goes, Bell did her best to stay put, but like a magnet she gets pulled into the man’s space. Not lovebirds. Just… planets circling one another. Constants. Case couldn’t imagine what it is like—to be seen like those two see each other. They saved the world together before, Adler said. “Adler saved me,” Bell said at another time when the shaded man was nearby. Case spotted how interesting the man’s smile looked. Secretive. Yet filled with weight. There was something more. Case has yet to figure it out. Marshall couldn’t figure it out either. He found it odd. Marshall thought Bell was more dangerous than Adler. Dangerous, Case repeated. Co-dependant psychos, Marshall might have muttered after a few beers). 
Case never pictured the man being able to sit and wait.
The ladder broke, the rusted metal crumbling under his weight, and Case was stuck with Bell just as Bell was stuck with Case. Masks broken. Something in Case panicked. He reined it in just to answer Marshall’s concerned call.
“Masks are broken,” he informed dutifully, forcefully calm—blasé. Bell looked incredulous at his tone, and the lack of urgency therein. “We’re compromised.”
“Well, you’re still alive, that’s something.”
Case spotted Bell still before her eyes narrowed into something fierce at Marshall’s words. Case didn’t like it, it reminded him too much of (his brother) something better left forgotten. When Marshall’s orders continued, Bell looked as if she were seconds from snapping Case’s neck for Marshall’s gall, merely because his neck was the closest thing she could wring with her hands.
Gall? Gall at what?
What was wrong with following orders?
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“But we’re fine,” Case unhelpfully supplied. Again.
“What the shit?” You hissed, the abrasive gas started to make your throat itch uncomfortably. “You just admitted to Marshall that we’re compromised. We can’t go further. Throw a rope, Marshall!”
“Hey! You guys are alive down there! I don’t have rope right now. Sev and I will meet with you later! Just stay there if you’re so concerned, Bell,” Marshall stated over comms, his voice grating in your ear.
You saw red, you couldn’t accept this—not from him. 
“What the… what the fuck?! Marshall! Sev! No fuckin’ rope? What kind of amateurs…” You broke out into Russian, cursing, and dug through your pack to find a rope with a hook. You had your doubts about it, but it was all you had to work with. “Come on, Case. We’ll find our way up to them like this.”
“I don’t think that’ll work.” He stared at it dubiously and you huffed. You knew that. “You heard Marshall—we’ll meet up with them.”
Your jaw tightened as you eyed Case, who seemed perfectly okay with following Marshall’s easy going tune, when you knew the gas was burning his throat just like yours, your vision already getting somewhat hazy like you knows his was.
“We’re going up to them like this. End of discussion. You didn’t seriously think we’ll both waddle around here with gas in the air until we meet up with them. Are you a fool?”
“What does it matter? Marshall said we’re alive. We would be able to do it.”
You couldn’t tell if it was the gas that made you feel violent towards Case, or if you truly wanted to strangle him.
At your continued silent fuming of what you want to do, the both of you with no weapons, Case decided to speak. Again. 
Unhelpfully.
"Marshall said—" 
"I don't care.” You knew what Marshall said, and any reminder of his dismissal was enough to send you nearly over the edge.
Case narrowed his eyes as you tried to throw the rope with the hook above, only to curse and miss as it splashed down to the water.
“Suddenly acting better than thou towards me when I know you would listen to Adler.”
You darted your head toward him so fast that you think your vision might have blurred even more. His eyes were looking really punchable right now.
“Adler—“ You tapped Case’s chest with the hook twice, dampening his chest with each jab. “Isn’t here. And even he’s not this much of a rushing fool when biological weapons are involved! Your ‘friend’ should be tested! Is he even your friend?!”
Comms squeaked in both of their ears.
“Guys! Shut the fuck up and stop wasting time. Don’t drag Case down with you, Bell. You’re either in this mission or you aren’t.”
A bit late to back out now, you thought bitterly.
“Dragging...?! You little—“
“It’s my call, Bell. Do I really have to call Adler to have you listen to me?”
You felt the rage in you burn at that threat. It rose in your chest to your throat at the knowledge you wouldn’t want him to do that, to bother Adler over something so trivial. The knowledge that such a juvenile threat works. The knowledge just how easily they’re using you just like they’re using Case.
You discovered you don’t care much for Marshall.
You remained silent in your resentful concession, so Case answered for the both of you.
“We’ll find our way.”
“Good. See if you guys can find the power down where you are. It’s hard to see up here.”
You and Case didn’t answer, but you did curse again when you saw a screen flicker on the further you stumbled into the room, your head starting to spin—rice paddies in your periphery and you weren’t sure if the bell you heard was more than the memory you hope it was.
Case flinched at a mannequin, a suppressed yet audible gasp left his lips.
“We’re going to kill each other,” you deadpanned, your voice absent of the dread you felt. A familiar numbness came upon you, to protect your mind just like a decade ago. “это пиздец. у меня все было хорошо...”
“Did… you see that...?” Great. Case, Case actually sounded scared.
You laughed bitterly. Seeing a shadow of someone wearing a woven bamboo farmer’s hat run across the room, the silhouette of an Ak-47 in their arms and the phantom weight of an M16 in yours. 
“God. We’re so fucked.”
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The halls were quiet in the lab, Marshall used his flashlight to glance in every possible direction as Sev moved behind him. His uneasiness at how quiet the comms have been the last few minutes reaching a head.
“We haven't heard from Case in a while.” Marshall knew his friend was quiet, but Case knew when to give updates—when to fill in on new information. Case was a professional like that, and Marshall admired him for it. 
The lack of updates made him feel as if he might’ve made the wrong call, somehow. 
Sev’s next words, mildly concerned, only confirmed it.
"Bell hasn't insulted you in two minutes, Marshall.” Marshall bit his lip, careful where he stepped as he breathed deep through the gas mask.
It was no secret the two of them didn’t get along. She found Marshall trying to establish authority over Adler amusing—or that’s how Marshall saw it. It didn’t help that she added in a quip of her own, that she’d only follow one man unconditionally to the depths of hell, and it isn’t him.
Marshall didn’t think Adler was going to deny Bell’s clear loyalty, but he also didn’t expect just how easily the man accepted it. As if she just stated the sky was blue. The grass is green. The sun is yellow.
Bell will follow Adler to hell.
Marshall’s understanding of relationships was that you make sure your girl is protected, even from her own words. A little shush and a shake of the head, maybe an endeared smile or taking it as a joke.
Adler hadn’t reacted at all.
Just took another drag of his cigarette, staring Marshall down blankly, as if he thought that every word from Marshall’s mouth was just simply, and entirely, wasted breath. And it may as well have been, considering how little change Marshall’s assertion had brought about. A tilt of Adler’s head in Bell’s direction—acknowledgment to what she said—kept up that sharp smile on her face, softening at the edges at his motion. She beamed at the man. 
Marshall’s heard the stories of Adler. All the man’s monikers. There isn’t much anybody at the CIA who hasn’t. 
Someone as cocky and arrogant as Bell following anybody anywhere, let alone Adler? A linguistic and decoder genius that made someone like Felix impressed? Willingly following a wildfire? Marshall wasn’t used to someone like that.
Loyal yes. To Jane. To Old Man Woods. He thought he was loyal to the CIA but it’s just a lie. Blindly loyal?
Marshall liked having his eyes wide fucking open, thank you.
And Bell has made it clear just what cliff she’s willing to fall off of, back first.
Still, he could begrudgingly admit that the woman has her moments where even he thinks she’s funny. In an irritating kind of way.
Marshall cleared his throat as he checked the hall to their left, flashing at decorative chairs and an elevator that didn’t work. For now. They needed that power on.
“You don’t think she’s upset I used Adler right?” He knew well enough that they didn’t have to get along, exactly, to still be able to function well in a team, but it certainly didn’t hurt if they weren’t at each other’s throats. 
He didn’t have to see Sev to know she just rolled her eyes at him. “Using the ‘daddy card’ on a woman never goes well.”
“Uh,” he didn’t stumble, but it was a near thing. “What kind of father-daughter relationship are you seeing?”
Sev whipped her own flashlight at him, almost blinding his eyes—but he could see her deadpan.
“Haven’t had much bed experience in that, have you?”
“What...?!” 
Sev laughed and Marshall was thankful no one could tell he was blushing. “Get off my back, Sev!”
“Troy Marshall, the good ol’ Christian boy. Scared of a little salacious conversation.” 
“Oh, fuck off, Sev!”
Sev laughed again. The moment made Marshall’s shoulders loosen a little in tension. Still, he feels the weight of leadership.
Had he made the right call?
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“What the fuck, what the fuck— whattheFUCK!” You were running, M16 in hand blood rushing and your eyes(Needles, needles, needles, the red room, the red light, there’s a bell ringing—“We’ve got a a job to do”) as VC were chasing you. No end to them. They keep popping up. You’re sweating. The air is humid and hot but all you see are computers and desks and the lab. The lab, the lab, the lab. Tears were going down your cheeks as you ran and shot. Run and shoot. Jump the pits, drag your leadened feet through shallow streams, dodge the snipers in the trees.  “Russ…!” You yell brokenly, to nothing to no one. There’s no one here to hear. “Help…!” Your voice cracks, dehydrated and exhausted
Your vision is swimming. It’s being blocked. (Didn’t someone tell you to wait by the lobby?) Lobby? No. Trees? Leaves? Foliage. 
“You hid in the shadows and took out the VC one by one.”
Right. Yes. Stealth. 
You picked up a bow. Where did the M16 go? You dropped it. By the other key card.
Key card? Right. Key card. You need the key card. You need the key card to go up.
Up?
No…isn’t it through?
“Go through the door, Bell.”
You fall back to the floor as the Red Door lands a foot away from you, almost crushing you. The Red Door kills. The Red Door has secrets. 
Secrets. A weapon. What weapon? It’s new. It’ll kill millions.
“Where is Perseus planning to activate the codes, Bell?”
Perseus. The nukes. Yes. You must stop the nukes.
You get up and go to open the door but it’s locked. You let out a cracked laugh, hand to your face. Only for something cold and hard to smack you. You blink.
You’re in front of a computer dashboard for keycards. There’s the red one in your hand. The second one. You picked it up.
Picked it up? No. You killed VC for them. No. Perseus soldiers. No…Adler?
You killed Adler?
No, no, no, no, no.
“We gotta job to do, Bell.”
Yes.
You put the keycard in. You see one is still missing of the four. Where’s your partner?
(Who?)
You…don’t know. Actually, your team died. You were the only survivor. The only survivor of the crash.
It’s so bright. You can’t see. You stumble.
You land on the grass, you’re searching blindly for a weapon. VC are rushing at you! Shooting at you! You use the logs as cover, wood splintering off as bullets narrowly miss you.
You shoot but you keep hearing a ring.
(A bell?)
Why is it ringing?! The gun is broken. Throw it.
A VC throws a dart at you, but it’s not a dart. It’s a needle. You try to move but you’re stock still,  on the ground, you can’t move—you’re being held down.
You both feel and hear as the needles squelches into your eye.
You scream.
You scream yourself hoarse. Your throat is breaking. Someone is dragging you.
No. Choking. You’re being choked. 
You can’t breathe! Russ, please! You can’t breathe! Please stop! You don’t know where Perseus is! Stop!
“Bell?! Bell calm down! Sev—shit! Case, Bell?! Stop! It’s us! It’s us!”
There’s no us. Where’s Russ?! Where’s Adler?! You need Adler! You feel something coming out your mouth, it tastes like bile.
“She’s aspirating! Sev! Hold Case down for a sec.” You feel yourself get rolled over and you’re breathing, no. Choking. Is Russ your friend? If so, where is he? Where’s Russ? “Bell. I’ll call Adler after this. Just stay with me! How did you two even make it up here?” 
“Marshall, we have to knock her out.” Someone says, a woman. Park? But she’s British. You spit at the leftover vomit, adrenaline rush coming back full force. Park or Lazar? Lazar or Park? Who? Who? Who? Save who? “We can’t carry them both like this.”
“Shit…sorry, hold on Bell.” 
Hold? The grapple. Grapple who? You have to choose! There’s RPG’s! You struggled, trying to find the rope. Where is it? Where is it? 
“Marshall, you’re too soft!” 
A soldier got you in the head because all you see is black.
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A phone rings.
“Yeah?” a voice throaty from smoke use rasped out, smoke exhaled out in that very moment. Casual.
“Adler,” Marshall greeted grimly. The pause the older man made on the other line caused Marshall to bow his head and squeeze the phone, tense. 
Sev glanced over her shoulder, pausing from her checking on Bell and Case as she drove. 
“Yeah,” Adler said, tone shifting in a word. Something simmered under the surface. Bubbled.
Rip the bandaid, Marshall. Just like mom used to do. Just like what you do for Terry.
Marshall let out a resigned sigh, he knew it wouldn’t go over well. 
“It’s about your girl.” 
“... ETA?”
“It’ll be another few hours before we arrive. Seven.”
“Have Sev make it five.” Marshall glances at Sev, her acknowledging that she heard with a dip of her head. “And Marshall?”
Marshall lined his shoulders up, prepared for whatever the man was about to say. “The explanation better be good.”
And just like that, the man hung up.
Could someone make such a casual sentence sound like a threat?
Marshall discovered Adler could. On a more light hearted day, he needed to figure out how to do that.
Right now, he had to help his team.
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“What the fuck, Adler…?! I was just asking! She’s a part of my team whether she or you like it or not! Why Vietnam?! Case snapped, but not like this!”
Adler saw Troy Marshall had heart, he knew it would be the kid’s demise one day if he didn't change. The weight of it dragging him down. Too much compassion didn’t get you far in their world, and he respected those who knew their limits, those who knew they couldn’t go any further, the path they’d begun too treacherous.
But the kid had an uncomfortable amount of balls holding him back, too.
Adler smoked outside the front of the house, despite the rest of Marshall’s ‘team’ being an hour out. He wasn’t the kind of person to get restless, but he knew he couldn’t wait inside the safehouse, Woods’ heavy glances on him.
He walked up when they put the car in park, his mind going over every scenario again (Sims, this is scenario 17–), wondering exactly how shit hit the fan, what could have possibly happened. 
She was unconscious in the passenger seat, and Adler listened carefully to Sev’s explanation; she’d been like this for hours—subdued and knocked due to how uncooperative she had been. The few times they noticed Bell was awake, she hadn’t reacted to what was going on, or their voices, silent with her head bowed deeply to hide her face.
Adler only pressed his lips in answer to her words, gently taking a hold of Bell. Laid her down on the nearest suitable surface—a couch between the weapons bench and main entrance. He leaned on the armrest near her head after grabbing the nearest ashtray and placing it on the side table so he won’t leave her side, his hand combing through her hair as she rested. The contact seemed to soothe, somewhat. The only reaction were her brows forming lines between them, a weak noise escaping her lips.
Adler’s eyes narrowed beneath his shades before glancing at the others, and he feigned preparing a smoke as he put one between his lips.
Woods wheeled down by the other end of the couch, an obvious frown at the sight of Bell. Her skin was clammy, hair sticking to her forehead, her form boneless—unrelaxed yet pliant.
Felix came from the side hall of the basement and small bathroom, a hot towel held in a gloved hand, and cautiously maintained distance as he handed it off to Adler. He’d immediately understood that Bell had been impacted in an unforeseen way. It was apparent the moment Adler had helped her from the car, carrying her into the safehouse. 
(Look at that, he’d mused. Bell had made a friend of the germaphobe.) 
Adler nodded in thanks, pressing it to her head as Felix shifted over by the weapons bench, fiddling with the computer there, feigning work but facing the others, silently concerned. Sev leant atop the weapons bench too, lingering after she helped Marshall haul a worse-for-wear Case in the chair near the fireplace; the warmth would do him good.
Adler’s eyes finally faced Marshall, whose form was stood directly across from Bell, Woods and himself. It felt judicial, in a way—plaintiff, defendant and witness. Marshall, with a guilty air about himself, stood with a tense look on his face, staring down at Bell before the young man cleared his expression to face Adler. 
Marshall took one look at Adler and knew he was on borrowed time; he noted that it wouldn’t be wise to delay this any further and begun firing off what had happened. Their successful lab entry, followed closely by the mishap with the broken ladder for Case and Bell—their gas masks broken, exposing them to the compound-leak in the air.
“They were contaminated?” Felix asked in alarm, Adler was positive that the had German squeaked from how high his pitch rose. Felix’s eyes moved to and fro, darting from Bell to Case who was leaning his elbows on his knees, hunched over. “You brought them here?”
“And then?” Adler cut off the German’s building hysteria as he started muttering in dialect, something of the sächsisch variety, quickly going over the chemistry of most biological agents —especially those related to the Cradle as defined in the document from Hussein’s palace. He no longer idled at the workbench, clicking away. He needed more details. 
“And then…nothing,” Marshall supplied before straightening his shoulders, and despite it all, Adler was having a tough time seeing the man—it was just a kid hiding in a soldier’s skin. “The gas released in the lab didn’t display any nasty or violent side effects on them. Not like how we inferred back in Hussein’s sick playhouse with the lab tank he had in his basement. So I called it—for them to continue the mission.”
Woods expression broke a little, leaking disappointment mixed with shock.
“Kid…” Woods shook his head. 
Adler’s eyes went to Bell, his hand holding the towel to her head before moving it to wipe her cheeks. Similar to a decade ago, a half wit plan based on a whim atop the cliffs, arctic air cutting his cheeks similar to hers.
“What do you need me to do, Russ?”
Marshall took his silence for him to continue. Well, for Case to attempt to pick up the rest of the report, given that he was with Bell. Adler faced and assessed Case, who was heavy laden and despite his exhaustion—sequenced the events to the best of his abilities. How Bell immediately seemed to react to the gas, spotting things that weren’t there, and while Case had his own issues — he was sparse on providing details, he kept it hidden and focused on Bell, relegating his own reaction as insignificant. Adler picked up that Case was unnerved—only due to how Case’s boot was tapping every so often, a muted pattering against the hardwood flooring. The dismissal of his own wellbeing—his health—reminded Adler of Bell somehow, before Cuba. How she’d worked tirelessly in pursuit of her own people. 
And then Case mentioned it. Vietnam. 
Damn it all, Adler fumed, throwing away the used cigarette in the ashtray on the floor, lighting another with a flick of his lighter. 
Bell kept muttering about Vietnam, and an alarmed Case told her to stay by the lobby—just until he could retrieve the needed keycards for elevator access, where they’d meet Marshall and Sev on an upper floor. But he didn’t see her when he got them. Only knowing she also went to get keycards when he arrived with the last one from the right side of the lobby.
“Vietnam…” Marshall uttered, nodding at Case in thanks as he took over. “When me and Sev found Case and Bell seeming—seizing—over Case’s yelling, Bell kept screaming. But it was just…” Marshall paused, brows furrowing deeply, mind deep in thought as he started to pace with a hand to his head.
“Just what?” Adler asked, impatient. Calming when he felt Bell’s hand try to reach in his periphery. Adler let her take his hand and bring it closer to her face, and shifted slightly against the armrest of the couch to accommodate the movement.
Marshall stopped, turning towards him.
“She was… it sounded like she was calling for you, Adler. And—and not to you, but for you— pleading for you to stop…” he paused momentarily. “To stop whatever you were doing. And Perseus.” Adler felt her hand tense around his, her nails pressing crescent indents into the back of his palm in stress. “Why would she mention Perseus? I thought that guy was handled back in ‘84.”
Adler felt Woods glance. 
Adler took a long drag, embers lightning his face before he exhaled.
“Didn’t Bell explain anything to you guys on her background?”
Marshall scoffed, incredulity breaking through concerned perplexity. 
“Tch, no. She’s been tightlipped since we caught her slither out that bunker she cracked opened. Most she ever talked is how she got more involved in the field after ‘84. She didn’t specify what part of the underground exactly, just that she did.”
He could work with this.
And Woods would cover, too.
Adler glanced at Woods, a small frown around his cigarette.
“Didn’t tell them how you knew Bell, Woods? Despite how she helped save the free world with us? Thought you liked her.”
Woods shrugged, a sarcastic quirk of his lips.
“What can I say, I like to take all the glory.” 
Adler managed a quick smirk, seeing how Woods will play along, before shifting and taking another drag. All eyes on him as he gathered his thoughts, the timeline, fact and fiction.
Time for a story. 
“A story? I don’t know…Will this really work, Adler?”
He made it work for a decade. He just needs…some extra exposition for new audience members. He’ll make it work.
He thumbed the back of Bell’s hand before beginning.
“Bell extended her services to us a decade ago. Information came out that the man we all thought was Perseus had nuke codes that will kill millions. Bell was an ex-KGB operative that heard about it through mutual friends.”
Woods nodded. It was easy to build off of truth, not hers, but rather the countless other soviet defectors they’d recruited throughout the Cold War. “Just like another KGB operative that was sick of the Soviet’s shit. Belikov helped us out there too.”
Adler took an another drag, exhaling as he made a small glance towards Case under his side shades. This was where he had to be careful. He wasn’t sure what exactly Case remembered or how much he withheld.
“She helped with that fiasco. During that time, I took her under my wing you can say. After that, she went to semi retirement. She just wanted to help us with Perseus. We let her go on her way. She accomplished what she was meant to.” Adler could feel the pistol in his gloved hands, speech over and done with. Before he paused. A camera. Thoughts of books. Of a story. He remembered how he cursed in his head before he rationalized the opportunity. For an ear on the other side. “It didn’t stay that way. After the debacle of sleeper agents in ‘84, she took a more active role again instead of working on decryptions and linguistics. She reached out to me. After that, it’s history.”
Marshall turned over the information in his head while Sev quietly mused to Felix that no wonder he got along with Bell; they were both homebodies with the their tech at one point. Felix rolled his eyes before he tore his gaze from the computer to look at Adler.
“Curious, though. Case mentioned that Bell kept going on about Vietnam.” Felix quickly glanced over at Bell. “Impossible it was for that war. Too young.”
“Ehhhh,” Sev interrupted, hand to her cheek. “Might be. Never doubt a woman’s skincare routine. She was ex-KGB wasn’t she? Perhaps they sent her there when they already took over in Vietnam for a mission before she defected.”
“No,” Marshall said, raising a hand with pointer finger up, shaking his head slowly before gaining speed just as his hand moved up and down. “No, Case made it seem way more serious than a backwards one time mission in Vietnam. Something about your explanation is fishy.”
Adler rose a brow, free hand grabbing his cigarette.
“Fishy, huh? What’s fishy is how you’re leading this team to the ground, kiddo. You’re not exactly impressing me with your false macho bullshit.”
Marshall stilled. Everyone’s eyes now on the two of them—Adler’s inscrutable expression and Marshall appearing as if he were seconds away from snapping.
“What the fuck, Adler…?! I was just asking! She’s a part of my team whether she or you like it or not! Why Vietnam?! Case snapped, but not like this!”
To his knowledge, Adler thought. Case was more secretive than he let on.
“Just asking. Right. And your team?” Adler didn’t spit the word out, buts it’s a near thing with how icy he says it. Adler scoffed. “You’re lucky the world is facing a threat because I would take Bell and myself away from this. Or start calling the shots myself.”
Marshall’s eyes flashed, taking a step forward. Adler’s eyes narrowed at the kid getting near Bell’s body on the couch with so much emotion. This was already a fucking mess and the last thing he needed was for it to turn violent. 
“What—“
“Marshall!” Woods snapped. Marshall tried to take a deep breath before turning towards Woods—who only shook his head. “Lay off of him, would ya? Bell’s his protege and you fucked up. Bell will tell the rest of her story if she wants to tell you.”
Marshall’s hands clenched at his sides, while everyone else watched. Sev and Case looked in a more subdued fashion, whereas Felix made no attempt to hide his wide stare. 
“You won’t get answers to anything with the way you’re acting. You earn answers. And with the stunt you pulled?” Adler added, taking a major inhale, his third cigarette throughout this ordeal. Hold gentle around Bell’s hand despite the tension. “Consider yourself on the blacklist of needing to know.” 
Marshall opened his mouth before glancing at Bell. He relaxed, clicking his mouth shut. 
“Fine. But just…you can help her right? Your girl?”
“Of course. Now go, Marshall.” Adler moved and scooped her up, bridal style as she turned her face into his chest, blinking languidly as he made for the stairs. She might’ve mumbled something against him, despondent. He paused on a step, aware of their audience that had yet to disperse. “Don’t come in my room unless you want a bullet lodged in your head. Woods?”
“Ay, ay. You heard the chain smoker, everyone. Now stop hanging around like it’s a play and get to work!”
Adler entered his room and laid Bell atop his bed. He brushed her hair slightly with his thumb off of her face. 
He sighed.
“This is a shit show. But I got you, Bell. I got you.”
“…R…uss…?”
Adler’s hand dipped to your parted mouth, you tried hard to open your eyes.
“Easy.” Adler shushed, a light kiss to her forehead. “It’s me. I have you.”
“…’Na…m” Adler watches your lip trembling, a tear going down your cheek. “VC…Hue City…”
“That’s a long time ago. We’re not there anymore. That war is over.”
Bell let out a choked sound. Adler couldn’t tell if it were a sob of despair or relief. Perhaps both. 
“So…real…” 
“Yeah?” Adler grabbed her hand, placing it over his scarred cheek while he hung his shades from his collar. “As real as this feels?”
Bells eyes fluttered open and Adler finally took a look at them. Blown wide yet hazy. Not here. Adler did his best to not get affected by it. She didn’t need that.
Bell thumbed the scar on his chin. 
“Per…seus. He’s real.”
“He’s dead. He can’t get us,” Adler intoned, a quick kiss to her palm. “Nothing can get us. I’m here.”
This time, Bell did let out a cry. Pulling her hand away so she could hide her eyes and turn her back to him.
“You. You can get me. Needles. It…hurt.”
Adler pressed his lips together, aborted further attempts to grab Bell again but remained seated on the bed. She seemed to seek his presence before, on the couch. 
“Do you want me to leave?”
Bell shot up, much faster than Adler would have been comfortable with, but before he could nag her she yelled a loud, “no!”
Bell blinked out her fear, instead looking down and not meeting his eyes, clenching her hands around the sheets.
“No… stay… please?”
Adler didn’t need much convincing. He hasn’t seen you like this in a long time. 
“Scoot over a bit. And lay back down for me. You need to rest.” Bell did so, almost falling over with how much room you’re willing to give him. Sacrificing your comfort for his. Adler sighs at it. Back to square one again with their relationship. So hard to make it seem even between them and she’s back to this. Adler laid down but motioned his hand at her to come closer. “Come closer. You’ll fall.”
Bell looked hesitant. Eyes going back and forth from his hands to his jacket pockets to his shades. As if searching for something.
He sighed again before slowly sitting up, taking his jacket off and emptying out the pockets she kept glancing at; he threw everything useless onto the floor.
“I don’t have anything. Come, Bell. I won’t hurt you.”
Bell bit her lip, jittery eyes meeting his even ones.
“Needles?”
“No.”
“MK-Ultra.”
“No,” he repeated evenly again. He didn’t need it for her. He wasn’t lying. 
Bell placed a hand to her left shoulder, hesitating.
“Bullet?”
“…okay. Only for you, Adler. Just don’t miss the shot.”
Adler’s eyes tightened, closing before opening them again to meet hers.
“No. Never again. I need you to rest, Bell.”
“…okay. Whatever you say, Adler.”
Something twists in his stomach but she clambered closer to him, much closer than he thought she would. Head tucked into his neck and arm thrown over him, he could feel your tears on his skin. Adler can only slowly and gently lay a hand on your waist to not scare you off. 
He’ll let you rest. But later, he needs to know what happened.
For now though, Adler felt Bell’s deep inhale—as if wishing to memorize his scent and felt her breath on his neck. For now. 
“Sleep for me, Bell.” 
He felt her eyelashes flutter against his skin, eyes closing in answer.
For now, his girl needed rest.
▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚
You’re off-kilter. 
Not only because you can’t go down to the bunker anymore(red room, red room, Red Door—“Normal forms of interrogation weren’t working.”), or be anywhere near all the televisions—from the living room to the security feed (you flinch as napalm struck, a near deafening roar in your ears, diving for cover from the flames—only for Woods to coax you out from under his cot, your limbs trembling as you realized it was just the thunder that struck outside, before distracting you with a story with him and Mason and Mason’s son—David. Your fear and blood pumping slowing at the look Woods has in his eyes. Sad yet proud at a boy who’ll soon be a man. Your dignity was saved that the others were in the training grounds or the kitchen.), but because you can’t even go on the mission with Russell (Adler? Your old friend. Not old friend. Liar. Adler always lies. “You have to stay, Bell. I’ll handle Gusev. Trust me.” Adler always lies. You were pathetic how you wished for you to go, or him to stay, weak for even asking just once. Back to severe co-dependency. As if Adler’s plan of forcing you to be independent and make your own plans never happened. Back to not only wanting to be near him but needing him near you. Needy for praise. Adler finally having you to let go of the lapels of his jacket with his breath to your ear, “You can do anything, Bell. You can handle this for me, красивая. Stay and help me watch the kids from killing each other while I’m gone. You will, won’t you?” Of course. You can do that for Adler. ▚ Anything for Adler. ▟ You’re living for him alone. ▚) and at least help the others in the casino with the heist live on the ground. 
You feel useless. 
You can still help in the technology side of things, but what good is that when half of the tech in the safehouse is underground? Underground where your dread compounds, heart racing to the point it hurts. Ears ringing, your shallowed breathing doing nothing to help your panic.
Each time you blink, something skitters on the screen, reminders of a war you shouldn’t remember—of imposed pain that was never yours.
So yes. You may be moping. 
It doesn’t help you are still upset at Marshall for Case’s treatment back in the mission. But it does help to distract you from your miserable trauma you’re trying to shake away, because the man upsets you again about Case’s role in this mission.
You heard the plan from your spot near Woods cot, the both of you going over necessary supplies and exfil. Your head whipped back at them as Case just stood(Always just standing there. Willingly being led like a lamb to slaughter. You would do anything for, Adler. You did. You killed a man because you knew Adler would prefer his death over capture.) and seemed satisfied at the plan in place. Perfectly willing to be a tool.
“Wait—Case is going to be part of the bait of this mission?” You ask incredulous, hands tight around the binder Woods gave you to look over. The older man was staring at the side of your head, but you ignored it as you stood. “Even after what happened? It wasn’t just me that went through that gas.”
They all turned their heads from the evidence board towards you, Sev shifting on the desk she was sitting on. 
“True. But Case’s bender that accompanied your horrible acid trip has calmed.”
Marshall nodded at Sev’s words, putting the folder in his hands to his side for a moment as he slightly shook Case’s shoulder with a smile, his touch light—companionable. It nearly made you frown.
“Case would’ve told us if we couldn’t depend on him, anyways. I’ve known Case for years and he’s one strong motherfucker. Ain’t that right, Case?”
Case chose silence as his answer. You noticed he hadn’t stopped looking at you with a slight frown since you spoke up, a subtle downturn of his lips.
(Why were you defending him? He didn’t care. You wanted to punch him for it.)
He was scared. He’s a person. 
“Now all the subject needs is a name.”
He’s a person . 
Felix cleared his throat to gather attention, leaning on the desk behind his favorite computer screen, looking as apprehensive as you felt towards all of this. 
“I do share your concerns, Bell. Made it apparent to Marshall here.” Felix tipped his head towards the man for show; Marshall looked away in turn, letting go of Case’s shoulder at Felix’s stare before the German turned towards you, a bleak turn of the lips. “But, I digress. The short half-life of the gas indicates it’s in neither of your system’s anymore, although I am having trouble sleeping at night despite that—“ Felix couldn’t help but add.
“Get to the point, Felix,” Sev cut off, exasperated. 
“Right.” Felix looked miffed at the interruption before he gave you an understanding expression. “Case has demonstrated he is capable for a mission such as this, and has insisted on it the moment Marshall mentioned it. There are no obvious side effects displayed—unlike what we have observed in you, Bell.”
“Thanks,” you cracked sarcastically, too tired and self-deprecating to snap that you weren’t useless. But for the life of you, you couldn’t help but meet Case’s eyes with your searching ones. “That true, Case? Able to take a few punches for the team? I see that Marshall isn’t volunteering for that—willing to play some cards instead.”
“You know the kid isn’t like that, Bell,” Woods defended, because of course he did. You saw what Woods saw—a mirror of the veteran’s younger days. But it was different;  Woods wouldn’t treat Mason like how Marshall treated Case. How everyone treated Case. How Case treated Case. “Case has insisted that what happened was no big deal. Hell, the guy’s invincible like that. Almost like me.” Woods tried to joke, to make you crack a smile. You didn’t.
Only stared at Case.
How long would he be quiet?
(You were quiet about seeing Vietnam on screens a decade ago. A secret. You didn’t want to disappoint Adler. Seen as soft. Something to throw away.)
What are you trying to do, Case? You wonder, spotting how Case’s jaw twitched in discomfort at your assessing gaze. What are you trying to prove? To who?
Marshall took a step towards you, hand to his chest in defense and obviously on the defensive.
“What makes you think I’m just throwing Case to the wolves, Bell? Just cause at what happened in that last mission doesn’t mean I don’t care about my team mates.” Your hand twitched at your side. You could picture it. Socking the young man in the jaw. Maybe that would spur Case out of this pitiful pit he’s put himself. Marshall took a breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose before facing you, eyes open and full of regret. You couldn’t help but glance at it. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about what happened down there, Bell. That was the wrong call. But this—this plan is the right call. We need to help Adler find Gusev and the casino is the key, whatever is in B24 is the key.”
Your lips thinned before scoffing and looking away, waving a hand at him in dismissal. Despite the obvious manipulation once more—you’ll give him some leeway due to his own obvious betrayal of one he saw as a friend.(See how it feels? A part of you thought with petty yet cruel satisfaction.)
“Yeah, yeah fine. Do what you guys want.”
You turned back to work with Woods, trying not to silently stew and focus on what Woods was saying and ignoring his stares. When the others moved to leave the room, you did stop Case from moving by the evidence board; grabbing his wrist firmly, opening your mouth to speak quietly.
“Case, what are you—“
But he beat you to the punch as he connected your gazes, causing you to falter at Case’s incredulous irritation.
“Why do you keep fighting?”  
“I—“ you blinked rapidly. “What?”
“Why do you keep fighting?” Case repeated, his tone growing more bewildered each time he spoke. You wondered for a second if he thought you were purposely trying to challenge Marshall’s authority—as if you you found amusement in destabilizing the dynamic of the team. “What’s the point in what you’re doing? It’s easier to just accept it.”
“Breaking a subjects will and erasing their mind is a difficult and painful process.”
Your eyes slit, tightening the hold around Case’s wrist.
“What?”
Case shook his head, he almost looked like he was pleading with you.
“Just stop. Just accept. Is that so hard?”
You bit the inside of your lip so you wouldn’t reach for his throat to tear it out—it’d be much more merciful than this pitiful display.
(It’s been so long since you wondered—your fate if you just talked. Confessed. Where did loyalty get you? To Adler, you answer, sure. But where did that leave you? To Adler, you answer, pathetically, longingly.)
It slapped you in the face, what pissed you off so much about Case. It disarmed you, making your hold loosen around his wrist and letting him escape with a final yet tense incredulous look towards you over his shoulder.
The way you easily fold for Adler, despite your natural loyalty and cognitive dissonance acting up on how exactly he got that loyalty from what occurred a decade ago—compared to Case who folded for all, found it easier to just accept than fight, unlike you.
Your loyalty was fictitious, then earned through years—falsehoods and reality mixing. You followed only the one, whether it was pre MK-Ultra or after—you would do everything and anything for the one you call yours.
Case—just took the easiest route in life and followed whomever. He couldn’t see himself fighting for one side—even if that side was himself. He did whatever was asked of him, no matter the consequence. The willing doormat welcoming all types of scrapes and scuffs off of shoes.
Dangerous, you thought. It made you sick. 
Your stomach only turned further at the thought of how long, or rather how quickly, it would take Adler to realize the same thing about Case.
You didn’t know from what.
You needed a distraction before your mind connected to what exactly Adler would do with a perfect soldier like Case—wandering after you finished with Woods for something to do. Only to find Felix in his customary spot, his favorite computer set up. You moved to join him, your presence usually welcome behind the computers, like always before the man raised a gloved hand at you, so sudden it nearly startled you. 
You wondered if he had a job for you, if you were needed elsewhere. 
“Please keep your distance,” the German said tersely. Blunt. “I rather like dreaming of unicorns and rainbows and not general horrors of my life.”
Ouch. You raised your hands in mock surrender, lips twisted up.
“I get it. Sorry.”
“…oh. Here.” He picked up a floppy disk and threw it in your general direction, you managed to catch it haphazardly. “Take a look at that please. It’s the encryption system the casino uses for their facility and I have exhausted enough time on that with no improvement.” Felix took a breath and he actually looked pained as he met your stare. “I’m stuck. I, Felix Neumann, finally admit I am stuck and need your help. Don’t rub it in my face.”
Your mouth parted at him, throwing his pride away so easily when they were in a childish and ego inducing competition before.
“…you want me to?”
“That gas really did a number on you.” Felix said in answer before giving you a shooing motion towards the computer by Sev. “Go. And don’t come near me till you finish that.”
You decided to take a quick look at Sev’s computer, raising your brow dubiously and throwing him a rising smirk.
“Easy as pie. Didn’t the Stasi train you for—“
“Oh. Good. You’re alive and back. Please leave before finishing that sentence and I decide to not be courteous to you.”
You crack a small smile, just an iota.
“…thanks.”
Felix made a noise, but outside of it—nothing. You decided to put your big boots on and help. 
Enough with the moping and Case; time to actually help.
▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚
Case really wanted a towel.
Blood stuck on his face and neck, firm and baked on by the sweltering heat of Iraq. It stuck no matter how much he tried to wipe it with gloved hands—the gloves weren’t much better off. He paused from trying to wipe, eyes observing the way the copper stained deep in his gloves. How it wanted to get deeper. Past the cloth. Past his skin—entering the flesh and in turn the muscles and making him squeeze. His fingers furled unconsciously. 
“You can dispose of him now.”
(“…̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷ ̷d̷̷o̷̷c̷̷t̷̷o̷̷r̷, ̷g̷̷e̷̷t̷ ̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷ ̷d̷̷o̷̷c̷̷t̷̷o̷̷r̷!” Very good, Case, the voice in his head—female—said. But it wasn’t in his head. Not then. She was right there—she said to kill him—his—his—)
His vision turned, pain shooting through his temples, quick and short. Not enough for an obvious wince, but for him to squeeze the hand in front of him into a tight fist.
“How we doing, Case?” He turned to face Adler who was sitting in front of him on the back of the army supply truck they were in. Rolling along back to the outskirts of the camp that Captain Sims was in(“Both of you can get out of my sight! We’re done, Adler! I don’t want you to set one motherfuckin’ toe on my grounds after that stunt!”) but separate from the commander. Case didn’t think they might be friends anymore; he didn’t understand why. Gusev needed to be disposed(̷D̷̷i̷̷d̷ ̷h̷̷i̷̷s̷ ̷b̷̷r̷̷o̷̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷̷r̷?). Adler, as always, seemed unaffected at what transpired—a smoke around his mouth with blood visibly on the base of neck, stains all over the front of his uniform. His shades half-heartedly cleaned from stubborn wiping, accompanied by Adler’s mild muttering annoyance, the most emotion Case has heard, save for the older man’s disappointed tone toward his old friend, hearing him mutter about needing cleaning wipes. “Hold on. Here,” Adler reached into the back pocket of his pants, a hand towel already soiled(that’s how his face was mostly clean, must’ve been when Case was still staring at the dismembered lower half of Gusev’s body, whereas Sims was focused more on the man.) and tossed it at him. 
Case caught it, giving him a quiet thanks and nod of appreciation—despite the towel already being used. He’s thankful he just has it. It’s the same man’s blood they’re wiping off, after all. No need to turn his nose up at that.
Adler took a deep inhale, embers quickly eating up the cigarette before he tapped off the edge to the side.
“Thanks for that back there.” Case glanced at the man, Adler’s tone still light but appreciative. Holding weight. “I know it caused a mess on ya. Tried to take the brunt of Gusev’s guts before Sims attempted something else.” Adler cracked a light smirk. “Didn’t want him to have something else to complain about. Having a man’s blood literally on his hands, whether true or not, would’ve pushed Sims over the edge.”
Case believed it would. 
When Adler gave the order to kill(̷D̷̷i̷̷s̷̷p̷̷o̷̷s̷̷e̷) Gusev, Case wasn’t watching anyone else. His vision blurring, his ears seeming to deafen his surroundings and only focus on Gusev’s erratic breathing and final plea—only for Sims to grab Case back. Unluckily for the man that reminded Case of Marshall, the momentum of grabbing Case’s shoulder instead of Gusev and his inattention to Adler’s subtle movement of destabilizing Gusev’s feet—it caused a short, curdling yell within the propeller. The metal squeaking in protest much worse than when Adler threw a rock in it—blood spraying upon Case’s front. Adler managed to shield Sims and Case from the majority of it, the sound of the skull thumping around and metal cutting through bones and flesh echoing in Case’e ears. Case watching as the man’s top half was gone, only everything from the waist down was untouched—outside the guts and skin trying to stay attached to said dead scientists waist. All while Sims went off on Adler. 
The man’s only defense is that he—Gusev, that is—slipped.
Sims used Case as his witness, pointing at him as Sims was in Adler’s face about to wallop his old friend. The only indication the man gave at his friend’s anger was the mild frown on his lips.
Except, Case didn’t do what Sims wanted. Agreeing that Gusev slipped. Sims snapped his head from Adler to him faster than blade cutting through bone(Not funny. ̷J̷̷u̷̷s̷̷t̷ a̷  ̷l̷̷i̷̷t̷̷t̷̷l̷̷e̷.), face practically all snarl. Adler raising a brow in reaction behind the man’s back at Case’s defense.
Sims cursed at him almost nearly as much as he did Adler once he let a few seething breaths in(“Another copy of you, Adler. Fantastic. Both of you trying to bullshit me…?!”) before he couldn’t stand the sight of them—or the body—anymore. Despite Adler’s weighted words towards Sims it became personal, it actually making the Captain pause before he walked away, a shake of his head and a disbelieving huff through his nose. (“Everything and everyone is personal to you with how much you’ve done the same dance. Well. I’m not willing to do the shitty Macarena with you anymore!”) 
Case looked out from the open back of the truck, watching the scenery of fire and tanks in the distance—explosions and gunshots and stealth bombers dull in his ears. 
“You don’t have to thank me,” Case dismissed as he wiped his face particularly roughly. Without a mirror, he wasn’t sure how much blood was still caked on—but he could feel it. “Gusev was a danger to millions. I understand.” Adler hummed, Case glancing at the man to see a brow quirked above his shades at the words. Surprised? Why? “…have you done gruesome kills before? Or was this a special case for Bell?”
Adler’s cigarette was in his lips for a quick puff as he answered, the smoke being breathed out with every word.
“Vietnam had no shortage of those. And it was easier to just throw him in there since we kept waving the threat in his face,” Adler did a half shrug, as if it was normal to throw people into propellers out of convenience. A walk in the park for a man like him. America’s Monster. (“It’s gonna scare you off if you see it?” No. He isn’t scared. He’s sure now where a man like Russell Adler lies. ““̷S̷̷e̷̷e̷? ̷H̷̷e̷’̷s̷ ̷a̷ ̷m̷̷o̷̷n̷̷s̷̷t̷̷e̷̷r̷, ̷l̷̷i̷̷k̷̷e̷ ̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷ ̷r̷̷e̷̷s̷̷t̷ ̷o̷̷f̷ ̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷̷m̷.”)”Bell had a part to play in that, true. But I would’ve wanted the man dead anyways. He made a deadly weapon that will kill millions. What happened to Bell in that mission however, sealed his fate—Sims or no Sims. Bell would’ve done the same for me. Maybe worse.”
Case frowned in thought, looking down. He knew Bell was loyal to Adler—greatly. He didn’t doubt Adler’s words; her loyalty was sound, based on what he’d overheard when Sev asked her, after the casino mission, prodding for more details. Felix in the living room, as well, while he and Marshall were in next room over. (“Nosy,” he heard her mutter as she passed by him, knowing innately how much he strained his ears, getting as close as he could without appearing obvious. Marshall trying to make light of her word and tone, said animatedly “What? I didn’t do anything, I swear!” Bell wasn’t amused, her brow rising at Marshall before moving on. At least the cold shoulder was mutual between them both; Case didn’t like her eyes on him anymore.) How she expounded that Adler saved her from the CIA, not wishing for someone like her to work with them despite other KGB operatives under their paycheck. Might’ve had to do with her connections to Perseus—and how she’d discovered those plans, Case guessed. That the man was the only reason she was alive, and why she’ll reciprocate everyday for him for that. 
“She doesn’t like me much,” Case confessed before he could rein in the words. Before he could get bewildered at the action and stop, he kept going with far much more emotion than he planned. His verbal deconstruction of her behavior spilling from his lips, now that there was somebody to tell—Marshall was his friend, sure, but Case always was the listener between the two of them. He didn’t mind. “She finds me odd, despite also saying we are similar somehow.”
Adler’s brow quirked, a smirk pulling his lips.
“Oh? That’s strange. After the stunt you pulled in getting me out the black site, you would’ve earned her respect there; Bell can be hard to please until you prove herself. Although,” Adler nodded his head absently while taking a drag, “she doesn’t like Marshall at all. Can’t say I blame her; she holds on to grudges tighter than a knuckle duster in a bar fight. Spiteful woman,” Adler chuckled softly to himself as he exhaled the smoke. He shifted on the seat of the wooden bench, the truck driving over bumps and sand hills that could be felt between them both before Adler faced Case again, shades hiding his eyes—yet Case couldn’t help but feel as if their gazes were meeting. “Never thanked you for watching out for her down there. Or trying to with the circumstances. Pretty calm despite having to inhale gas as part of a mission.”
Case’s skin pricked. 
“It was a necessary mission. Marshall needed us,” Case evenly answered, acutely aware of the subterfuge that accompanied Adler’s reputation, Marshall had fumed about it—made a show of establishing authority over it. “And I did my best with Bell but… the circumstances of her disappearing when I came back were unforeseen. I am sorry for not doing better.”
“…mm hmm.” At the absent hum, Case felt a spark of offense. “Speaking of Marshall, how’re you going to break it to him about Gusev? You’ve been friends with him for years, right? Based on what I’ve seen, his stomach might turn at that.”
This felt familiar.
“If it was ordered to do something the exact opposite of what Marshall would do, would you do it?”
Ah. That was why.
Adler was doing what Bell had. But unlike him feeling seen by Bell, with Adler it was different. It was as if… it’s an unmasking.
“I don’t see why Marshall would be involved at all in changing the events that happened.”
“And what event is that?” Adler asked, leaning slightly forward to tap away the ash of his cigarette.
“Gusev slipped.”
It was silent as Adler searched his gaze, for what, Case couldn’t say. When Adler appeared to have found what he was looking for, both his brows rose up—the most surprised he’s seen on the stoic man. 
“That he did, Case. That he did.” His brows settled, a victorious ghost of a smile around his cigarette as he leaned back in his seat. “You’re one hell of an interesting soldier.”
(“I think you’re going to make one hell of an operative, Case One.” At whose dispense? After whose sacrifice? ̷H̷̷i̷̷s̷ ̷b̷̷r̷̷o̷̷t̷̷h̷̷e̷̷r̷ ̷w̷̷a̷̷s̷̷n̷’̷t̷ ̷s̷̷u̷̷p̷̷p̷̷o̷̷s̷̷e̷̷d̷ ̷t̷̷o̷ ̷d̷̷i̷̷e̷. “We were the first and last trial volunteer.” No he  ̷wa̷̷s̷̷n̷’̷t̷!)
He had to say it. He had to.
He couldn’t hide this anymore!
Case opened his mouth like he did with Woods, about to spill everything—just as how Gusev’s guts were actively being spilled on the runway—to confess. Bell had already seen him and Adler is looking through, he has to say it!
What happened a decade ago—
We can’t talk about it, the female voice in his head interrupted harshly, his vision turning orange and yellow at the edges and another sharp pang shooting through his temples in warning. Remember? 
(“Remember your training, Case One. You can never speak of the Cradle program. Or the Pantheon division. Never. Doing so could have unpredictable consequences.”)
“Here. Have a smoke, Case.” Case blinked away his blurry vision to find Adler offering a cigarette from his expensive brand, he either hadn’t noticed Case’s mental struggle or made a point in not mentioning it. 
Case took it and put it in his mouth dutifully, not bothering to say he didn’t smoke to Adler who was already lighting it for him. Taking an inhale through a cough. Not the worst substance his lungs have been subjected to, still unpleasant. 
“The expensive brands are stronger.” Adler said in answer to Case’s difficulty, but his tone suggested that he wasn’t ignorant to Case’s inexperience. More… knowing. “Enjoy it, Case. We have quite a ways to go.”
Case frowned at the cigarette in his hand, eyes narrowed at the ashes already gathering at the end. 
This was one of the strangest orders he’s ever received.
Because Adler didn’t offer it, did he? 
▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚
“You’re quite adept at this. Using a virus and handing the floppy disk carrying it to Sevati, not only to take out their radar but for their computer and security system to do what we please. Leaving no stone unturned, as they say.”
“I do love it when you give me random compliments, Felix,” you responded with a smirk, typing away on the laptop and maintaining your balance on the moving helicopter as they flew over the Vorkuta camp, awaiting on the others as they facilitated the ground assault. “Although I can do without the surprise in your tone. Lessens the impact of your words. You should work on that.”
You could barely hear Felix’s mutter through the comms as he manoeuvred the helicopter around in the cockpit, but you were able to catch “Arroganz ist die Schwester der Einsamkeit.”
Perhaps too soon with an inner wince, still in mental recovery due to the gas (not so much hallucinations outside of the auditory ones your mind foolishly created when in the safehouse, or when using the training course. Still, no T.V. The nightmares haven’t stopped.) but Felix meant no harm, innocently blunt, and you can roll with the punches easily enough with humor as your defense. 
“Awwww, what happened to you saying us traitors of socialist regimes should stick together?” you replied back in German. “Here I thought we had a connection, Товарищ.”
“Putting words in my mouth and twisting it, I see,” Felix replied with distaste as he circled back around towards Vorkuta, spotting that they were still in the clear from any more possible reinforcements. “Fabrication, typische KGB.”
You snickered as you typed and watched the security footage, monitoring closely that Adler and the team below were on the right track. Clearly hearing the man was just putting up a front to keep up their false rivalry, the back and forth of using words such as ‘adept,’ ‘acceptable,’ ‘adequate’ or ‘satisfactory’ when it comes to judging the others’ more than mediocre skills. God forbid you actually tell the man you’re impressed at his abilities without even having to go out in the field; It’d ruin this whole dynamic you’re going for!
…perhaps you were a little shit, like Woods always says. 
Adler only implies “bratty” to you. (Don’t focus on what happened the night prior after Russ told you the news of Gusev’s death. Your cheeks pricked anyways. Adler doesn’t always  lie. Not much anymore.) 
You couldn’t help it with Felix however. You liked the man. Didn’t mean you trusted, too soon for that (you only trust one man implicitly and wholly, always. Ironic due to the circumstances around it, you realize, but you’ve had a decade to accept it. You’d give Woods second on your very small list, however.) but you genuinely enjoyed the man’s presence.
And a fellow intellectual! Those were becoming rarer and rarer nowadays. 
You couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between him and Sev the other night after the casino mission(Case did as well but he just stood there saying nothing and not adding onto the conversation, soon leaving after Felix told him “Not now, Case.”) as you were entering back into the house, only to pause. Passing by a self-righteous Sev and the bowed head of Case(Look at him, a mere shadow on the wall—wishing to not be seen by me. Too fucking bad. ▛ Ï̵̙͖̓ ̸̝̬̏š̷̠̭è̷̞̖̔e̵̢͝ ̷͔̈́y̸̱̰̿̅õ̵̟̕u̵͙͎̅̈́.▞), you grabbing a book you left on the table near the bay windows. You got near Felix, who was still warming himself by the barrel fire, and leaned your back against the banister. 
Once he protested about your presence and not wishing to “puff our peacock feathers” right now, only for you to say that you weren’t as you turned a page—he calmed, brows relaxing as he turned back to looking at the fire in thought. The only sounds between you two being of the crack of the fire or a turning of your page. It didn’t take long before Felix decided to speak first about your choice of reading. Making a snide comment about Nietzsche with you replying with a brow raised if he had something against the Ubermensche philosophy, before you winced. The meaning of what it was meant for, and Felix’s concerns about himself, not connecting until you said the sentence. Too soon; you opened your mouth for an apology—only for him to snort at you. Yes. Snort. Felix. Instead bringing it back to you if you disagreed being called Sharikov from Bulgakov’s Heart of a Dog. It made you smile. 
It didn’t take long for the both of you to go back and forth, all the authors that had commentary about their home country’s view of communist and socialist ideals. The conversation shifting somehow to Adler and his plan of contacting someone from CENTCOM.
“How likely do you think that this contact will assist?”
At this point, you joined Felix already closer to the fire with your book in the waistband of your pants, the lighting too poor to continue on reading, anyway. Staring at how the flames moved with a pensive yet confident expression.
“Adler is always two steps ahead. Despite his…well, what others call recklessness—he plans very well.” 
“You respect that about him,” Felix pointed out, making you hum distractedly, your smile turning a little softer (“Are you enjoying this? You’re risking the entire operation unnecessarily.” “It’s not unnecessary, it’s calculated.”). “…very intriguing. A love story between a CIA agent and ex-KGB. Was that possibly another reason the CIA wanted you dead and for Adler to do it?”
You snorted, hands rubbing to get more heat. 
“We’re not like Sev you know. Shame about what happened with her though...�� You frowned, momentarily thinking of what you would do if Adler died. You moved on quickly to not dwell on it. It’s a thought you’ve had often, you already knew how you would react. “And if you’re hinting if I was trying to seduce him… no. I wasn’t. I just felt that him and I… we clicked. It’s odd. Not many can feel a connection like this—knowing the other innately and how they think. It’s like…we knew each other for years.” You’re getting too close. You had to be careful. Your lips formed a sharp smirk as you met Felix’s eyes over the fire. “Too bad for the CIA however; Adler didn’t want to play their game.”
“Two steps ahead,” Felix reiterated. 
You nodded. “Two steps ahead. I aim for the same. Maybe even three.” You couldn’t help but add, cocky, “that may be my Soviet side trying to prove my superiority, however.”
The man didn’t roll his eyes but it was a near thing.
“Arroganz.”
Your grin sharpened.
“Спасибо.”
When the two of you went in, Felix added a quiet yet heavy “thank you.” You threw him a mischievous look over your shoulder, brow raised. “Whatever for? Us traitors need to stick together.”
Your eyes carefully watched the security footage, the ground team now having infiltrated the sub-levels of the former gulag. Until they split. Case—by himself; your eyes narrowed before removing a transmitter, disguised as a landline phone, from your jacket to listen in.
You weren’t joking with Felix. You liked maintaining a three-step lead.
And after what you saw when Marshall, Adler, and Case came back from Kuwait—straight after the plan being made for Vorkuta (Case stopped you after you… “spoke” with Adler by the cliffs, catching you when Adler has already gone up to their room. Looking desperate, which made you pause from your disgusted sneer on your face. Except, he didn’t say anything. Opening his lips as if he would talk, but nothing coming out. Only stating with a pained voice, “There’s a reason I’m like this. I can’t say but…you…” his hand was trembling around your bicep as you watched the man, your pity only growing. Along with suspicion. You watched his fingers furl, before unfurling again. Shaking. Your gaze trailed up his arm to study his expression, lingering at the slight crook of his nose, half healed cuts and light bruising from Kuwait. He was either struggling to find the correct words, or struggling to talk entirely—it was hard to tell. “You…you see, don’t you?” he managed to get out before his eyes shuttered and he stepped back with a quick shake of his head, apologizing before quickly leaving. Something happened in Kuwait. You could tell when Adler made his report and talked to you on the cliff. You saw Case the other day. You thought you did. You’ll make sure you do.) you swallowed your fear and went down to the bunker. (Don’t go in the red room. A b̷̜̏e̵͙̙͋ḻ̶̨̎͠l̸̼̒echoes in your head.) Tinkering with the technology down there along with stealing from Felix’s stash. Perhaps it was an invasion of privacy (It didn’t matter a decade ago. It doesn’t matter now.) but you’ll do everything and anything to keep Russell safe.
Even if it means bugging comms and the whole house.
You activated the transmitter, although knowing you already couldn’t hear them due to being underground—layers of dirt and concrete tended to be effective in blocking transmissions—this would ensure that you could check the audio later on. 
You don’t trust Case on his own.
It didn’t take long; they soon collected Harrow, hauled her back onto the chopper and spoke over her head—talking around her about making her talk. 
Adler took the seat next to you, shoulder to shoulder as you kept working on your laptop. His warmth and presence grounding you despite your mind running through every possible scenario(“Let’s run through scenario 1A.” “Christ, what’s happening with her?” “Bell, we’ve got a job to do.” Your new job is to live.). Including as to why Harrow had a smug smirk on her face looking at Case, who had her next to him on the chopper, keeping her in place closer to the cockpit with Marshall on her other side.
Only for her eyes to wander towards you, brows furrowing deeply. The stare wasn’t bothering you, but it seemed it was bothering Adler; he leaned forward on his knees and moved closer to you, taking up your space—as if to shield you. You didn’t mind, her stare beginning to discomfit you yourself.
“What’s got you staring at her so hard, Jane? Why don’t you instead focus on the information you can tell us on the way to our hideout? Make this easier for us. Mostly for you.”
Harrow’s eyes flickered towards the man, you recognizing the hate in her gaze that rose before it quickly subdued. Her focus flickered back onto you, turning something over in her head before there it was. A flicker of recognition.
Great, you thought sarcastically.
Harrow’s smile was like a knife, cutting.
“I never thought I would see the day of a corpse walking around. Aren’t you supposed to be rotting in the ocean somewhere?”
“Too bad for you lot,” Sev cut in, standing and holding onto a bar to leverage her balance against the moving helicopter, eyes grimly satisfied on behalf of you(you did like the woman. Friendly. Cunning. Focused on vengeance. Although hasty. A danger.), but the subject matter made an awful feeling churn within the recesses of your stomach, the heavy laptop on your lap grounding you as your mind raced. “Adler here decided to say ‘fuck you’ to your ridiculous orders of killing someone who helped you.”
“A lot of those nowadays,” Marshall added, side eying Harrow with that angry yet betrayed look in his face. Still hurt. Still sees his friend when it’s just an enemy(A lot like you. Is that what you looked like? Solovetsky —you said Solovetsky—). You turned your eyes back to your laptop, biting your inner lip—pausing when you felt Adler’s hand over your knee, a comforting squeeze before standing up and joining Sev on the bar. The touch not lost on Harrow whose intense stare seemed to burn towards your knee, her brows pinching deeply with a frown to match. “The CIA seems to like throwing and using people away. I won’t be surprised if it was Pantheon’s influence too.”
Harrow released a disbelieving chuckle that you couldn’t hear over the whip of the rotor cutting through wind; you could only tell by the shake of her shoulders—the odd smirk pulling the corners of her lips, shaking her head.
“So naive, Troy. You can’t blame the Pantheon for everything. Always having to believe the best in everything, even in the previous CIA. But you,” she faced back towards you, pivoting as much as she could, and despite you trying to ignore the manic woman, you lifted up your eyes over your laptop to meet hers. Her smirk was lopsided as she stated your name—yours, not whatever the CIA had made up for you, not Bell. A sour taste in your mouth. “Or… as we liked to call you—Bell. What an interesting name. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
R̵̨̠̣̣̥̍̉į̷̳͖̰̀͆̿̽ṇ̴̻̦̏̄̔g̵̯̑̈͗̅̕
                                                R̷̪͒̅i̶̮̲̎͗ņ̶̼͝g̸̱͍͆
                      R̴͎̳̽̌͂̕͠͝ḯ̵̢̱̖̹̮̱̩̑͂̀͑͘͝n̵͉��̈́̔g̵̣̣̊
                                                           R̸̢̢̛̪͕̦̜̥̝̯̘̙̗̖̣͔̝̞̘̬̍́̂̀͋̅̚͘͝í̷̧̡͔̮͓͎̲̪̖̤͙̥̘͙͇̣̯͙̣̮͎̥̏̊̓̊̽̂̆͑͜ņ̷̛̭̗̱̠̖͖̝̼͓̣̲̲͕͓̠̤͖̣̱̘̯͔̈́͗̏̀̓̑̒͆̄̄̈́̋̀̋̈́̓͂͗̚̕͝ͅğ̴̨̧̧̛̙͉͓͈̬̦̩̯̯̪̦̰̥̻͓̹͍̥̳̫̤̿͌̑̉͆͂̎̂ͅͅ
“Enough,” Adler commanded, taut and appeared as if he would knock Harrow out any moment now with the stock of his assault rifle. You focused on that picture instead of the sounds in your head, your fingers trembling over the keyboard. He stood over Harrow, brows deeply pinched—the only indication of his cool anger. “Stop with the games, Jane. Talk. Or even Marshall won’t stop me from getting what we need from you.”
Marshall gave Adler a look before facing Harrow grimly. The woman, instead, was staring up at Adler, with her brows up at his threat. Her eyes shifted back towards your knee, and her disbelieving expression turned into a curl of the lips—another connection made with her eyes turning viciously amused yet disgusted.
“It doesn’t have to be like that, Jane. Why don’t you start explaining—“
Harrow started laughing, throwing her head back. It was so sudden it made Marshall jump, the others staring at her in confusion but it only made you tighten your hand to a fist—slowly closing your laptop and stowing it away, cautious as you watched the woman snicker.
“Oh—this is—“ Harrow inhaled a breath, trying to calm herself down but failing as she released another short yet harsh laugh. “I can’t believe—This is a day of firsts. Really, Adler?” She asked, brow raised in cruel mischief. “You and her…? What an actual fucking shitshow because of course a man like you would,” she spat, all rage and bite in that one word before facing back towards you with a gaze filled with sadistic spite. “But of course, you always had a jó̵̦̰̤̈̑͑́̍̍̔̌̒́̀͘͜͝b̸̞̹̼̟͔̰̠͖̫̥̼̓̇̈́̋̀̀̑̎ͅ—“
A metal thwack met a skull, Harrow’s head falling towards her chest, her body held upright in her seat by the seatbelt alone.
“Woah, man! What was that for?!”
“Jane has a mouth on her,” Adler answered easily, fixing his gun and moving back to sit by you. You releasing a breath you did not realize you were even holding (She almost said it. The phrase. “We got a job to do.”) as Adler put his hand back on your knee, all casual and languid. Not like he just smacked the shit out of someone. You try to ignore how touched you’re feeling at how quick and protective he is now. (Adler from a decade ago wasn’t. Not much. Not like this. Russell is yours. Is he? You haven’t spoken at length about your suspicions of Case. Or what Adler may be planning from his own observations he’s had with you about Case. Stop it. You’re not like Case.) “She’ll keep talking and making up stories to get you wound up.”
“Wonder where she got that from,” you managed to quip. A distraction.
Sev raised a brow at the light shrug Adler did in response to your words.
“Well, well. How many protégés do you have laying around, Adler? Who also want to kill you.”
You’re loose tongued, you think. You’ll blame it on the gas as to why you answered the way you did. Plus the threat of sudden disclosure, your blotchy past nearly staining the fragile team-balance.
“Two for both, isn’t it?” you asked Adler genuinely, rotating your head towards him and all. Adler threw you a dry look beneath his shades. You tried not to shrink. You failed. Damn gas. Damn his icy blue eyes you can get lost in just like the touch on your knee. (Just like on the cliffs near the boulders when Adler said “I handled, Gusev. Just like I said, Bell. He’s shredded into tiny little mad scientist pieces. The gas won’t get you, лапушкаka. I got you,” he said to your ear, all low, breathy and husky to your needy and torn mind. His scent all around you, with your back to his chest—of course you grabbed him roughly and kissed him when he speaks so sweetly of another’s death.) “Too much?” You let out a short hysterical laugh, hand to your head, shifting in your seat to hide what’s rising low in your belly. “Not the same across the board when it comes to being in your bed, though.”
Felix made a choked sound even you could hear from the comms, the most he’s spoken since Harrow got in the chopper. You suddenly feel like you’re twenty eight again, cheeks heating as Sev let out a whistle, Marshall looking uncomfortably towards the floor. 
Adler didn’t have much of a reaction, only staring at the side of your head. His stare only making your cheeks prickle more. He can see. (The kiss turned wanting, your hands wandering to the base of his neck with beautiful wheat tresses and the other to his lower region. He made a delectable sound from the back of his throat that lit a fire in you. You wanted him here and now. All your fears of Adler from a decade ago gone when Russell turned the both of you, more hidden behind the boulders of the cliff under the moonlit sky. Shushing your whines softly or with a kiss and a burning touch from your abdomen to the waistband of your pants, quickly feeling out how needy you are already with his hands that make and unmake you. Have made and unmade. You don’t care, you want him now—not just his hands. Russell stopping you with a raspy chuckle, his large hand over your own on the tent of his pants. “Not now, Bell. Let me take care of you. Besides,” the both of you were laying against the rocks and pebbles, digging into your back but you didn’t care, desperate. Stilling only when Russell’s words breathed against the shell of your ear. “You’ll sing a little too loud if I fuck you. The kids may hear.” A kiss to your ear. The insertion of another key to unlock, make you break open with a gasp as he picked up the pace. “Is that what you want, Bell? Нет. Ты просто хочешь, чтобы я увидел тебя в сперме, покрывающей тебя и мои пальцы, хм?” He easily switched, knowing your weakness when he spoke your mother tongue, his mouth roving from your ear to neck, free hand from roving to pinching to starting to tug your pants farther down. You’re thankful you didn’t wear jeans, you’re so close. “Только для меня. Я тоже могу тебя съесть, а ты можешь дергать меня за волосы, как всегда, милая.”) 
Adler sees. Because he lets out a chuckle with a light smirk that makes you shudder. Just like how he looked with your juices dripping down his chin.
“No point in professionalism now. Too many types of fucking going around since this whole business started.” 
Oh no. You do feel twenty eight again. The only good thing coming out of that gas and regression. You really want to jump his bones right now. His need to take care of you be damned. Wait… bones? You’ve turned from hysterical to very hysterical. You’re more poetic in your head than that. Oh no. He can tell what you’re thinking because you keep staring at him and assessing. In front of everyone. You see him tilt his head at you, falsely curious with his lips a touch up, hand rising from your knee to the top of your thigh in one fluid motion.
Your head’s turns so quickly you see stars, opening up the laptop once more and faking work to get him to stop. So you can stop.
You really need to get your head together. Right after he gets his hand off of you.
▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚
Marshall knew he shouldn’t listen. Just like he knew in a deep part of him, that the Jane he thought he knew never existed. But he didn’t want to give up on her, not yet.
He always admired her tenacity, her ambition—how much she climbed to be where she was today. How she opened up to him about her journey of climbing up the steep cliffs to be right below the Director of the CIA. Just like how she admired his art, his drawings—his skills. Something settled in his stomach, whether it was nerves or warmth or a mix of both he didn’t know, when he saw she had it framed in her office. The drawing he gave her in private, her eyes alight and glittering up at him as she smiled softly up at him. He thought he did a smile back. Maybe a little awkward. A little hopeful.
The hope was gone. She’d been strapped to a chair, legs and wrists tied where he and Adler were interrogating her in the storage room of the house, windows tightly closed and dark. No way for her to know where they were.
And despite how he’d tried to be soft with her, reason with her—trying to find something, she dodged the question. Rolling her eyes at him even attempting to ask her about her evil master plan. Backhand compliments that used to be true and real but instead she twisted it—how studious he was, how annoyingly persistent, how his gentlemanly behavior was getting him nowhere fast. He thought he would be able to get through to her as a friend. He couldn’t. So he stepped back with a hand rubbing his face and motioned for Adler to take over—her mentor. The one who helped her refine her skills, sharpen her attributes (there’s a bitter taste in Marshall’s mouth, a part betraying him that Adler’s wildfire spilled onto his friend— and now she’s burning) and grow in the CIA.
Except it backfired. Marshall saw the way her eyes changed, the subtle shift of her lips curling. The sarcastic amusement in her eyes were gone, more dark. Twisted. Before she settled back into the sarcastic quirk of her lips, but her eyes didn’t change as Adler tried to get it out of her. That she’s helping no one. That will she really be responsible for thousands of deaths. Jane gave the same answers she gave Marshall. Shorter. Curt. Before she seemingly couldn’t take it anymore, the final straw when Adler implored her to take responsibility. 
“Responsibility?” She strained, shaking her head at Adler whose face was leaned down towards hers, his hand around her restraint on her wrist. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. Is that what you’re doing with your precious project, Bell? Taking responsibility?” She rolled her head to try to face Marshall who was just a few feet away with crossed arms, his brows furrowing as he met her eyes around Adler’s form. “Why are you working with Adler of all people, Troy? You know what people have said about him. A man who kept a terrorist asset alive? Against the CIA’s wishes? Do you really trust him?”
Marshall frowned, thinking back on Adler’s explanation as well as Woods and Bell’s own.
Perhaps not so much ex-KGB, after all, as actively KGB like they’d said—claimed. Maybe even part of the Perseus ring, a low level person in his circle. 
“I don’t care what Bell was before.” He maintained eye contact with conviction. “She saved the world. That’s enough. Hell, we got a guy that was actively in the Stasi while betraying them at the same damn time.”
Jane clicked her tongue disappointingly at him. 
“You don’t know the whole story, do you? You wouldn’t be so chummy if you did.”
Marshall’s eyes narrowed before shooting Adler a look. He recalled how meek the woman had been the days following the gas incident. How, in her quasi-consciousness, she’d called out for Adler to stop—something.
“What’s she talking about?”
“You’re falling for her words on purpose,” Adler stated with a shake of his head, lifting up and away from Jane with pressed lips. The man had been doing that a lot to him lately. Ever since his mistake with Bell. Disapproving shakes of his head or disappointed sighs. “She’s trying to get you riled up and distracted and it’s working. Jane. Stop fucking around, where’s the weapon?”
“Come on, Marshall,” Jane cajoles, moving her hands as much as she could to motion a finger to her head. “Think. Something isn’t right with Bell. She’ll never be right in the head.” Jane turned to Adler with a sneer. “Adler I’m sure likes it that way. Don’t you?”
He’s trying to not doubt. They don’t need this. Jane is playing them. 
It’s pissing him off it might be working.
“Jane, just—“ Marshall flapped a hand around as if to motion for her to stop but he instead let it drop with a heavy tired sigh. Adler stepped back with a stoic expression towards Jane as Marshall stepped forward with a gentle yet firm hold on her shoulder while the other was atop her hand. “Just stop. Stop, okay? Woods wouldn’t lie to me. I trust him. Please, Jane. Just tell us the plan. I don’t want things to get ugly. It never has to get ugly between you and me.”
Jane’s eyes met his—and all Marshall saw was a stranger who pitied him. Her next few lines cemented where she stood—where she chose to make her stand. A hill she was willing to die on. Marshall’s head spun wretchedly, his mind unable to discern why. 
“You should know by now, Troy. Don’t trust anyone. Remember?” Jane moved her head back, top of her head against the back of the chair with a victorious smile on her lips. “Besides. It’s too late. Whether things ‘get ugly’ between you and me or not—they’re coming for you. And the plan will continue.”
Marshall’s eyes squinted behind his glasses, his mind going to the worst case scenario as Adler cursed softly behind him.
“How would they know?”
“Move, Marshall.” Adler pushed Marshall’s hand away from atop Jane’s own, pushing her sleeves up and feeling around with his digits before Adler’s expression turned hard. “Tracker. Thought of everything, huh?”
“You taught me to,” Jane quipped neutrally. No hint of bitterness or gloating—pure discretion.  
Adler turned his head towards Marshall, hand still firm around Jane’s arm with a grip tighter than strictly necessary. It made Marshall want to say something, to suggest they afford her gentleness, as if there was a sliver of chance she might come around. But—
He didn’t. Dread, or perhaps regret, began to compound—his mood taking a turn for the worse; were they doing the right thing?
“Change of plans, Marshall. We’re going to do this my way.”
Fuck. That’s all Marshall could think as he stared down at his once friend. His once something. What could’ve been. Fuck, Jane. What have you done?
▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚
The moment you heard the words, all perfectly constructed and subtle—too hard for others to tell on Adler’s meaning but you knew, you knew—a crack of betrayal occurred that no one else could hear.
“I’ve got something tucked away that can help.”
He lied, you thought, grip on the desk you were leaning on tight as Marshall gave his permission (Adler always lies.) and began to walk out the room. You were trying to not scream at Adler, whose gaze finally turned in your direction, a frown tugging his lips. He had no right to feel upset on my behalf, he l̷̺͌i̸̛͇é̶͇̹̇d̶̰͝! 
After he took a slow deliberate step towards you, seeing how you tensed—close to bolting away—he sighed through his nose and nodded at you instead, his head motioning out the room; Woods rolled to be by the man’s side, his own gaze knowing what Adler meant and a frown of his own pulling down to hide in his beard.
“Grab Felix to help you set up the house. Even when I have everything set up, we need to keep constant hands to make sure that Pantheon can’t get through.” Your eyes thinned, mind working overtime trying to find Adler’s meaning as he kept his gaze on you—being open and respecting your distance. (A lie? Adler was always good at baring his neck at you to show trust even a decade ago. Must be. He’s playing again. He s̵̹̄͝a̸̧͍͙̣̒͛͆͌͜͠i̶̝̟̖̝͈͂̃̈́̒d̷͇̠̠̮̖͊̆͑͝ he didn’t have it.) Sev followed after Marshall as he left the room, but of course Case was staring, his brows mildly furrowed so Adler couldn’t quite speak freely like you thought he wished. “Harrow is gonna get all that I had in the back burner. I’ve kept it for situations like this.”
It’s not for you—
—you heard him say in your head, jaw clenching as you stared at Adler in silence before your gaze turned towards where they held Harrow, in the storage room. Only to loosen your grip and relax your jaw as you thought back to your openly vulnerable position with Adler when you first arrived from the lab. Adler never said he didn’t have it, only ever responded to your questions of whether he would use it on you again. 
It was never meant for you.
(Right. This is Russ. He’s Russ. Adler’s mostly gone.) 
You nodded in understanding, watching how Adler’s shoulders interestingly relaxed a pinch before you focused on Woods—asked if he had a secret cache of deadly explosives stowed anywhere. The rugged man grinned up at you, noting how you didn’t appear like a rabbit about to bolt, and rolled his wheelchair to show you, his laugh remaining as obnoxious as ever despite the circumstances. You ignored how Case’s curious gaze seemed glued to your back as you went to work. Exactly what he witnessed and assumed was far from your most pressing issue.
By the time everyone else converged in the Evidence Board Room, you and Felix were still outside the front of the house setting up; sandbags and various weapons were arranged within easy reach for your crew. It was during this that you couldn’t but keep glancing at the lack of gloves on Felix, frowning as you loaded an AMES-85.
“… sorry.”
Felix paused his ministrations of setting up the RC-XD’s, eyes wide and blinking openly at you.
“This is a first. I never thought I would hear any word that may even hint at an apology from you. I doubted it was even in your vocabulary.” Seeing at how you stayed silent, only pressing your lips and avoiding his gaze before moving on to the next gun to load up, Felix rose a brow. “What’s brought this on, meine Freundin?”
“You weren’t supposed to go on that mission. In the casino,” you elaborated when you saw Felix’s confused look in your peripherals. “It was supposed to be me. You shouldn’t have needed to break your code. I… have my own set of rules I follow.”
“Involving Adler I imagine?” Your lips quirked at how the German man clocked you. Uncaring at how openly you are when it comes to your feelings about the man, despite the irritation still simmering. Your mind calmed after Adler’s words after all. You believe him. He wouldn’t lie, not about this. Not when he brutally killed a man for you so you didn’t go through that gas again. (“Or…as we liked to call you—Ḅ̷̧̞̳̳̈̇͘ȅ̶͓̗̈l̵̥̀̌l̵̠͕̖̠̟̋́̅̚.” A bell rings in the echoes of your bruised mind, distant. Not as clear. Fading.) Felix assessed you before turning back to what he was doing, checking over all the different grenades and extra armor plates as he walked past you—the air crisp from the forest yet carrying that ocean hint from the cliffs. (You shouldn’t like standing over those cliffs so much. But you do. You should’ve died that day. The reminder that this is where you began your life anew—reincarnation. “The shot won’t be fatal. Not if you get help quick enough. They’ll have soldiers patrolling around that we may have missed. You got to do this right, Bell. You understand?”) “What’s done is done. My burden is not something you should carry, it was my choice after all. And with this assault coming to our doors, I can’t exactly lounge behind my desk while all of you do the work now, can I?”
“Ah, I see how it is.” You check the scope of an AEK-973 and aim it towards the hilltops to check the quality, smirking. A soviet gun you were distantly familiar with; it felt more at home in your hands than any American iron did. “You don’t want to feel burdened by having me—of all people—protect you and one-up you in the field. Perish the thought, Felix.” At Felix’s delicate huff, you lowered the scope and looked at him a bit more serious. “Did Sev make you change your mind?”
Felix held C4 in his hand, and double checked the detonation wires with critical eyes as he answered.
“Not necessarily. She merely… had me open my eyes on rearranging my priorities.”
“I see… and this is the result of said ‘rearranging’?” 
You caught the C4 charge he threw at you, raising your brows when you noticed he added an extra charge to make it more explosive.
“Klappe zu, Affe tot,” Felix said an answer with the common tight lipped smile he does. “They’ll have a hard time getting us with this in hand.”
You raise your brows, a sharp smirk as you threw the C4 charges up in the air a few inches, catching it in clear approval.
“без усилий не вытащишь и рыбку из пруда.” You handed them back to him with a teasing pat to his shoulder. “Not bad. If I didn’t know you any better with how you stick your nose up, I would think you would be trying to seduce me, товарищ.”
Felix rolled his eyes and moved away from your touch as you both walked around the house, headed for the backyard to prepare the resistance effort there.
“To listen to your constant jabberings even more? Your presence is barely tolerable as it is with how distracting your large head is trying to fit through a door.”
You snorted a laugh.
“I upgraded to ‘tolerable’ have I? And here I thought I would be the arrogante Frau forever. Don’t fall for me too hard like the Berlin Wall, Felix. You’ll get hurt.”
You heard Felix mutter something or another again in German, now clearly wiping away at his shoulder where you touched as if to show.
It wasn’t long after that you had everything in order, you having to swallow back the nerves building in your throat as you went back in towards the Evidence Board room or how Marshall coined it—the ops room. Adler was leaning against the wall by the CCTV’s they had set up in there, smoking before he took notice of the both of you approaching. 
He let Felix pass but he managed to obscure your view, preventing you from staring at Harrow and Marshall, her eyes glazed over as he held her hand and spoke comfortingly in her ear. 
The scene was concealed by Adler’s chest, clad in his Henley shirt, his hand lifting carefully to your cheek. Allowing you time to move. You stayed.
(You’ll always stay.) 
You didn’t flinch, but your eyes did shutter at the touch, his thumb grazing below your eye. You rolled your head forward to lean against his chest, Adler easily maneuvering to accommodate the action, placing an arm on your waist and holding his cigarette with his other hand.
“Aren’t you supposed to be doing it?” You murmured into his shirt, blinking your eyes sluggishly. The others were too focused on Harrow to pay attention to whatever the two of you may be saying. You didn’t know why you felt tired all of a sudden. As if seeing the image of Harrow, even in those few seconds before Adler blocked your vision—your body remembered just how hard it was.
Ṱ̶̃o̶̖̒͂ ̵̧̧͋o̴̖̭̕ṕ̵̘̲e̴̠̜̋n̵̗̹̾ ̷͇̍̔ṯ̵̂̏h̸̤̊̂e̵͉̰̔ d̸̨͍̘̯̟̱͈̗̫̳̓̈́͠ơ̶̮o̶̢̪̣̣̫͍͖͕̹̥̊̓͆̀̎̉́̚̕͠r̸̛̲̫͉̹̓͑.
Stop it, you told yourself, as if that would hinder your reopened wounds from spilling out, slapping a bandaid on a nasty gash. I’m not doing that anymore. It’s Harrow. It’s Harrow!
“No. It couldn’t be me,” Adler softly answered in your ear, unknowingly stopping a bell that started to chime its cryptic song. “It has to be someone she’s close to. Trusts; I don’t think Jane has trusted me for a long time.”
Adler spoke with a hint of resignation, his resolute nonchalance troubled, as troubled as the typically stoic man could be. You couldn’t see his face to confirm your suspicions, only humming in acknowledgement as he inhaled a deep drag from his cigarette. He moved you slightly back, and you lifted your head to see him motioning his cigarette towards you. The embers burnt, freshly red, glowed with new life as he exhaled from the side of his mouth, blown so that you wouldn’t have a plume of smoke in your face—stinging your eyes. The proffered cigarette prompted you to think; Adler was fully aware of how clean you are from nicotine (him being the sole reason). He however sated the part of you that stared longingly at the smoke coming out of his lips with a cool exhale into your open mouth, prompted or otherwise—he certainly wasn’t in the habit of actually offering. 
“Your favorite de-stressor?” Moving your hand up, you didn’t take the offered cigarette, but rather limply held his wrist, your touch light as you thumbed his pulse point. 
“Second,” he corrected quietly.
You rose a brow as you faced him, a suspicious ghost of a smile rising.
Adler’s answer was his own brow rising, a shadow of a teasing smirk to match. You rolled your eyes before rising to deliver a quick peck to the side of his mouth, deriving comfort from the mouthfeel of his scar, the smell of his skin. You took in his warmth by nuzzling into his chest again, fully focused on his presence. 
You will for Harrow’s increasingly apprehensive words (spilling from her lips, bleeding from her mouth) to fade off somewhere in the distance.
“I don’t need it. You know I have to take it from your own mouth for me to like it.” You preferred  the delivery of the smoke directly rather than actually using it the “normal” way.
“Taking it like that might be more harmful than the normal way,” Adler nagged, you don’t know why. He does it when you ask. Sometimes unprompted as well. It always leads to something or another. You’re not asking him for it right now however. Not appropriate. 
Adler sighed, placing his cigarette between his mouth, freeing his hand to settle on base of your neck, weaving through some of the hair there and scratching at your scalp. It made you unconsciously lean more of your weight against the man as you breathed out contentedly. “You shouldn’t be letting me do that so freely, Bell.” Your brows pulled together, pulling your head back slightly to see Adler’s visage was a hint taut, his lips more pressed than necessary around the cigarette. Before you can ask what was wrong with him, his hand roved from the back of your neck to the side of it—his thumb at the apple of your cheek as he gazed searchingly down at you, using his other hand to grab at the cigarette so he could freely talk. “… after this mess is cleaned up, we should go to Berlin.”
The perimeter alarm sounded just as you were about to question him, his sudden yet vulnerable sounding statement. Bodies sprung into action as Felix announced they were coming from the north; you stepped forward a few feet away from Harrow, your eyes on the way she seemed to be not here. Her eyes closed, murmurs and mutters escaping—hands furling and uncurling. You glanced at Case, who seemed to be watching her the same, a set grim line for a mouth. And his eyes…
Vengeful? You frown at what you saw, only for orders to be barked for Woods to be the one to finish extracting information from Harrow while the rest of them held the perimeter—or at least attempted to defend it. Woods? Alone?
“Wait!” You spoke up, now between the door of the ops room and Adler’s table that he enjoyed using for his smokes. Marshall paused giving orders to offer you his attention; the others did the same. “I’ll stay with Woods. Just as an extra measure if they manage to get through.”
“Bell, are you sure?” Woods was looking at you in clear concern, gaze flitting from Harrow to you. Strange to be involved on this side of things, for once, but you were careful not to look too discountenanced; you’ve had a decade to get ahold of yourself. 
You nodded, hand tightening on your side as you grabbed an XM4 and a Grekhova from the table, giving Adler a nod along with Woods—determined.
“I’m sure. We can’t risk anyone trying to stop us from getting the information we need. Besides,” you threw Woods a smirk that didn’t reach your eyes, but you hoped it still sent the message, “I can’t leave you with just your tank, Woods; nothing wrong with a little extra firepower. You can try to kick my ass on the Nintendo once this is over.”
Woods snorted as he returned your nod, his eyes rolling up in exasperation. Marshall mirrored the gesture of affirmation with haste. 
“Got it, Bell. You and Woods handle Jane, then, while we focus on defending the house from all sides. Close the ops room, Bell—“ 
You looked up with wide eyes as Adler strode easily across the room towards you, your gaze rising as he neared closer. Using a loose—although firm—hand on your upper back, he pulls you in to plant a quick yet searing kiss. You felt your face heat up, acutely aware of the audience in your peripherals, as you fisted around his form-fitting shirt. He leaned back, and there was a split-moment that he paused—engaging you with a soft look—before he gave you a steady nod, returning to load magazines with quick fingers. You wonder if the gas had fucked you up more than you thought, for him to offer his affection so publicly. The action used to soothe your still frayed mind. Sev whistled, loud and impressed, as Felix stared before averting his gaze. 
Marshall appeared as if he was stuttering without saying anything; he blinked himself out of his mild stupor before he continued. “O—kay, listen up!” 
You stepped back, away from the table, into the ops room and slid the metal door closed. You didn’t hear the rest as you closed the door, turning your back to it with your firearm lax in your hands, observing as Woods picked up where Marshall had left off.
It was… strange. Watching Harrow as Woods tried to guide her through, despite her obvious fear, as if she were a little girl. You didn’t catch much—with Adler distracting you—but from what you could tell from observing Harrow’s fast mutterings (You looked like that. You never asked Adler and he never explained. About the murmurs and the visions you saw, of how you must’ve been trembling in place just like Harrow was. Did you switch from English to Russian consecutively? To German when you saw the sticky notes? They gave you an adrenaline shot too. Harrow is lucky.) something had happened to her parents. Someone had killed them.
When she said the name, it threw you and Woods for a loop.
“Her parents must’ve been working with terrorists,” you lowly interject when Woods called Adler’s name, appalled - disbelieving. Your gaze cool as you flicked towards Harrow’s form on the chair (You tried the p̴̢͒̚ͅẖ̸̇r̶͊͜ã̶̞̿s̶̡̮̾e̷̢͋̕, this is what you get.) to assess. “Adler doesn’t touch innocents.” You know that. You know it intimately. 
You must’ve talked louder than you thought because before Woods could agree, Harrow voiced her denial, her voice thick and desperate, you thought.
“No! You—you don’t know anything!” It’s as if she forgot to breathe between words; the hatred, force and desperation in her tone turned her voice hoarse—and bitter. “Adler killed my parents. You must know it. What he is, what he’s doing to you despite his shitty charms. He used you—and is still using you! Adler is disgusting—a wretch.”
You gritted your teeth, tightening the hold on your gun while Woods defended you.
“Stop it, Harrow! Bell isn’t brainwashed anymore! That’s not what we should focus on. How are you so sure it was Adler? You were a kid.”
“N-No…” a slight dither, “it was! I know it was!”
“How can you be so sure?”
Harrow was hesitating, you could tell by just how deeply disturbed she appeared at the possibility—the chance that the Pantheon used her desperation against her. The desperation of  a child that, for years, had tried to find a reason for her parents’ death; a child that needed for there to be some kind of sense behind it, a meaning.
The ever-growing pool of hateful pity rose in you, your expression turning colder when the woman started panicking. So lost. So fearful. Confused. At war with herself and her supposed convictions—denial that she got played in the first place like a fucking third hand used up doll with hope to make things right or being the self righteous bitch that thinks she’s in control.
What’s gotten her into such a tizzy? You watched as Woods’ own pitiful expression towards Harrow, a touch of concern as her eyes shuttered in time with her feet moving on the floor, as if she wanted to flee; he muttered about her rising heart rate as he felt around the pulse point in her wrist. Your fingers were clenching and unclenching around the fore-grip of your XM4, strong contempt at her - what she’d done; framing Adler for the intelligence fuck-up that was Panama. And yet Woods still had this concern, concern for who he thought Harrow was, only for it to be lie. Despite how the man put up a front, you knew his inside was soft. He had to be. 
She’s acting like they gave her multiple doses. I wasn’t this pathetic . Giving all this information so easily.
You couldn’t stand the sight anymore; you turned your focus, instead, to ensure the door of the ops room remained secure. You moved things from Woods’ desk a few feet away against the wall—out of the way—and turned his desk over, careful in your effort to not disturb the… interrogation exercise, forming a makeshift blockade. A bit of cover if the ops room were to be compromised.
Woods had his full attention on Harrow, too busy focusing on a seizing Harrow, coaxing her to say the last bit of information needed—where they’re deploying the Cradle, to bother nagging at you about messing up his stuff. You double checked his own weapons, too, and ensured that they were loaded and serviceable before placing them within reach of him, going as far as propping the shotgun carefully between the outside of his thigh and the sides of the wheelchair to hold it. 
She passed out? Woods’ sharp curse when you handed the weapon off prompted your gaze to lock on her, and you saw how Harrow’s head was completely forward and slack. Woods gave Marshall updates as he tried to shake the woman awake, firmly insistent that they weren’t done yet—as if she could hear, somehow—and that she needed to push through it. Your lips curled, sneering. She expects to lead the CIA when she’s so feeble in mental strength? This ambition of hers is just a pipe dream; she’s nothing more than just a mere ant. (Unlike you. You were better than that, you were going to be P— -̷̛͎̏̕) 
You would’ve grabbed the woman’s hair by the scalp and slapped her if Woods hadn’t handled it; she finally spilled just as separation wore off, her true self coming through—the version of herself that’s just a smug bitch who thinks she knows it all. Too late for her—Woods had managed to get the information that you needed.
Your ears pricked at an explosion near the ops door, the metal groaning from the impact. Getting behind the desk you turned over, you turned the pin of your XM4 to fire and held it ready, soberly anticipatory.
“Woods!”
“Shit!” Woods begun to roll his wheelchair back, and away from Harrow, to support you. Pantheon’s attempts to breach the room were audible, and it was clear that they were making headway, each attempt less fruitless than the last. A split second of shuffling has your eyes widening with realization—they were going to place a breaching charge.
The gun was held steady in your arms, your scope aimed towards the ops room’s point of entry as you crouched behind for protection—at the ready. “Yeah, I got it! I need to make a quick call to Livingstone!”
The silence was eerie, your heart hammered and you didn’t dare tear your gaze from the door. You forced yourself to breathe evenly and hoped that Woods would get the message out in time. 
“Woods,” you said in warning, hearing the heavy footfalls right outside the door as soldiers cleared back, preparing for the detonation. 
“Gettin’ there,” he barked. 
Just as you heard the distinct transmitted tone from the transponder, Woods just managing to get the message out, the Pantheon blew open the iron door; soldiers filed in—the lead equipped with a riot shield. 
You focused on the man with the shield and Woods used his shotgun, his sights set on the others filing in from behind the lead soldier’s sides, forming a human barricade between you—and the exit. 
There was only one way out.  
You shot the man’s feet, Rules of Engagement damned, and downed him just as you needed to reload. No time. You took out the Grekhova as more soldiers came in, cursing at the seemingly constant waves of them, and scrambled back—away from the desk—due to the speed of their flanking. 
Woods faltered in his support, cursing as he had to throw his shotgun away and reaching for his pistol, M1911, as you came by his side to support him. Seeing how soldiers were getting closer and closer. Hand to hand it was. 
You took a sharp inhale, lunging forward and closing the gap with the soldier in front of you before they could react. Your hand shot out, gripping their wrist and turning it down. The soldier snarled and tried to twist away, but he was so slow. 
You struck his wrist with your free hand, aiming for the grip on his firearm to loosen, succeeding. You grabbed it and gave a swift kick to his ankle, his balance faltering. That’s all you needed—you shoved the barrel of his XM4 under his chin at an angle, pulling the trigger as the fully automatic firearm sprayed into his skull. There was little time to think about the sensation of warm blood splattering down the side of your head. Shot in the head with his own gun. You scoffed, he shouldn’t have lost it so easily, then. Shouldn’t have let you get so close; a firearm’s only good when there was a bit of distance. 
Before it could fall, you grabbed the corpse by the shoulder straps of it’s armored vest, struggling to keep the dead weight upright as you shielded yourself. 
Bullets continued to come your way, your eyes hard as you tried to cover Woods, too, as he kept shooting with his pistol. You free your dominant hand, using the back of your palm to quickly wipe the slickness of sweat and tacky blood from your cheek before reaching for the corpse’s thigh holster—a GS45 fastened there.
Freeing it from the holster, you messily cover your right, conscious of the magazine capacity, as Woods handled your left. The longer you held the corpse, the more your arm started to burn with the effort—easily over eighty kilos of dead weight. 
It was unsustainable; a sharp surge of irritation when the pistol stopped firing, punctuated with a dull click.
“Ебаное дно!” You clicked your tongue, unwilling to give up until they had you six feet under. The soldiers advanced significantly—well within arms reach of you.
Too close.
You threw the dead body towards them, utilizing the temporarily distraction to grab a homing knife from your thigh strap. Immense pressure erupted from your shoulder, the feeling of powerful force indicated a shot was made—whether the bullet grazed you or worse was hard to tell, it hurt all the same.
Gritting your teeth, you grunted but kept your aim true as you threw the homing knife.
Bullseye. 
The blade impacted the one you shoved the body toward. Meeting an eye with a slick sound, their body joined their fallen comrades. The motion had aggravated the new injury on your shoulder, and although you anticipated the move, you hadn’t enough time to recover before the other soldier lunged at you. 
The breath was knocked out of you. You fell to the floor, hard, your teeth clacking together as the back of your head hit the ground. Blood in your mouth—you must’ve bitten your cheek— and an uncomfortable feeling jolted your bones, Woods not fairing any better; they’d torn him down, too. 
You snarled, grabbing a knife from the back of your boot to slash at the man’s ankle, your shoulder screaming as you forced the movement. He caught your wrist and twisted it, your fingers splaying reflexively at the pain, yelping. Your eyes followed the blade as it fell to the floor with a brief clatter, irritation spiking when the soldier kicks it from your reach. 
You harshly spit the blood gathered in your mouth to the side, turning your head forward with a huff. The overhead lights were a little harsher as your head spun; the reminder of the last time you were half-dead under blinding lights sat only a few feet away from you. The bitch was doubtless grappling with her returning faculties. Probably already had—she hadn’t required a heavy dose at all. Weak. 
Shame. Should’ve fucking shot her the moment she spilled. 
The barrel of a gun met your face, conviction still running through your veins despite your need to catch your breath, sweat and blood on your skin as you tried to twist out of it. You abandoned the struggle when you realized it’s in vain. Even if you were to break free of the soldier’s grasp, there were half a dozen more in the room. You were injured. 
And fuck, you seethed when you saw they released Harrow—now seemingly fully conscious. She stood from the chair, rubbing her wrists primly. You fought the urge to roll your eyes; she hadn’t even been bound that tight, certainly not to the point of pain. 
“I want both of them alive.” Harrow passed her disappointed glance from Woods to you, the Pantheon soldiers stood you up forcibly, propped you upright with a rough grip around your uninjured upper arm, likely unconcerned that you’d try anything with your other arm, blood staining through the fabric there. You didn’t dare assess the damage, you’d rather not know. Yet. 
Her eyes seemed to change into one of interest as she skimmed over the many soldiers you took down. Her voice was strange, seemingly pleased with herself. “Very interesting. You’re a special one, aren’t you?” 
You spat at the ground, Harrow’s falsely kind tone made your hackles raise, and another soldier grabbed your injured side, reconsidering their hold on you. That you might fight even with just the one soldier holding you back. Their grips grew tight on each side. 
“You’re a pathetic one.” One of the soldiers delivered a smack to your face, your eyes seeing black and stars in your vision, your legs faltering before regaining your balance. You chuckled through blood stained teeth as you rolled your neck to the side, facing Harrow directly. “You talked so easy for us… hah… embarrassing.”
The words didn’t seem to land as you wanted, Harrow—unlike how meek separation had made her—had the courage, the nerve, to attempt to grasp your face. You snapped your teeth at her hand in warning—Harrow’s brows only rising more in clinical interest rather than the annoyance you saw a smidge of. You received another blow to the side of your face, blood spraying onto the floor below you as Woods called your name in concern.
“Bell! You fuckers!” Woods tried to move his arms to no avail, the soldiers foot and hand not moving from his tattooed arms. Woods let out a growl of frustration. “Focus on me, Harrow!”
“Curious,” Harrow continued as if she couldn’t hear the man. “Didn’t know MK-Ultra was this effective. You’re the only live one we have. Adler kept you quite a secret. A dirty one too,” she added in a tone of disgust.
You panted as you tried to get yourself together. “Got a point on all this, сука? Just kill me and get over yourself.” 
Harrow blinked in surprise, mocking with a hand to her chest.
“Kill you? The only live MK-Ultra subject we have? Why would I? It’s clearly effective. You fell in love with the man who tortured you.” Harrow let out a sick and cruel laugh, your stomach starting to drop at the implications when Harrow successfully grabbed your cheeks and squeezed. The pain that prickled from the broken skin on your cheek paled in comparison to your aches elsewhere. Aches everywhere.
Your vision swam, not just from the punches, but from the silhouette of Harrow in front of you to Adler—a decade too young—standing over you in a gurney—g̶̨̦̒l̶̨̘̈͝i̴̥͚̚t̶͕͕͗c̷̢̈́h̷͉͆͠i̵͕̋n̸̨͒̕g̷̰͐ in and out of your vision. You gasped. “I don’t need to fuck you to keep you in line though. Not my type. And despite what you may think of me, I draw the line at sexual assault. But using MK-Ultra on you and maybe what I gave to Case, you’ll be my best asset.” 
“We either control the asset, or eliminate the asset.”
No…
“Leave her alone, Harrow!” Woods yelled through grit teeth, still on the floor. Harrow turned towards the man with sick pleasure and you could see the knife in her hand. “Your head must be twisted if you really think Adler killed your parents and would even touch Bell like that!” 
“Wa-wait, no. Just kill me!” You pleaded, struggling harder in the hold on you to no avail. Your shoulder was hindering you and the ache in your jaw spiked when you moved it wrong. Harrow mocked Woods, scornful gloating before she swung deftly, delivering a knife to his abdomen, your adrenaline rushing and coming two fold. Fight or flight. N̷̺̉͊̈́ö̵͈͙̻t̴̤̻̟̒ ̵͉͙̍a̴̫̬͉͑̈g̵̺͝a̵̻̐i̸̗͚̗̊n̷̨̪̤̒̓̏.
“No! Woods!” You tried to claw, you even tried to bite. But two men in this state was even hard on you. “You little сука! Aмериканская дворняга!”
“Oh?” Harrow stood up, blood slicked knife in hand. You swallowed, roughly; the blood in your throat abrasive. “That’s funny. Aren’t you the dog? You will be. This is the best vengeance. Adler killed my parents. Now I can use his Russian love as I please. My ultimate soldier. Oh sorry. Cолдат would be more appropriate.” 
No. No. No.
You’ll forget. Everything. You won’t know anybody! Again!
Your mind won’t survive this a second time.
Your chest is tight, you feel like you can’t breathe and the room is spinning. You can’t breathe.
You can’t breathe.
(̴͉̪͐̕“̸̟̩̓͂W̵͔̲̱̼̎̓e̵̦̝͋̀̈́́͝ ̶̨̮̪͛g̷͈̺͙̗̓̊̐o̶̭̪̟̒̎̅t̴̡̗̼̫̽̅̆̈́t̶̬̠͍̝̹͛̈́̇ā̴͎̤ ̸̡̜͎͔̭̄͑͝j̷͈̜̆ͅo̵̡̥̣̿́͛̆̔ḃ̸͖ ̴͙͔̭̂t̶͈͇͈̓̎ǫ̵͇̻̯̼͑͆̓͊ ̷̥̅̿d̸̥̹̝̗͂̕o̶̙̲̱͂̄̊́͑.̴̨̨̻̤͎͆̎̔”̶̦̼͕̋̐͗̒)̷͕̮͉̝̂̈́̈̔
No, you don’t! You haven’t for years! 
…right?
Right? 
The bell that was distant is now closer, over your head as it chimed to match the ringing in your ears.
“Bell!” You hear Woods call despite his grievous injury. “Keep fighting them, Bell!”
Time slips through splayed fingers, an immense pressure building somewhere in your head, pain erupting each time you come back to. You gasp.
They brought you outside, the thought suddenly registering as you feel the wind on your face, ice cold air prickling your open wounds. A Pantheon chopper in front of you. 
Your vision growing dark on the edges. You can’t. You can’t get on the chopper.
You’ll die before you do. Your vision swims, your head falling forward and looking at the ground. Chest heaving out of rhythm, gasping for air as if the soldiers hit you another time. 
The ground was shifting. From craggy rocks to puddles. From simple grass to the thick foliage that was home to mosquitos. You spot an MCI on the ground. A lone appendage on the other side. Fires on the trees like mini suns in their brightness and height.
Vietnam.
Your throat was closing tight. Needles.
“Needles?”
“No.”
“Well, look at that,” Harrow taunted, deceptively disinterested. She spoke of you as an asset, an instrument she merely needed to tune before deploying. “Classic panic attack. Don’t need to break you much, then. Hopefully you’ll still be able to take the Cradle better than Case.”
The grip on your arms loosen as your vision swims, you trying to catch your breath with deep gulps of air. You close your eyes. The sound of the chopper rotors whipping hurt your ears. 
The chopper. The only survivor. You picked up the M16—No. Adler. Adler the only survivor. The scar—
“MK-Ultra.”
“No.”
You’re more thrown to the back of the chopper than carefully laid down. The harsh metal jarring you as you tried getting your bearings, elbows digging painfully on the metal. The tread plate flooring scraping on your skin.
Hot metal atop of you. Danger close. Solovetsky.
Someone kneels on your side, grabs a wrist with gloved hands as you lay there with slow even breaths. 
Solovetsky.
Your mind supplies of a rugged voice to your ear atop of cliffs. 
“Follow what I say closely, kid.”
A plan. To live. To be.
“Bullet?”
“No. Never again.”
Adler just barely half an hour ago, looking vulnerable in his softness as he gazed down at you.
“…after this mess is cleaned up, we should go to Berlin.”
A promise.
Your eyes sharpen, a quick inhale as you use your free hand to seize the knife from the soldier’s thigh, slicing his neck before he could comprehend it. Blood spurting on you like the red blooded demon you are. A spray of red mist staining your skin, some falling down to your eyes.
Harrow and the other soldier spin as the helicopter starts to take off.
“What—“
You pounce, snarling just as the soldier takes a step towards you, moving to grab you only to fail as you use your foot—manipulating his momentum—trip him up, throwing him off of the helicopter. Your body hurts. Every part of you aches, but you don’t care. You can’t care, not with the surge of energy you feel. The euphoric high when you make them bleed.
“You fucker!” 
Your vision spins as you feel your nose break with a crack. You rose a hand to block another hit. Feet steady and secure. You give her a swift kick to the chest as she tried to punch you again, her arm swinging towards your abdomen before you terminated the attempt. She lets out a choked gasp as she falls, winded, vicious eyes staring up at you.
Her on the floor from your kick. You standing above, eyes cool with a white knuckled grip on the knife. 
Your figure of red. The Russian you are. 
You climb atop Harrow before she can even move, knife swift towards her chest. Only to be stopped by her own hands atop of yours, two inches away.
You grunt, eyes feral and hungry for more blood. Both of you have your hair matted and sweaty, stuck to skin, frustrated noises coming from you both as you fight to kill and she fights to live.
Live.
“N-no!” Harrow manages to slip through her mouth, knife growing closer. You shift your grip, hand more firmly atop the handle and you using your body weight to push. Push. Just push it in. “No…!”
You growl, teeth out and animal like noises coming out of you. Uncaring if your bloody spittle falls on the bitch’s chest as you grow closer and closer and closer.
Live!
Your knife meets chest, you see it entering slowly just as Harrow does with a yelp. 
“Never…again…!” You spit, pushing it more. 
Harrow’s head meets yours as a shock, nausea suddenly meeting the aching already settled there. The blood loss, your injuries, even the motion of the helicopter taking to the air—it makes it harder for your balance to resettle. Your head spins as you pull back, your back now on the floor as she seizes the upper hand, straddling your waist as her hands wrap around your throat. Your hold on the knife still to her chest, but you struggle without your weight behind it. Without air. You’re choking.
Harrow laughs in your face, all wild and insane—your former grim ferocity fading.
“Ha! Kill… me?! I’ll make sure… Adler sees your head on a spike… you commie bitch…!”
The helicopter is in the air, yet a new passenger arrives. Giving a swift kick down to Harrow’s back, therefore meeting the knife to her chest in a swift movement. It sinks in with the force, past skin, fat and muscle.
Her eyes are wide just yours is, your eyes shifting to beside you to see the stoic and sweaty Case. Harrow had her death rattle atop you her words a mere whisper only you could hear as she looked up at Case. Disgusting, you sneer. She got her fluids on you. Mucus, blood, sweat.
“I… made… you……”
Her last breath fanning your cheeks before you rolled the dead weight off of you. Case makes for the chopper pilot with a swift knock out and quickly gains control.
Your eyes move towards Harrow’s body, staring at her dull eyes with a ruthless look of your own. You put a foot to her shoulder with a sneer.
Never again.
You push her off with your foot. 
Down to the open water and you don’t care for what semantics this could mean.
You instead close your eyes, just like you did in Solovetsky. And feel the sun on your face as Case moves the helicopter. The sound starting to calm you.
“Live. You gotta live for me, Bell.”
“Ha…I did it, Russ. You’re welcome.” You say with a pained smile. And you say it again when you land by the cliffs, Adler rushing towards you with wide eyes—glasses atop his hair as he assessed you on the helicopter. A good thing, too; you’re not sure you have the strength to alight on your own.
His hands seeming to not know where to go, but he doesn’t hesitate. His touch ghosts up your sides, blindly assessing you with a nearly-spooked form of gentleness. He finally took a look at your bloody face, littered with cuts and nasty bruises, still with that distant ghost of a smile. Adler released a breath and brought you gently to his chest, whispering that he has you in your ear as he nuzzled softly into your hair. You could only release a chuckle, one that was more a breath of air than a huff of amusement, as you closed your eyes. You inhaled the familiar comforting scent of nicotine and leather. “I did it, Russ… You’re welcome,” you said again, more quietly than the first time, quickly fading to rest.
Russell shushed you, planting a quick peck to your bloodied temple before continuing to hold you. His hands surely covered in scarlet similar to how you’re drenched in it, spreading it to his own form.
“Yes. Good job,” Russell breathed, moving his forehead to tap against yours, blue eyes on your abused and tired face. “Rest, Bell. Do that for me.”
“O…kay…” You managed before all you saw was black. 
(An image of a bell in your mind’s eye, not moving for a ring.)
A/N: makeyourpeacenow: There's something here to be said about Harrow, the CIA bitch, determined to end Bell, former Soviet, in early 1991 (before the Soviet Union dissolves in December)
Also Adler's two protégés fighting 🫠
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Animefreak1145: Case needed a proper crash out and someone to try to defend the poor man. Even though his only defense is a woman who hates looking at mirrors who can't even defend himself from breaking. Don't let Bell get started on Harrow.(too many uncomfortable mirrors here for Bell to face) Also Soft!Adler here(interested at looking at a new potential tool/asset/operative like Case who reminds him of Bell, typical Adler) mixed with psycho. I like Marshall, just not his treatment of Case. Also ex-socialist/commie besties Felix and Bell forever and ever. Nerds for the win~ 💗 🤓Hope ya'll enjoyed this work we did together. There's other stuff I want to comment but I don't remember. Just poor Bell going through bad drug trip... 😔 And Russell making a massacre out of Gusev and willing to have bloody drenched hands along with Bell 🥰 Psycho couple for the win!
Edit: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTY5VWtvK/
Accurate. 😐
Tag List: @tr1ppylady @parkeepingparker @weirdoartist21 @gojocat247 @mayaibnlaahad @dallmaistir @salvija @kylezkie4adler @asaltryefl @stupid-stinky @aurora-windu @zachfoxx121 @pyxis-stellae @makeyourpeacenow @obsessedgremlin @butterfly-stitches @djloveyou3000
You have to tell me if you want me to tag you for each update or else I won't know. Or if you wish to be removed.
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creature-wizard · 7 months ago
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A warning for trauma survivors looking for online support
You may have come across the acronym "RAMCOA", which stands for "ritual abuse, mind control, and organized abuse."
If you search the Internet for RAMCOA, you might come across a result like this:
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If you click the link, you'll be taken to a site that briefly describes what RAMCOA supposedly is, with content like:
MC - Mind Control. A shortened form of TBMC, standing for Torture Based Mind Control. MC is also known as programming, where victims are repeatedly tortured starting at a very young age to intentionally cause a system of dissociated parts that function perfectly to suit the abusers' needs.
alpha : a base program, one of the very first implemented. it trains the victim's mind to accept every order given by handlers willingly. parts with alpha programming will often have no will of their own, and very little personality outside of following orders.
aiw : alice in wonderland. typically split into 3 different sections : black alice, white alice, and crazy alice. ideally, a system scripted with aiw would have all three. white alice makes sure the system forgets the trauma, black alice makes the system feel like theyll be a danger to others if they remember the trauma, and crazy alice makes the system think theyre making it up or going insane if they ever remember it.
Literally all of this comes from a conspiracy theory - specifically, the Project Monarch alter programming conspiracy. It was developed and pushed by far right conspiracy theorists. Most of what people run into specifically traces back to Fritz Springmeier, a man who claimed in the 90's that the fight for gay rights was part of a plot to enthrone the antichrist in the year 2000. The Project Monarch conspiracy theory was always adjacent to the Satanic Panic, if not a somewhat niche part of it. If you start checking citations, you will find many of these people citing Svali, a conspiracy theorist who gets a lot of her material from Springmeier. (Example 1, example 2.)
This is no accident. The term RAMCOA was created by the International Society for the Study of Trauma and Dissociation (ISSTD), which was created by and for psychologists who believed in the myths promoted during the Satanic Panic.
The RA part comes from "satanic ritual abuse," which was coined by Dr. Lawrence Pazder of Michelle Remembers (cw for descriptions of horrible abuses) fame. Lawrence Pazder is the man who effectively started the Satanic Panic. It cannot be overstated that Pazder, now a known malpractitioner, was considered the expert on ritual abuse during this time.
The MC part comes from "trauma-based mind control," which was coined to refer to the alleged abuses inflicted in Project Monarch. Parts of this conspiracy theory that can't be traced back to Fritz Springmeier can usually be traced back to Cathy O'Brien and Mark Phillips, two other (really racist) conspiracy theorists.
Ultimately, the entire conspiracy theory is constructed from tropes that go back to The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion (a known antisemitic hoax), blood libel, and early modern witch panic.
Searching the Internet for RAMCOA resources, ritual abuse, or trauma-based mind control will always bring you to conspiracy theorists.
(Also, the term OEA, which stands for "organized extreme abuse," will lead you to conspiracy theorists as well.)
So yeah, if you're looking for support, be very wary of this stuff. It will absolutely not help you heal; just the opposite.
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technofeudalism · 3 months ago
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The startup Eight Sleep Inc. makes a temperature-controlled, water-filled mattress cover system popular with Silicon Valley execs and body optimizers who say that sleeping at the perfect temperature gives them the ideal rest. The bed cover costs more than $2,000 and requires an internet connection to work. To power the temperature adjustments – which the company now says can be finessed with AI insights – Eight Sleep beds need to be online. But one researcher says he’s found ways that Eight Sleep’s engineers can theoretically snoop on customers’ bed activity. He says it’s just the latest example of the way tech companies today are often pushing everyday products to be overly engineered, unnecessarily internet-connected and reliant on a recurring subscription. Dylan Ayrey, the co-founder and chief executive officer of Truffle Security Co., said he initially bought an Eight Sleep system to help with insomnia. He joins users such as Meta Platforms Inc. CEO Mark Zuckerberg, biohacker Bryan Johnson and Andrew Huberman, the tech industry’s favorite health guru. Elon Musk has also praised the bed. (The admiration is apparently mutual: Eight Sleep CEO Matteo Franceschetti shipped bed covers to DOGE this month and wrote on X, “@eIonmusk us if you need more.”) When Ayrey looked at the bed’s firmware, he was surprised to see that it appeared to have a backdoor that would allow the company’s engineers to remote into any bed and run code on it without oversight. Ayrey hypothesized that, for example, if your ex worked at Eight Sleep, they could find out when you’re sleeping at home – or when you’re not – and whether you’re sleeping alone or with someone else. He compared it to Uber Technologies Inc.’s controversial “God View,” an internal system in which employees previously could track individual riders using their service. It also evokes the way thousands of Amazon.com Inc. employees could listen to sound clips recorded through Alexa devices.
[ Source ]
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erinfern0 · 8 months ago
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cutting the cord
spencer reid x explosives specialist!gn!reader
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— gender-neutral nicknames, gender-neutral anatomy, only pronouns used are you, they, etc.
summary: the team struggles with a group who planned to plant a bomb in a town hall to spread awareness of their cause. as the only technicians available in the area are busy with another emergency, Spencer finds himself calling you, the closest off-duty technician he knew, despite how much he hates the idea.
warnings: emotional, angst(?), some swearing, love confession, and obviously stress, anxiety and fear for your life, etc. cliffhanger
a/n: this was highly inspired by episode 'hero worship' from season 10 of Criminal Minds. I haven't written anything besides smut for such a long time I wanted to give something like this a try. Itt's also over like 2,5k words long--- (I'm so sorry i don't even know how i wrote it)
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Doomsday Prophets - The group they were tracking started off small, with a bunch of troubled, unsupervised teenagers led by their online guru, who believed the system was too flawed to even try to repair it. They spent their first months spreading their agenda with countless flayers and graffiti murals all over the most popular places in the city. No one knew his real name, just the internet alias of doomsking130. Even the great Garcia couldn't track him in time before one of his sidekicks got brutally beaten for trying to leave.
Countless informants, and hours spent in interrogation rooms with lower-ranked members and the injured boy, lead them to the leader struggling with psychosis and an overwhelming god complex. He believed the only way to get people's attention was to set a bomb in a nearby town hall in the early morning hours, showing even the government can't protect people from the truth, at least that's what the team thought.
He never even thought there might be security guards waiting for him, informed about his plans by the FBI. As soon as they saw him entering the building via security cameras, they called no other than SSA Hotchner, who had warned them earlier that something like this might happen soon. His team quickly moved into action, hoping they could stop him before he set up the bomb, just to avoid getting help from Bomb Techs.
“Dave, you and I go from the staff-only entry on the left, Morgan and Jareau take the right window, the security guard who called left it open,” said Agent Hotchner, pointing the right directions to his team, watching them split. “Reid and Callahan, you enter the front and look for any worker left in the building.”
Everyone nodded in understanding, splitting and running to their destinations with their guns in their hands. Dr. Reid could feel a tiny drop of sweat running down his brow as he pointed another person toward the front door. People ran away in fear but kept their mouths closed not to alarm the criminals' leader.
Some time passed, leading the team to the building's basement, where the leader set up his life's biggest achievement. A small-looking detonator, connected to two canisters of gasoline, was set next to the power outlet. The arrest was quick, he didn't try any games or to run away, he simply allowed Agent Rossi to cuff him, because the damage was done.
Or was about to be done.
The bomb was already set, giving the team one and a half hours to deal with it as the unsub refused to help. He screamed about how the government tries to control the youngest of all to be their mindless little soldiers. How the system was set to manipulate the youth into dying for the country that didn't care about them. He laughed as Agent Morgan inspected the bomb from a distance.
“Y'all are a part of their games, agents,” he spat as agent Rossi guided him to the door. “All I spread is the truth, you're just too blind to see them using you. My kids won't stop opening people's eyes, even when you take me away! The Doomsday will come as they realize they'd been lied to...”
“Aren't you even worse?” Asked Morgan, crossing his arms with a displeased look on his face.
"How so?" Asked the man, suspiciously calm and smug as he raised his head proudly.
"Well, technically speaking even if what you're saying is true, the government uses us to help other people who can't protect themselves from people like you," said Reid, staring at the man as if he were trying to look at his soul. "You on the other hand pressure troubled teens into doing your dirty work to feed your ever-growing god complex, which almost led one of them to death."
The unsub seemed to be confused, that little frown on his brows, mindlessly staring into the wall behind Dr. Reid as he parted his lips as if he was about to speak.
"Seems like you used up your limit," taunted Callahan, smirking at him as he opened his mouth again.
He started trashing his arms around in Rossi's grip, spitting something out in some Slavic language they couldn't understand.
“That's enough,” murmured Rossi, tightening his grip and taking the criminal outside, leading him to the car parked in front of the building alongside Callahan.
“I'll call the Techs,” said Hotchner, heading outside to get his phone.
Some minutes later he came back with his arms crossed and that strange, disappointed look.
"And?" Asked Morgan, looking around the room, kneeling beside the bomb, and inspecting it closer.
"They might or may not be here in an hour, there was another emergency, supposedly done by the Dooms Prophets," said Agent Hotchner, looking at all of his people who stayed inside.
"He planned this better than we thought," whispered Jennifer, looking at him with concern. "The kids must have lied..."
"Or he didn't trust all of them, the ones we got to speak with were younger, less devoted. He wouldn't trust them with that information," added Reid, standing beside Morgan.
"Yeah, but if he really treated them like prophets for the close-minded folks, he wouldn't change his mind from a long-lasting plan to something so quick," murmured Derek, looking up at his teammates.
"This was his plan all along, he knew he'd be caught. He just hoped his Prophets would continue his work without him," Reid chimed in, looking around to only see his teammates confused faces. "His nickname was 'doomsking130'… The bomb was set to an hour and a half," he added, looking at his watch, then the device. "I think the attack and the emergency wasn't his idea, it's his followers who tried to continue his work on their own."
They all stared at one another, nodding in agreement while processing his words, following up on the idea of their Boy Genius.
Morgan turned his head slightly to look at the messy-haired doctor. "This shit is too complicated, nothin' I've seen yet, this guy is a smart one," he whispered, shaking his head softly. "I can't deal with this... I'm sorry."
"Not your fault, Derek. We'll wait for the Techs," assured Hotchner, patting his agent's back as he stood up away from the bomb.
"There is no time," said Jareau, turning her head to her team. "You said they 'may or may not' be here in an hour, and we already lost a few minutes, they might be too late."
The atmosphere in the room felt heavier as Agent Rossi came back to the room, saying he got the local police to drag the leader to the station, while Kate called her family to inform them she'd be late. He felt as disappointed and worried as everyone, making sure to keep the pregnant agent safe, away from the building as the rest searched for a solution for a few more minutes.
"Reid," started Morgan, turning to face his friend. "Doesn't your lovebird know how to deal with those?"
"Um, yeah, they worked in the bomb disposal department, but decided to take a break from this a while back," he answered, already frowning his brows at the dreadful idea.
"Would they be able to disarm it?" joined Hotchner, crossing his arms as he listened.
"I think so..." he said unsurely, his hands shaking slightly at scenarios running through his head. "It wouldn't be exactly legal to bring them here, just for your information."
"Would be quicker than the actual technicians," noticed Jareau, looking at Spencer with a soft, understanding look on her face. She knew exactly how much it had to scare him, but like everyone else — she couldn't see another way.
"If they don't feel like doing it, we'll just have to wait for the Bomb Techs, as a civilian now, they shouldn't feel pressured into risking so much," reminded Hotchner, looking at Dr. Reid with a glimpse of sympathy.
"But saving some time would be nice," said Morgan unapologetically, moving closer to Reid. "They live only a few blocks away, local police could escort them and secure the area."
Jennifer came up to Spencer, slowly wrapping an arm around him, soothing his tense muscles. She saw the distress in his eyes, but just like the doctor, she didn't like the idea.
"I'll call," decided Spencer, closing his eyes to calm down. "They live around eight minutes away from here, but-"
"It's up to them," assured Hotchner, nodding his head in understanding. "I'll make some calls, to make sure they won't get into any trouble if they decide to come."
Getting a call from Spencer so early in the morning was usual, so you left your book on the side of the couch, paying your full attention to his words. He spoke quickly, almost too quickly as he tried to summarize everything in the shortest amount of time possible, making it hard for you to interrupt him. Just the tiredness and distress in his voice made you melt, gathering your kit before he could even finish his ramble.
You didn't hesitate, jumping into the police car he talked about that escorted you right to the town hall, passing the barrier blocks and reporters who tried to talk to you. You covered your face with your hood, knowing too well not to talk to them, especially that you weren't there exactly legally. Passing agents Rossi and Callahan, you waved at them, getting polite nods as they watched you disappear into the building.
You walked as quickly as possible, guided by the deputy that drove you there. Something felt different, deep inside of you as you ran downstairs to the basement. It wasn't the first time you got an urgent call to help disarm a bomb, that was your entire life for the past few years, but just reminding yourself of Spencer's voice made your heart beat a little faster.
"SSA Aaron Hotchner," said the tall man who stood in the middle of the room, nodding his head as he shook your hand. He was the only member of the team you didn't have the chance to meet. You introduced yourself. Just hearing your own specialist title fall from your lips felt so distant as you were on a break for the past few months.
You nodded to everyone, only locking eyes with Spencer, who got closer as if just his presence was meant to protect you. "Agent Hotchner," you started, looking away from your boyfriend to kneel beside the device, opening your kit of tools in a hurry. "Evacuate the building and the area, I'll do my best but with devices like this..."
"I understand," he assured, letting Morgan and Jareau leave the room. There was only one more person who didn't budge beside him. "Reid?"
You looked to your side, watching Spencer shake his head and roll his sleeves up. "I'd like to stay," he said as if it was nothing, not even looking at his superior.
"It's your call," said Hotchner, looking at him with worry, but he left the basement. You knew if you weren't so important to Spencer he'd never allow this kind of behavior, but you could feel your blood boil at just the idea of him staying.
"Leave," you said simply, knowing how dangerous it was for him. At that moment, you didn't even care for yourself, you've done this a million times, but risking his life...
"Not a chance," he replied, reaching for your flashlight to help you. You could see the way his hands started shaking then he lifted it and it started to break your heart.
"You can't do this, Spence," you whispered breathlessly, focusing your eyes on the device. Two detachable components connected only by a few wires, a wide panel to control the bomb was already turned off the moment the time was set and two big canisters of gasoline beside just to make the explosion more dangerous.
"I can and I will," he said firmly, watching your skilled fingers run over the bomb to carefully detach the two parts.
"For fucks sake, Spencer," you sighed, already feeling the way your lip quivered with every word. "I can't promise you anything, I can't do this to you..."
"I'm not leaving," he repeated through gritted teeth, looking up at you from under his messy hair, covering most of his face as he spoke. "And stop trying to convince me otherwise."
You wiped the tears that spilled from your eyes as they followed one wire after another, watching the way they split and connected to find the one to cut. There were way more than in a usual device and just from the look of it, you knew some of them were just decoys, not really connected to any part, not activating anything, just being there to fuck with the mind of the person who dared to try defusing it.
"I can't focus when all I can think of is this killing you," you whispered, your voice breaking with every passing second. "Leave me here, I need to do this alone... I can't risk your life like this. You mean too much not only to me but to your team, your mom, the people who will need the help of an actual genius, so please, just spare me the talking and get out when you still have the chance. It's so selfish to even think..."
His calm and soft voice stopped you in the middle of your monologue. Tears kept falling down your face as you recognized the words he spoke. The stubborn bastard couldn't even fathom the idea of leaving you to this by yourself. Despite how scared he was inside, he kept his cool, reciting one of your favorite books from memory.
You inhaled deeply, feeling yourself growing more steady and calm, your muscles relaxing with every paragraph. Despite biting into your lip harshly, you didn't feel the pain, the tears were gone and the annoyingly fast heartbeat eased.
Spencer kept his eyes glued to your fingers as he took breaths in between each sentence, only glimpsing up a you for a second every time you cut another decoy wire to clear your way to the actual ones.
The time seemed to stop despite the timer showing you almost an hour passed already, leaving you with only a few minutes to neutralize the threat. You wiped your face in your hoodie, getting rid of sweat and tears as you cut through the last decoy, leading you to analyze the actual device.
You caught the cord you thought was the right one with your scissors, swallowing harshly at just the idea of you being wrong. You reached your free hand to the side, mindlessly searching for his. Doing this was not only risking the lives of you and Spencer but potentially unaware people who happened to be close by. Your heart sped up drastically as you made the decision.
Looking up, you saw Spencer who stopped mid-sentence. A look of worry passed through his face as he intertwined your fingers, his other hand resting on the back of your head, soothing you by slowly moving his fingers through your hair.
"Spencer," you whispered breathlessly, a stray tear running down your cheek, leaving him to quickly wipe it off with a soft smile."I love you..."
His smile only grew bigger as looked at you, that familiar sparkle in his eye shining brightly at you. His eyes were teary, but he didn't let any tears spill as he nodded. Those puppy eyes stared at you with the most love you've ever seen.
"I know," he whispered back, his voice cracking as he looked down at your hands.
You felt like the whole world crushed over you as he didn't say those words back, unlike he did a million times before. Your heart sank but you just looked down, brows frowned as you focused not to lose all composure you had left.
For a split second, the basement was filled with eerie silence as you pushed down on the scissors, cutting the cord in half.
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theiasthesis · 8 months ago
Text
Shifting can be escapism, and that's OK.
Im going to give you a valuable lesson, so stick to the post, dont skip because every word is important. Don't let that small attention span get to you baby, remember that knowledge is power.
My name is Willow! I'm a non-dualist reality shifter, shifting coach and subliminal creator who's a freak for the multiverse and knowledge. Everything I say on here is based on my own personal experiences and research.
This post can help you with:
Escapism, guilt for shifting, realising you're worthy of shifting.
The self determination theory (SDT) is a psychological theory of motivation. It focuses on the degree to which specific human behaviour is for the self ; self motivated and self determined
Basically, what exactly is it that a human being can do, that isn't manipulated by outside influence, but rather their own human nature?
According to the theory these are 3 self motivated human behaviours:
Autonomy
Having the freedom to decide your actions without outside influence.
Example: Being able to go out with your friends, without your parents restricting you.
Competence
The ability to do something effectively and be useful.
Example: You're a very useful employee at your company, this means you are competent for your job.
Relatedness
Being connected or related to someone, or something.
Example: Having a connection with family or friends
OK, so how does any of this apply to shifting and escapism?
When you lack one of any of these 3 behaviours or feelings, this is a disruption your human nature. Naturally by birth, you are within your birth right to recieve all of this.
Each of these behaviours, have extreme importance in your cognitive behaviour
- Cognitive behaviors are thoughts, ideas, and representations of yourself to others.
If you don't have the will or ability to control your actions independently, you are most likely going to feel stuck, and like everything is out of your control. Doing things that make you happy and activities you find meaningful, will become an issue due to your lack of autonomy.
If you don't feel competent in areas of your life, or people aren't competent when it comes to you, this can create low self esteem and a bad self concept, you may think of yourself as "worthless" "useless" or "incompetent"
You may feel less motivated to taking on new challenges and activities, as you feel like you're just going to fail, and mess everything up anyways.
Connection is what makes us human, love and empathy towards overs and receiving it, is what makes human life so special. Relatedness, is what you need to experience caring relationships, to be part of a community, and overall to feel love. Humans need love, that is a fact.
When these basic needs aren't met, a human being can lack the motivation to commit to any one of these factors, which take up a huge part in life.
Lacking these can make you feel, stressed, anxious, self loath and nihilistic.
When you don't have these 3 factors, this causes a lack of motivation to commit to them, which means you don't have them.
So you turn to something else, escapism.
"Escapism is the tendency to distract oneself from real-life problems. It can also be conceived as shutting meanings out of one's mind and freeing oneself from self-awareness for a while . Escapism has been identified as one of the key drivers behind online behaviors, in both adaptive and maladaptive ways"
- PubMed Central®
Link to study
Think of escapism like touching a hot stove. Imagine you place your hand upon a stove. At first its cold, and you're fine.
Then the temperature starts to slowly rise, its currently warm, its still fine you can deal with it. Now, it's getting hotter, and hotter, and hotter...
And you remove your hand.
Not on purpose, but by instinct.
By reflex, your hand immediately moved away from the stove once it got too hot.
Your nervous system felt the pain, which sent a signal to the brain, that something with your hand is wrong.
Biology isn't my strong suit I fear.
Another example.
You're in immediate danger, there's a tsunami coming your way, it's too big for you to face, if you stay where you are, you're going to get crushed by the water, and die on impact. So what do you do?
You run.
Naturally you escape from the dangerous situation, because who in their right mind would test their luck and try to survive a tsunami?
Are you getting it?
When human beings are faced with a situation that is uncomfortable, causes mental, or physical harm, or even death, their first response is to escape.
It is human nature to run, to escape, to not face the dangerous situation. Sometimes it can be a bad move, like ditching a daye you were nervous for, other times it could be skipping school because you constantly run into a group of serious bullies.
Repeat after me.
If you are in a situation where you do not feel loved, worthy, or free, you are allowed to escape.
You are allowed to escape.
Empathise on that baby, nobody is going to tell you off for it.
However, you must be weary of using shifting as escapism.
Shifting is a wonderful phenomenon, it is not something that determines whether you live or not. It doesn't determine your worth either, nor is it something that causes you psychological stress.
If you find yourself having suicidal or self harming thoughts, with shifting as a way to mend these thoughts, I beg of you to take a step back and evaluate these thoughts of yours.
Shifting is a journey, I preach that it's something that can be done on the first go, but that isn't the case for everybody.
It can be as short or as long as you make it, failure in shifting when using it as an escape from serious issues, is a one way road to psychological distress.
With that, I ask that you first deal with your mental health, before anything else.
Find something that makes you feel good and grounded, something you enjoy.
Please remember, that not everything is something you must be good at, if it came from you it's already perfect.
Meditation, painting, dancing, listening to music, writing, exercise. Anything and everything that makes you feel good, nothing is too silly, nobody is going to think you're weird or bad at doing something you love to do.
I found that talking out loud, writing in my journal, mediation and watching anime helped me a lot when I had "life impacting plans" connected to shifting.
LESSON SUMMARY
1. It is natural for human beings to run away when they are faced in a dangerous or uncomfortable situation
2. Shifting being used to run away from a bad situation, isn't negative. It only becomes negative once you prioritise it over your own health
3. Your mental and physical health always comes first before shifting
4. You deserve to be loved, to feel worthy, to not be let down, and to be free, whether that's through shifting or not!
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muiitoloko · 24 days ago
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Sinclair Bryant × Reader smut?
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Title: Assets in Motion
Summary: Your fingers, your mouth, your control—everything becomes a transaction Sinclair’s desperate to overpay for.
Pairing: Sinclair Bryant × Fem! Reader
Warnings: Smut
Author's Notes: Thank you for your request. 🫶
Also read on Ao3
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Sinclair Bryant studied the menu like it was a document from the future—dense, intimidating, and filled with words that seemed to shift meanings under pressure. The restaurant was elegant, all soft lighting and polished glassware, the kind of place Natalie would have loved. He pushed the thought aside—along with the monthly reminder of her alimony—and focused instead on the woman across from him. You.
God, you were stunning. Not just in the physical sense (though that, too—obviously), but in the way you looked at him. Like you were already dissecting him with precision, already deciding what parts of him were worth exploring.
You didn’t seem the type to waste time.
Sinclair cleared his throat, eyes still on the menu but brain short-circuiting. “What do you think of the sea bass?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “Apparently it’s flown in daily from the coast, which seems both extravagant and oddly specific. I mean, how far is the coast, really? Do we need a plane? Couldn’t we just get—?”
Something brushed against his leg.
He paused. Looked down. And saw your foot—bare, toes painted a dark red—sliding slowly up his calf under the tablecloth.
His mouth opened slightly. Oh.
You smiled at him sweetly from across the table like you hadn’t just lit his nervous system on fire.
Sinclair blinked, heart skipping a beat. Well. Okay, then. You were bolder than he expected.
Then again, you had hinted at this kind of teasing through your online messages. A well-placed double entendre here, a wicked little emoji there. And now, here you were, foot trailing higher.
God, he was rambling again. In his head, at least.
His hazel eyes—golden-brown in this lighting—flicked up to meet yours. You looked composed. Amused, even. Like you knew exactly what you were doing. And you did.
He cleared his throat, tried to focus. “You, ah... seem very comfortable with public... footsie.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Would you rather I used my hands?”
Jesus Christ.
Sinclair shifted in his seat, acutely aware of how fast his trousers were tightening. This was… unexpected. It had been months. Months since Natalie. Since anyone. And now he was seated in a fancy restaurant, heart pounding, cock twitching, while the beautiful woman he met online was stroking his inner thigh with her foot like she owned him.
“I—uh—well, I mean—no objections,” he murmured, voice deepening into that baritone that always seemed to get more gravelly when he was aroused. “It’s just—new. All of this. You’re…” He laughed softly, eyes dancing between amusement and heat. “You're making it hard to focus on anything other than the architecture under this table.”
You raised an eyebrow, slow and dangerous. “I thought you liked to predict the future, Mr. Stock analyst.”
Sinclair chuckled, a flush creeping up his neck. “I do. I just wasn’t expecting the future to show up wearing a red dress and no shame.”
You took a sip of your wine, lips glistening, foot pressing just a little firmer between his legs.
He exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t… been with anyone since Natalie.”
The smile you gave him was soft. Understanding. But then your foot slid just a fraction higher, and you leaned forward, whispering, “Then let me be the one to remind you how good it feels to forget.”
Sinclair groaned under his breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
Forget Natalie. Forget the awkwardness. Forget the world.
God help him, he was already yours.
He stared down at the menu again, fidgeting slightly with the edge of his napkin, then glanced up at you with something bordering on genuine embarrassment.
“Would it be terribly unsexy,” he began, voice low, thoughtful, “and possibly very offensive… if I asked if we could finish dinner first?”
Your brows lifted slightly in surprise, a slow grin tugging at your lips.
“I mean—don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly, baritone rushing now, “you’re—this—everything you’re doing is—good God, you’re stunning—but I’m also kind of starving, and they say you shouldn’t make major decisions on an empty stomach, especially ones involving legwork under the table…”
You laughed, soft and warm, sliding your foot gently back to your own side. “Sinclair,” you said, still smiling as you rested your chin in your hand, “you are absolutely adorable.”
He blinked. “I am?”
You nodded, eyes twinkling. “Your ex-wife must be an idiot.”
That made Sinclair pause. He tilted his head, hazel eyes softening, clearly not used to receiving compliments he believed. “You really think that?”
“I know that,” you said, matter-of-fact, reaching for your wine again. “I’m sitting across from the most charming man in this restaurant, and he’s worried about ordering dinner before I seduce him. That’s not just adorable—that’s rare.”
He gave a small, bashful smile, then straightened in his seat like he’d just remembered something very important. He lifted a hand quickly, catching the waiter’s eye.
“Right—yes—dinner. Let’s, uh, secure that first.” He cleared his throat as the waiter approached, then turned toward the poor man like this meal was the most serious transaction he’d conducted all month. “I’ll have the sea bass, please. Grilled, not fried. With the citrus-herb sauce. And a side of… what was it? The—ah—roasted fingerlings?”
“Excellent choice, sir,” the waiter replied, scribbling quickly.
Sinclair looked back at you, face flushed, lips twitching. “I’ll need energy later, I think.”
You raised an eyebrow slowly. “Oh? Planning ahead now, are we?”
His blush deepened, but he didn’t look away this time. “Stock analyst, remember? Predicting spikes is my specialty.”
And with that, you couldn’t help but smile wider. Maybe he was shy. Maybe he was nervous. But underneath it all, Sinclair Bryant was absolutely worth unraveling.
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A few hours later, the two of you were at Sinclair’s house. It was exactly what you’d expected: modern, polished, tastefully expensive, with shelves lined with first editions and a meticulously organized record collection that practically screamed, I spend weekends alphabetizing Mahler. The lighting was dim—warm, low—and despite his nerves, Sinclair had poured you both drinks with only a minor spill.
But now he wasn’t pouring anything.
Now, Sinclair Bryant was flat on his back on a navy blue duvet, wrists tied above his head with his own silk tie—charcoal grey, sleek, and very, very effective. His shirt was unbuttoned, slightly rumpled from your earlier efforts, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. His hazel eyes were wide behind his flushed cheeks, hair mussed in a way that probably scandalized his inner librarian, and his cock—long, flushed, leaking—was twitching against his belly.
And you were on your knees between his legs, dragging your tongue along the base of him like you were savoring dessert.
“G-God,” Sinclair gasped, voice already ragged, that lovely baritone breaking deliciously. “This—this is very—ah—thorough.”
You hummed in response, mouth warm around the head of his cock, your tongue teasing the underside just to watch his thighs tense. He was sensitive. Very sensitive. And delightfully responsive.
“Oh—oh, Christ—” he whimpered, hips jerking slightly before he remembered himself. “S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to—just—wasn’t expecting—mmh—God—you’re really—”
You pulled off slowly, dragging your lips down his shaft, then licking a stripe back up. His cock jumped in response, and he let out the softest, most overwhelmed little whine.
“You talk a lot,” you murmured, smirking up at him. “But you taste better than you speak.”
Sinclair made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “That’s… wildly unfair—though admittedly flattering—ah—Jesus, I—” He twisted his wrists instinctively, forgetting the silk, and tugged against the knot with a helpless moan. “Oh, that’s really tight—”
“Good,” you said, letting your fingers glide up his thighs as your mouth returned to his cock. “You don’t get to touch.”
“Wasn’t—ah! Wasn’t planning on it,” he stammered, breath hitching. “Just… nervous reflex. God, your mouth—it’s—Christ, you’re good at this, aren’t you?”
You hummed around him again, the vibration pulling another gasp from his chest.
Sinclair was falling apart. Not in a dramatic way. No, he was unraveling with all the awkward charm of a man who’d spent too long repressing his needs, who hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to be handled. Controlled. Worshiped. He was flushed and flustered and gasping, trying to form full sentences while your tongue licked him like a man overdue for indulgence.
“You’re gonna make me—God—I didn’t think I’d—so fast—” He squeezed his eyes shut, voice trembling. “I swear I’m not usually—this fast—”
You didn’t stop. You wanted him desperate. Wanted him to come fast and messy and helpless, bound in his own tie with your name falling off his lips like prayer.
“I—please,” he whimpered. “Can I—can I come? Please—please—”
You pulled back just enough to whisper, “Yes.”
And that was all it took. Sinclair came with a cry that was almost startled, hips jerking helplessly as his cock pulsed in your mouth, thick and hot down your throat. He moaned your name, voice cracking, body straining against the silk holding him in place.
You swallowed every drop. And when he finally collapsed back into the pillows, boneless and panting, you licked your lips and sat up slowly, meeting his dazed, hazel-eyed gaze.
He blinked at you, stunned. Then: “I… I think I saw colors.”
You laughed softly. “Just wait ‘til round two, Clair.”
He groaned. “Oh no. There’s a round two?”
You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth.
“Darling,” you whispered against his cheek, “we’re only just getting started.”
It took Sinclair a few minutes to recover. He lay there, wrists still bound, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as the aftershocks of his orgasm slowly began to fade. His skin was flushed, lips parted, the tie tight across his forearms and his hair in charming disarray. You could see the effort it took for him to blink himself back into focus—he looked like a man who’d just been struck by divine revelation and was still filing the paperwork.
But then you swung one leg over his waist, and he froze. You didn’t even touch him—not yet. Just sat above him, straddling his ribs in nothing but that wicked little smile, your bare core glistening just inches from his flushed stomach. His hazel eyes locked onto you, dilated and wild, and when you dragged your fingers between your folds and began to touch yourself—slow and deliberate, right there on his chest—he made the softest, most devastated sound you’d ever heard.
“Oh God,” he whimpered, hips twitching. “You’re—oh my God—you’re doing that on me—”
You hummed softly, your other hand bracing on his shoulder. “Can’t help it. You’re warm. And soft. And tied up so nicely.”
Sinclair tried to form words. “I—I think—this violates some kind of—of physics law—some—some bodily autonomy clause—”
You rubbed your clit with slow, slick circles, watching his cock twitch back to life between his thighs. He was still flushed, his baritone voice already turning ragged again, and the way he looked at you—entranced, overwhelmed, absolutely yours—only spurred you on.
“I want to touch you,” he moaned. “Please—please let me touch you—I can’t—this is—it’s—ghhnn.”
You slid forward just enough to let your slickness brush the base of his shaft, and Sinclair bucked beneath you with a choked cry. He was hard again, already. Barely ten minutes had passed. But seeing you touch yourself like that—using his body like furniture—had snapped something primal in him.
“I want to fuck you,” he gasped, almost scandalized by his own words. “Please, please—I’ll be good—I’ll do anything—just—God, get on top of me, or let me—let me put you on your knees—something, I’ll beg if I have to—”
You leaned forward, mouth close to his, your lips just grazing his jaw. “You are begging, sweetheart.”
He whimpered. Loudly.
“I need you,” he whispered, voice cracked and breaking. “I want to feel you, inside, around me—please let me fuck you, I don’t care how—ride me, ruin me, just—just do it.”
You kissed him, slow and filthy, tasting the desperation on his tongue. Then, finally—mercifully—you reached between your bodies, guiding his cock to your entrance.
Sinclair shuddered beneath you. “Oh no—oh God—yes—yes, please—”
You sank down onto him slowly, and he let out the most exquisite sound—a broken groan that vibrated from the depths of his chest, baritone and helpless, like his soul had just left his body and asked for a second round.
He was already yours. Now you were going to prove it.
You rode him slowly—cruelly slowly—your hips circling in lazy, deliberate motions as you took him inch by inch, savoring every breathless sound that spilled from Sinclair’s lips. He was flushed and twitching beneath you, baritone voice breaking with each moan, wrists still pinned above his head, eyes glassy with want.
“P-Please,” he gasped, arching beneath you, his cock pulsing inside you as you refused to speed up. “God, I can’t—I can’t take it, you’re driving me mad—”
You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth. “I know,” you murmured sweetly. “That’s the point.”
He let out a whimpering laugh, part frustration, part arousal. “You are… an unholy menace.”
“And you like it.”
“I love it,” he moaned. “But I swear to God, if you don’t let me—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Because somehow—Sinclair Bryant, fumbling, flushed, overstimulated Sinclair—managed to get loose.
With a sharp twist and a surge of energy you didn’t think him capable of, he broke the knot holding his wrists, grabbed your hips, and flipped you. One moment you were in control, the next your back was on the mattress, his body caging yours, cock still inside you, eyes wide and desperate and—somehow—very, very focused.
“Wha—” you began, dazed, breathless.
“I warned you,” Sinclair muttered, that baritone rasping now with need. “I begged. You didn’t listen. And now…”
He thrust into you hard.
You cried out, your nails digging into the sheets as he set a punishing rhythm, finally fucking you the way he’d wanted from the beginning. His face hovered just above yours, flushed and wild, eyes locked to yours, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek.
“God, you feel—” he gasped, hips snapping into yours with a newfound force. “So fucking good—Jesus—I didn’t even know I could move like this—”
You tried to speak—tried to tease—but all that came out was a broken moan.
“Not so cocky now, are you?” he breathed, his voice thick with triumph and lust. “You made me beg. Now I get to decide how fast. How deep. How hard.”
He kissed you—sloppy, frantic—and then sat back on his knees, grabbed your thighs, and drove into you harder. You keened, head thrown back, the pleasure cresting sharp and sudden through your core.
“You’re going to come for me like this,” Sinclair panted. “And then I’m going to flip you over, and I’m going to take you from behind. Because—” he moaned, shuddering slightly, “—because Natalie never let me do that. She thought it was—what did she say—‘undignified.’”
His hands slid under your thighs, angling your hips just so, and he groaned at the new depth. “God, she has no idea what she missed.”
You cried out as he leaned forward, mouth brushing your ear, voice gone low and sinful.
“But you,” he whispered, “you’re going to let me. You’re going to beg for it.”
Then—true to his word—he pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach, and hauled your hips up until your knees hit the bed, ass high in the air. You barely had time to brace yourself before he was inside you again, deeper, rougher, his breath catching like he couldn’t believe this was real.
“Oh fuck,” he gasped. “Oh fuck—this—this is the best thing I’ve ever felt—”
You sobbed into the pillow, overwhelmed, clutching the sheets as his hips slapped against you, hard and fast.
“I’m never—never—letting you go,” he groaned. “Not after this. Not after knowing I can have you like this.”
You moaned his name, voice breaking—and that did it.
He grabbed your hair, leaned over your back, and whispered, “Come for me. Now. That’s an order.”
And when you did—clenching tight, pulsing around him—he followed you over the edge, spilling deep inside you with a choked cry that was all teeth and desperation.
Sinclair collapsed over you, panting, dazed, the weight of him grounding you as your breath returned in slow, stunned waves.
After a long moment, his voice—still breathless—murmured near your ear: “I… I think I might be in love with you.”
You laughed softly into the sheets, still trembling. “Well. That’s a hell of a way to say it.”
“Wasn’t quite the plan,” he admitted, nuzzling your neck. “But I’m improvising.”
And God, was he good at it.
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