this is a second! --- main: @ask-mk-ultra-guineapig (please send asks to save me from the boredom) ;
this blog is mostly made for writing and thougths. will remain CoD related, mostly Cold War.
main intro post --- please read the rules and do not use my work to feed any type of ai .
Warning: this blog might have nsfw or tws .
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COD: Modern Warfare . - writing
TW ,, : spoilers , death , grief . β you know it already.
β€· ,, π¦ : angst .
β€· ,, π΅ β― β Author note: oh johnny, yes destroy me and take me to the bonnie bonnie highlands
Never had Ghost dared to assume he had a saying in what the Task Force would've chosen for their own body, if things ever went south.
He had watched the end of many things. In his job and his personal life; a path blackened by the trail that Death left behind after she passed. He'd never let anyone see anything beyond what he'd wanted them to see; and if someone did catch a haunted look in his eyes, he was too busy to notice it or to care.
That same life had exhausted him and worn him out, as it did many other people; soldiers or otherwise. He'd gotten tired to try and live beyond surviving on his own, at his own rules, within limitations.
Soap didn't know how he managed to be an exception; he'd tried with each man in the Task Force, he'd tried with Laswell. Of all of them, Ghost was the unfortunate one to care the most.
Soap also didn't know how it happened that Simon had no shame in showing it. How he stood by his side in debriefing rooms, choose him to have tea with in the morning. He choose to sit by his side at Price's, as the Captain and Gaz included him. All of their cheeks had been rosy, the gaze a little hazy; Soap's head had lolled into the couch, and Ghost had no interest in removing his arm from the nape of the other man.
He reminisces a time where he didn't realize he wasn't just surviving. Before the Task force had crumbled in his hands, collapsing into an hateful nothing.
He reminisces the touch of the man; the tap on his shoulder, the neck on his arm. He remembers the look in his eyes and the smirk on the lips. Now is the most talktive man to hush forever, and Ghost rethinks his own existence.
Every Scot shall return to Scotland, and Soap did. Simon just wished it had been in cold and putrid flesh rather than ashes.
Soap had been selfish in choosing to be cremated: there was no body for the Brit to touch, no hand to hold, no head to cradle, nor lips to observe from afar. Simon was left in anger and resentment, in doubt.
Never had Ghost dared to assume he had a saying in what the Task Force would've chosen for their own body, if things ever went south.
Still it eated him alive that the man he loved was somewhere in the Highlands' wind.
It wasn't the best, and Russell was well aware of that. The only pro of having kept the balaclava on was that the heavy cotton made it harder for them to breathe.
It was an unusual thing to see and observe, but Adler had made sure everyone in the safehouse knew he was busy; with an exception for Park, that had easily read the tone of his voice right before he entered the makeshift office, where another agent had been told to stay until he came back.
Adler had always liked lace. He'd never bothered to make it a secret, nor had he openly told Bell so. Due to the budget cuts and whatnot, he preferred to keep it simple and enjoy the way they merely struggled under him, stripped of it all but that fabbric hiding their mouth as he forced their neck still. In a way, and he'd never admit it, it was an even nicer look on them; bare and shivering in the german winter, only the face covered as it'd made harder to even catch that bit of air. Mask on, of course.
All he needed was the look of fear in their eyes.
Not even if asked at gunpoint he'd say he felt more focused. It wasn't a lie, and not the complete truth of how much distinguishable it made Bell in front of him: a faceless human is no human, and what is not a human is easier to abuse, and less likely to fight back. He wasn't wrong in guessing that all that remained of them was a loyal dog; one that stood quiet and limped way too often. He could never admit what was between them any way.
After they were both spent, he almost regretted not buying some of the lace that pleased him so much. He covered Bell with his own leather, the cold jacket, and thought that didn't look too bad either.
Maybe even better than lace.
to honor pride month i just wanted to say i love ftm bell and the implications of him/them being trans in the 80s , plus an agent dealing with government agencies
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How do you feel about the fact that Bell likes Adler's Russian-sounding voice? Especially after the MK-ultra session
i don't really think Bell likes Adler's 'Russian', if that's what you're asking. they probably did notice an accent on him and disliked it.
there's something weirdly personal about this, because i feel like the only reason that might justify them liking his Russian-sounding voice is Russian being Bell's first language (which is not necessarily canon) or it being the language they spoke when they were still with Perseus (canon, i think?). either way, Russian stirring up memories and being a connection to Bell's past life, when they were still healthy and where they wanted to be.
some memories are just bound to make one feel at home, so i assume that Bell felt exactly that way when Adler spoke a language they used when they were free, not mentally fucked, and certainly not hunted by a miliard of hallucinations. (this mostly works in an AU where it's Bell native language, simply because there's a deeper connection in that).
then again, Bell remembers nearly nothing, so whatever. they most likely just brushed it off during the missions or tried to focus on something else instead.
i'm sorry if i didn't understand what you meant or if this doesn't answer your question. it's really messy i don't know if i explained myself. /gen
i really should re-play cold war and hyperfixate so deep it becomes an addiction
"i bet on losing dogs" but it's the enemy agent that you tortured and brainwashed, used and abused until they could no longer function at all. its the dog that you made, that you know you will, eventually, lose. you know it will be by your own hands; but maybe you don't even care. do you?
Bell watching the blood seep out of the very God that built them, wanting nothing more than to spit and stick their tongue in his mouth just to make it a even harder to breathe. Bell sticking too fingers in his wounds. Bell moaning at their enemy's βAdler'sβ death chokes and grunts of pain. Bell forcing kisses. Bell making sure that Adler is still suffering enough for their pleasure. Bell crying in anger and taking it all out. Bell slapping Adler, one time on his scarred cheek, one time somewhere else. Let your imagination wander. Bell knowing their superior is getting off of their performance, so he tries to show off the best they've got. And maybe also Bell taking revenge by letting Adler live and bringing him along (?) either because they want to torture him or because now they're attached like a dog and can't let go like this, not without hurting him more.
I don't like AdPerseus swrry :( i mean unless it's probably too noncon to talk about it here
Adler watching as the ghost he's been chasing for more than a decade claims back the soldier he's lost, and he himself had made. Adler watching as his enemy wins and claims his ground back. Adler bathing in his own blood as Bell, supposedly his former 'ally', moans and whines to his enemy. Adler dying and his last sight of the world being his enemy making love. Adler choking while Bell is choking.
Bell does not enjoy the feeling of cold metal anywhere on them.
They do not enjoy it on their wrists or ankles, like it felt when the padding of the restraints failed in their duty of offering pseudo comfort.
They do not enjoy it on their chest, when a medic would check their heart briefly, just to give Adler the green light to torture them breathless once more.
They do not enjoy it when it pierces right through the skin; the 'only a pinch' that felt like a stab. Like being erased again, like existing partially or only for a short time.
And they do not enjoy it now; but it feels worth it. An heavy weight that fits their mouth perfectly when the barrel is shoved through the teeth, and the muzzle of the gun is hard on the roof of their mouth.
Tears stream down from the sheer feeling of such an intrusion, violent in nature; it's their own finger on the trigger.
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"i'm slowly forgetting your face" but it's Adler slowly forgetting all of Bell's features with each year that passes. all he's got is a few pictures of the agent with the balaclava on, but it's nothing like seeing them wandering and roaming the safehouse like the dog that they were; like being able to touch them and feel them there, present.
"i'm slowly forgetting your face" but it's Adler reviewing Bell's old file as if there were any more details to find.
"i'm slowly forgetting your face" but it's Adler loosely holding a torn balaclava. there's three holes; one is between the eyes' and the fabric is still stiff from the blood.
"i'm slowly forgetting your face" but it's Adler looking at Case like he knows him. Sometimes the kid will stare into nothing and Adler will be vaguely reminded of another faceless agent. he ends up calling him another name
"i'm slowly forgetting your face" but it's Adler also forgetting Bell's voice and how it sounded when they cried.
"i'm slowly forgetting your face" but it's Adler dreaming of Bell after one too many drinks. all they are is a shadow now. it's more of a nightmare .
"i'm slowly forgetting your face" but it's Adler stressing over how things could've been, how much a little action such as pressing his index on a trigger could have spared him at least a good part of those nightmares, spared him this gap in his memories that he labeled as a more vulnerable part of Bell, their face.
"i'm slowly forgetting your face" but it's Adler slowly forgetting all of Bell's features with each year that passes: yet he knows what's he's done was, and still is, always for the greater good.
and he was more loyal to his cancer stick brand than me.
some things are supposed to die since the day they are born. some things don't have future. some things exist just to fail. I know it. knew it. And despite it all my brain still trusted him enough to let him help me off that gurney.
COD: Black ops Cold War . - writing
TW ,, : spoilers , death , experimentation , grief , slight blood . β 'Good' Ending scenario .
β€· ,, π¦ : angst .
β€· ,, π΅ : AU -- gn!Bell . canon!event + grieving!Adler . , mar 15 possibly , 1981 .
β― β Author note: i'm not conviced about this one, but it'll do as first post
Adler knows this weight will never end.
He knows it will haunt him, forever and ever. He knows the guilt of this could not be justified by anything other than war. Because it was personal. It was personal. And those last words Bell had heard were a lie, with their heartbeat loud in their ears, too, as a background noise.
The weight, he feels it, he knows he will, he knows it won't stop, not at home or in a safehouse. Not crying afterwards or grieving, even silently. He wouldn't allow himself to drown, for sure, especially in front of someone else.
He knows it will last until the end of his days came: to feel that heavy breathing on his neck, the whimpers and cries of a living being broken down. A decade later, when he sees Helen and Sims again; when Case asks him about separation; even while readying a syringe for Jane Harrow; and in so many moments, before and after Pantheon: flashes that will, some day, remind him of the project, the thing he'd created. That human he'd tortured and rebuilt to his advantage. He doesn't know it yet, but this will be carved in his thoughts, like a curse.
But for now the weight is more physical than ever, as the body is carried down from the mountain. Adler doesn't cry; he ponders where to bury it, what to write on a bare stone: who was 'Bell'? What had they done in life?
What will be of himself? Did he have a right to that question?
He isn't selfless for bringing them up there, he tells himself, for offering one last sight, one moment of peace; one hour of clear air, of watching the ocean beyond. He is less human than his own creation.
So he watches his footing, he tires and wrestles with his mind, hoping, pathetically, subconsciously, to feel the slightest movement from the body in his arms. To hear them stir, lament, complain. But when he looks down, all he can see is their vacant eyes and the bleeding hole right between them.
He stops a moment to close their lids. Then he slips his hands on them again, under their knees and around their back.
His muscles ache; and he thinks that maybe he deserves it.
βββββββββββββββββββββΒ Β α‘α ΅γα‘α βΎβ β