#bell cod oc

[venusnobivac]

When? When? When? When?

And tell me who you're fighting for?If you're not taking care of yourself Then what are you here for?

And now, I've got no one to pray to And now, I've got nowhere to stay the night And it's hard to be here at all

I have no faith in life To leave me satisfied I'll have these doubts and worries Until the day I die

No background version

[hamletsleftball]

winner takes it all.

— in which she comes to terms with a revelation, and it aches.

CONTENT WARNING: some angst, unresolved hurt but also kinda resolved?, adler (hes a warning himself), minor original character inclusion (jane wilson), fem!bell, 3rd pov

author's note: was listening to abba while writing this. gods the sad defeat you sense from it <3 also realised i always write about adler being a gut-wrenching yearner, but never really how its reciprocated and how their relationship is established on mutual dependency and fondness. for context, i imagine this takes place after adler broke out of stitch's brainwashing, and this was supposed to be part of a bigger work "Silver Lining". anyways, enjoy! it took me way too long to get this thing posted....

———

She wondered what this sentiment is.

It’s heavy. The heaviness weighs down her heart. This heaviness creeps up her throat, smothering her breath. This…aching, poignant—

Loneliness. A word she never associated herself with. Lonely was a given. In her lonesome she thrived. No hindrances. 

Yet why does she feel so small?

Like a child standing awkwardly at the corner of the classroom, watching her classmates ease into conversation yet, she stood there. Alone. 

It’s so asinine.

She despises it.

———

They all knew each other. Acquaintances. Old friends. The symbolism of normalcy and enjoying normalcy.

Sometimes she wonders why she was there at all. Jane was so eager to drag her along, so insistent on having her mingle with each other. But amidst the veils of savoury aroma and sweet scents of wine and perfume and flowers, the inhibitions lower and yet she always stands there in the middle of the Wilsons’ kitchen, ever so guarded and tense.

Jane doesn’t mean ill, she knows that much.

It aches more to know that.

Each conversation starter and small talk is a painful reminder that…no one is able to understand. None of them in the room could understand what creeps under the metaphorical four walls that kept them safe under the guise of civility and society, and what happened beyond the sheltered walls.

As if the blood soaking her hands are bright red from freshness, and only she was stained with such vibrant color of the ichor of life. It is like they knew, and she is the filth that they try so desperately to keep out of their safe haven of a shelter. Tainted.

Alone. 

It isn’t an insult. Not to her.

At least she thought so.

“...Jane, Jane.”

“Hm? Oh— Are you alright? You look a little pale, dearie.”

“Perhaps I should get going. I’ve got work to do tomorrow.”

Jane stills. She can see the bubbling disappointment in those honey eyes of the blonde woman, and the rising urges to try to persuade her to stay longer. From the little sad pout on her lips to her shoulders sagging, it’s all signs that she should just give up on attempting to leave earlier than permitted.

“You haven’t even had the strudel! It’s really good with cream, I had Frank whip the cream by hand just now…”

“—You leaving?” A voice interrupts her waning ramble.

In an instant, Jane’s eyes narrow. Huddling her friend closer to her, she gives the interrupter a look. “Well, I’m trying to get her to stay, it’s a pity if she leaves this early.”

There’s little affected emotion in his expression as he steps closer to where the two women stand, merely shrugging off Jane’s words. “We have work tomorrow. I’ll give her a ride back.”

“Russell, you’re just using this as an excuse to talk to her! Which you can very much do here, excuse you!”

It’s been a while since she talked to him, she thinks, as Jane bickers with Adler about who gets her attention. She’s been avoiding him, really, out of the stifling sense of shame and isolation that she sunk herself into months ago. 

He’s sent her numerous offers for other joint operations. She never replied.

So how is she to face him now?

Yet.

“I think I’ll head back first. I’ll see you at work, Jane.”

———

He takes her to a bar. So much for “a ride back”. 

As he silently offers to light her cigarette in the alley next to the pub, his other hand rising to block the wind from extinguishing his lighter, she swears the back of his knuckles brushed against her cheekbone. She swears she leaned in, even for that split second, subconsciously leaning into the warm flesh of someone familiar. And with a shuddering inhale, she takes a drag from her cigarette and relishes the hot nicotine-laced air that fills her lungs. He takes one too.

Her cigarettes. His lighter. Just like Amsterdam, or the other countless, sleepless nights spent across various safehouses in East Europe, North Africa, Southeast Asia.

She speaks up first, breaking the delicate, wispy silence between them. “Were you just looking for an excuse too?” A tinge of dry amusement weaves in her words, and she’s met with an equally amused chuckle.

“Too crowded,” he mutters. “Jane’s a good host, but…her guests are…”

“...Normal.”

A pause.

“Yeah. Normal.”

It sounds almost like a derogatory term. Like it’s a taint, yet it’s with a sense of bitterness that it’s the taint neither of them can really relish.

Silence befalls upon them once more, yet now all she can sense is the radiating warmth from his proximity. He’s wearing a black coat, similar to hers. An unintentional similarity…but somehow it feels comforting.

As she takes a drag of her cigarette, as she rests her head against the brick wall behind her, and her eyes stare up at the drifting snow from the dark, dark sky, for the first time she fights the urge to lean in.

Loneliness came so easily for her once.

Turning to face him, she expects to see a near-jittery anticipation—a trait most people awaiting answers might possess—but all she sees is a softened gaze, in those stormy eyes of his.

Russell Adler is a hardened man. Yet the few times she sees him without the wall, the facade he uses to hide behind, all she sees is the gentleness unbecoming of a man such as him.

It lulls her. Comforts her to know that, despite it all, he never once held contempt.

Normalcy. A taint in their conversation.

“I’m glad I caught you at the party—”

“How so?”

He huffs in slight laughter. (Swore up and down he didn’t have a lick of liquor that night, yet, why does he seem so pleased?) 

“Not everyone else thinks the crowds are exhausting to be around.”

She doesn’t want to ask how he knew. How he knew of her fatigue and discomfort. It feels like territory far too dangerous, and she doesn’t dare tread that line. Not when her heart plummets at the revelation.

“Perhaps you’re just anti-social.”

“Pot meets kettle.” He shrugs. “Conversations are easier with you.”

Conversations are easy, why are they so easy?

He says it so nonchalantly, yet she is here, feeling the courage drain from her at his words.

Unnerved.

Gods, does she dare? The heaviness in her heart morphs into something hideous and it clenches and seizes the bundle of muscle excruciating. For once, it is stifling, oh so stifling and smothering to be by his side, yet her feet refuse to move and stay frozen where she stands.

It is the elusivity of his presence which stifles her all the same, alongside the burdening truth that she swallows down only for it to resurface whenever she hears his voice.

Because if not him, who else?

“Me?” She tries, desperately, to sound like her usual dry self.

“Is it so hard to believe?” He takes a drag from his cigarette, turning to face her.

A scoff. “None of our conversations are ‘normal’. Nothing about us is.”

“At least I can pretend when I’m with you.”

Ah. 

It is the cheap (rich, poignant) imitation of normalcy she craves. The sense of normalcy neither of them has felt for a long, long time; fitting to form the puzzle pieces of a mundane life, with only them fitting the jagged corners of each others’ twisted past and identity.

She now knows what the sentiment is, then.

———

fin. | do not plagarise, steal, modify or translate my works with my explicit permission

[decodingcipher]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Bell/Frank Woods, Frank Woods/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Alex Mason (Call of Duty), Frank Woods (Call of Duty), Russell Adler, Jason Hudson, Grigori "Greg" Weaver, Helen Park, Wolf (COD), Bell (Call of Duty), More characters to be added - Character Additional Tags: Pirate AU, Alternate Universe, I had to write frank woods being a menace on the sea ok, with mason as his co-menace, these two idiots are my life I s2g, what would i do without them, I must make you all aware that there is violence in this, its inspired by the pirates of the Caribbean in some ways, so you might notice some references to the films in there, but mainly gonna try and follow a decent chronological narrative- HAHAH WHO AM I KIDIDNG, idk wtf im doing with the plot tbh im just writing what comes to mind, this fic is lit just based off one scenario I thought about a while back, anyway, enjoy Summary:

Bell OC/Frank Woods Pirate AU

I don't really know what else to summarise here other than it's pirates, booty, and booty *wink wink*

Oh- maybe that eventually there could be smut but I'm not versed in writing that kind of thing so it might be scarce.

Otherwise! Please enjoy!!

[hamletsleftball]

- in death; a wall.

death buds into a constant in her life. CONTENT WARNING: mentions of death, descriptions of a corpse, perseus (the man) mentioned

author's notes: i really wanted to write the connection between nadya, her godfather/uncle/father figure perseus. and how the death of her brother and father linked to her metaphorical companionship with death.

------------

Father’s face was pale when he entered the room.

Her hands stilled their movements, her book soon forgotten in her grasp. She stared blankly.

“Is he dead?”

He paused. “Yes,” came his reply. “He’s gone, zvezdochka.”

------------

The funeral was a small affair.

Held in the church, with the grave dug not too far away in the cemetery, only a small handful of men in uniforms came. Father was there, greeting each and every single one of the visitors, whilst she demurely sat at the pews, watching the back of Mother’s head as the latter moaned and lamented.

“Leonid…Oh, my Leonid. He’s just lying there, why won’t he open his eyes?”

“Oh Leonid. Oh, my poor baby…”

“He is just nine. Too young…too young.”

At the front row, next to the grieving mother, her aunts all gathered around to console the fainting woman. Some with damp handkerchiefs to dab her forehead and neck, some letting her rest her weight against their solid frames, some clutching her hands tightly as if to convey their understanding and empathy for her despair. Like a small bundle of chorus members crying by her side, their cries like a cacophony of dissonant caterwauling and wails before the casket that laid at the front of the church altar.

She hung her head low, eyes trained on her fidgeting hands on her black dress-covered lap.

Silence was her companion, constant and unwavering amidst the frenzied mess of the wake.

Sharp clicks grew closer, with a pair of polished oxfords soon inching across the wooden floor into view from her peripherals.

“Nadya,” the voice gently called out.

When she raised her head, she stared into familiar blue eyes, their once-mischievous twinkle dampened with sorrow. With his hands deep in his uniform pockets, his brown-greying hair slicked back neatly, he smiled sadly at her. A hand reached out to pat her hair, taking care not to mess up her braids.

“How are you faring, child?” He asked, voice a calm rumble.

She only stared. For a while, all she could do was stare, even as his hand still absentmindedly caressed her hair.

Her eyes flitted back to the casket. For the first time, wavering.

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sorry for your loss.”

He pulled her closer, and she leaned against him, eyes never once tearing away from the casket’s open lid.

Pasty skin. Pale, powdered, pasty, skin—

“...Am I supposed to cry?”

A pause.

“Only if you want to.” He stopped, pulling back to look down at her with a slightly hopeful—yet still tinted with same solemnness—look. “Do you want to wander around? It will do you some good to get fresh air.”

She stared.

Mother, in hysterics. Father, busy talking with one of his colleagues in low tones.

Alone was she.

“Please take me out of here.”

------------

Death’s second visit was no kinder.

Muffled sobs echoed behind her, dampened yet dissonant and strident far worse than the chorus of tears that had rung in her ears for nearly two decades. The heavy black coat hung from her shoulders like the weight of worldly, familial burden. Wrapped around her lithe frame, akin to his final embrace.

Mother wept. And wept. And wept. And only her cries filled Nadya’s ears this time.

The flesh beneath the casket’s lid was marred with filth that had failed to be removed, despite how harshly they scrubbed the skin of its impurities. The scorched edges of the flesh, that was. Exposed, gritted teeth lined the jawline, the cheek ripped off and torn. Yet neck-down, his uniform was pristine, starched, even if the hand peeking from the sleeve was as charred as the singed skin of his cheek.

Her hand reached down to clasp the intact side of his face, trembling as her fingertips brushed against his cheekbone before cupping his cheek gently.

He used to be so warm. His embraces felt like the encompassing, radiating heat from the hearth during cold winter nights.

Oh Papa.

Foreign was the still cadaver that laid in the casket. Like mockery out of the man she knew and loved.

What cruelty this was.

And yet the church bells rang far too loud in the church, not diffused by a crowd of people who should have come to see what they had done to a man.

Beyond the occasional remorseful fools that wandered in to offer her a bashful, phatic apology in hopes of alleviating their own guilt, the church pews were deserted and empty. Her only constant companions were Mother, Volodya and—

Was it enough?

How could it be enough?

A hand rested on her shoulder.

“Nadya. I am sorry for your loss.”

Him.

Her mouth ran dry.

When she failed to respond, he spoke up once more, “You need to rest, child.”

“I am overseeing the funeral.” Snappish. Matter-of-factly. “Who else will take my place? Who else can take my place?”

His hand curled around her shoulder tighter.

Slowly, she withdrew her hand from the casket, touches lingering on his skin, hesitant and heavily reluctant. At least, may she part some warmth, anything to feel the same heat beneath her palm. At least, may she see his verdant eyes once more, teeming with life and subtle coyness. At least until she memorised the texture of his face, until she memorised each and every dent and mark and pain. Pain, his pain, the pain—

Knuckles brush against her tear-strained cheek.

“He did not deserve this.” His voice is a whisper. A wispy, coiling sound. Thin and brittle and quivering with rage crackling the surface. Both hands of his now grasped her shoulders, pulling her closer.

Warmth.

How she missed the warmth.

“Cry, zvezdochka,” he muttered above her, cradling her close to him. Her eyes slipped close.

“You have every right to be mad.”

They didn’t even come. They didn’t even have the galls to face what they have done. They left the horrors, bared and raw and hideous—

“I will remedy your pain.”

—Tear the flesh, singe, char, rip off the offals of the undeserving, wring the hearts of their ichor and even then could her thirst be quenched? Would it be enough for Him?

“Zvezdochka, trust in me. We will avenge him. As he deserves.”

As he deserves.

------------

fin. | do not plagarise, steal, modify, translate my works without my explicit permission.