#adler x reader

[animefreak1145]

Lightning in a Bottle(Adler x Bell!Reader)(Oneshot)

Word Count: 2k Summary: A one in a million chance. Impossible.

But Bell always was a chance, weren't you? Just like Adler always was confident in his odds. Warnings: Mature Rating/Graphic Violence, Dark Themes, Torture, Brainwashing, Manipulation, Toxic Relationship, Trauma, Female!Reader Bell, Adler x Bell, Crack Treated Seriously, Solovetsky Ending. A/N: Don't treat this fic seriously. You might get dissapointed. This is literally crack at the start which turns serious. Me and @makeyourpeacenow were just fooling around and she inspired me to write this thing out as we chatted. Less tumblr meme format and RPG style and more actual story. She added a paragraph in here that I kept.

The afternoon sun did nothing for the chill that hung in the air, the crispness only adding into the classic Russian cold. The waves hitting against the cliff side in the distance where you’re sure they were doing the same on the cliff they were on, as the flowers and long grass moving with the cool breeze.

It was beautiful.

Beautifully tainted as your hand made quick work of releasing from your holster just as Adler did, both pulling the trigger and the sound of twin guns breaking the calm atmosphere. Broken just as Adler did to you, your heart torn and anger boarding in your veins still hot from the betrayal.

Clang!

The sound rung in your ears more than the bullet being released from the gun, a brief spark in the air. A violent flash that went in the next blink before a bullet ricocheted to the rock to your left while the other dug deep into the ground by the flowers that were just innocently moving along—petals torn from the speed of the bullet. 

Your eyes were wide, mouth parted as you stared at the area where the bullet hit the rock, your grip on your pistol a tad loose although still up and ready. Adler in your peripherals sharing his own silent disbelief at what just occurred, gun still raised as well but head facing towards the torn flowers.

The air of heavy silence broke when you finally blinked your shock away, jerking your head towards Adler who continued to stare down at the bullets with a pressed frown.

“You just tried to kill me!” You accuse, gun gesturing wildly at the bullets on the ground while also motioning towards him.

Adler finally lifted his eyes, throwing you a blank stare. “That makes two of us,” he said blandly. He gave you a gave you a once over before stupefyingly deciding you were no threat for he took a cigarette out of his tactical vest and lighting it while managing to keep a grip on his pistol. You could only stare in bafflement as he took a lazy drag,  giving a subtle nod of his head towards you. The one you always were desperate for before. “Say…you’ve been a good team mate, Bell. Take this as a sign. Second chance.”

“Are you…are you seriously not gonna talk about this?!” Your voice pitched higher at the end, completely bewildered.

Adler’s nonchalance was not something that bothered you before. You were actually thankfully for it and even a hint amused by it when he told Hudson he would be taking you and only you to Lubyanka. You remember his cool praise about you towards Hudson, how it created a warmth in your cheeks and feeling light momentarily before Hudson went off in a huff. Adler giving you directly words of comfort, speaking of Hudson not liking things in his control.

Adler was just mocking you. You were in the palm of his hand all along, accepting treats from said hand with casual pats to the head.

You feel like you might hurl. Or cry.

“Hm?” Adler took a hefty drag, his gaze not leaving your form. It made you shift your legs, swallowing dryly. "Something on your mind, soldier?"

His words dripped with smoke, going purposely in your direction and hurrying it along by blowing the rest.

Your jaw tightened, glaring. You waved the smoke away before moving forward, Adler tensing but not making any move as you just snatched his cigarette from his silver tongued mouth and throwing it over the cliff. Adler turning his head with only a quick press of the lips to show his displeasure at your waste. As if he didn’t prompt you to feel your wrath in the first place. It only made your blood boil further.

“You just tried to kill me and now you’re what? ‘Giving me a second chance?’ You can’t be this crazy! Cause you have to know, this—“ You wave your pistoled arm around the area with the bullets back and forth from your chest to his, even poking him with the barrel of your gun. “—is crazy!”

You knew he had some issues. Your “shared” past and all, you saw things from his past maybe you shouldn’t have. He cut off a piece of his mind, forcing the piece to fit into yours with brute force—all blood and brain matter and pokes of needles. Your fault for thinking you were special knowing him so well and intimately, knowing his way of thinking and plans before he even finished the sentence. Your mind clicking away at the possible scenarios he would suggest before zooming into one and stating it out loud. He always paused when you did that, assessing you before there it was—the reward, the ghost of a smirk before nodding at you with the words “Exactly my line of thinking.” or “A bit of a mind reader, are we, Bell?” or “And that’s why you’re my protege. Good job, Bell.”

It’s not fair, you want to cry out, clenching your grip around the pistol still to his chest yet your fingers off the trigger. Your throat feeling tight as you gazed up at the man who only rose a brow at you. It’s not fair! 

“So you want me to kill you?” Adler moved your pistol hand away, you letting him as you looked down with a defeated scowl. Your hold on your pistol obsolete. Your eyes tightened at that fact. You notice Adler kept his own pistol loose by his side. All it would take is one quick movement and you’ll be dead. Truly this time. Luck can’t save you like this. You’re closer to the cliff’s edge, maybe your body will fall into the waters below. Forever separate from him. Your stomach coiled back at the image. “What is it, Bell? What do you actually want?”

You can’t say. It gets stuck in your throat. 

You can’t say and you hate you still have it. This wretched feelings. Even after a deadly shot towards your chest. Even after his gall and apathetic nature to what just occurred(despite him still calling you soldier. “You’re still one of us.” Even now when you tried to kill him yourself, ignoring your own hypocrisy.) Your chest still bleeds only for one. You think only ever one.

It’ll only be the one because you’ve been ruined. Forever. Your trust dismantled for another yet still hopelessly, despairingly wishing to actually think you might have a chance. Even after this.

With him. You’ve been ruined for others. And the worst thing is, you’re actually fine if he is the one that’ll keep ruining you. This vicious cycle. You shot at him yes. But he had the gall to save you in Trabzon and make you think you’re close and something more. Not quite lovers. Not quite friends. Something in between.

He had the gall to make you feel this, your loyalties switched at the flip of a coin—you’re the tails he’s the head.

A coin. He had the gall to make you his other half. The tails. And he tried to kill you. And now he’s saving you. Because of…chance?

Take it, begrudgingly. Argue the matter, even if it's a nonsensical position. Argue because you want to argue—because you need to yell. Even if your feelings on it are oxymoronic. How can you hate him so much, yet refuse to part from him. Your stomach churned at the mere thought of your dead corpse even being away from his live one.

Fate? Bullets together? Is that what this is? Is he saving you to stick by him or to throw away and be by yourself? You don’t think you could be without him. Too tied together. You know his deepest secrets from Vietnam and he knows your mind. You’ve played in each other’s mind palaces, hands digging and blood spilling and bones crunching, napalm strikes on bodies—you’re tied.

You stay silent too long, biting at the inside of your lips before forcing yourself to look up at him meaningfully—eyes meeting for you can see them behind his shades at this distance, the sun helping you. Adler tilting his head and something passes over his gaze but you lower your head again and scoff, putting your pistol back in its holster begrudgingly.

“You’re stuck with me, then. Hope this is worth it.”

You notice the exhaustion set in his soul, the weight he bears. He carries it, alone, and you have no pity to offer.

You feel his weighted gaze just like you sense his exhaustion, putting his own pistol carefully away. Cautious if you will change your mind and decide to tear out his neck like he tore at your heart. You don’t.

Tied, your mind repeats. For better or for worse.

Like a twisted marriage.

You don’t look until your eyes widen when you feel the familiar touch of a hand on your head.

“Come on, kid. You know we’re stuck with each other. You’ve always been a slippery little thing,” his hand shifts and it’s on your cheek, feeling the leather as your eyes take in the quirk of his scarred mouth. What you always hunger for—the uptick to suggest a smile  “But not with me. I have you, Bell. I have you.”

You’re so easy.

You fall so prettily for him. 

You hate it. You love him.

You hate that too.

So it’s no surprise you let out a breathy sigh when he thumbs your lips and say an “Okay.”

He’s like a snake wrangler, you've got venom; you bare your teeth but you'll never bite—never him.

Always for others. He just has to point. He can be America’s Monster. 

But you? You can be Adler’s Dog.

You can accept that. You can accept the little touches and mindful quips of philosophy and books—even if you burn more at his touch then the danger close you experienced a mere half an hour ago—you can live with it. You can.

That’s your mantra in your head. Even as you stare up at him longingly, adoringly—a little lost yet accepting of whatever he says and does as he seems to look into you—that’s what you keep thinking.

You’re fine with this.

Be the tool. You can be that again for him. Willingly this time. He doesn’t have to love you like you do him. He doesn’t.

Even if you know him as equal or better than Sims. Even if you know the man behind the Vietnam soldier—behind the brave face. Behind the mask he’s made(the mask wasn’t supposed to be for you). Even with knowing where his mind goes and tracks, you’re satisfied with this.

You have to be. After all, nothing was personal. Those conversations outside the safehouse, the roof, the elevator of Lubyanka( “I need Bell”), defense against Hudson, the camera—

You don’t expect—

A tilt of the chin with firm fingers and a touch to the lips. You can feel his face on yours.

Your pupils are blown and your hands are still just as your mind has stopped. He didn’t seem to mind, a tease of your mouth and that’s all it takes for you open for him. Ready. Just a touch. A hint.

That’s all you need. Adler always gets what he wants. You’ll give it to him. 

You grab at him, the back of his neck and feel that hair underneath his beanie. Uncaring if it falls to the floor. You’re embarrassed at the pitiful sound you made when he pulled away. Only to silence when he taps his forehead to yours, hands on your waist with a comforting squeeze.

You can see his eyes. That electric blue.

“I have you, Bell,” he repeats, his breath tickling your face with that light smirk that unmakes you.

You blink. You assess, even with cheeks hot. 

You hold back the cheek splitting smile for a more mild hopeful one.

“Okay,” you breathe.

▞

▚ 

▚

A/N: Adler knows how to manipulate Bell perfectly well. Poor Bell. She knows how easy she is too. They're both satisfied where they're at. Sucks.

Tag List: @tr1ppylady @parkeepingparker @weirdoartist21 @gojocat247 @mayaibnlaahad @dallmaistir @salvija @kylezkie4adler @asaltryefl @stupid-stinky @aurora-windu @zachfoxx121 @pyxis-stellae @makeyourpeacenow @obsessedgremlin

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.

[altcvnningham]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[ineylesian]

SEPARATION ANXIETY

— RUSSELL ADLER X FEM! READER SERIES

SYNOPSIS — Adler believed he had left you behind in the Cold War. Unbeknownst to him, you were festering in the very shadow of terror he was chasing.

GENERAL WARNINGS — fem! anatomy reader, smut (undetermined if explicit or mentioned), mentions of mind control (MK Ultra, Cradle), spoilers for BOCW and BO6, weapon violence, depictions of insanity, hallucinations.

GENERAL NOTE — this series is in the works and plans are still in development. any ideas or comments are welcome!

Amidst the faded movement of Harrow’s face, the camera pans, catching the glint of metal and a static laden voice that sends chills down his spine.

“Cut the feeds, we’re being watched.”

Adler never believed he’d see you again. He had watched you fall to your death in the jungles of Vietnam 20 years ago. Yet, here you are, casting a glare that seems to pierce through the screen before the footage dies.

He’s unaware of the clamming of his hands and paling of his face until all eyes are suddenly on him.

“…shit.”

PART ONE | DEAD IN WINTER HARBOR

He thought this was a figment of his imagination. Sleepless nights riddled with guilt and regret, staring at him like he was a speck of dust in the air. Yet, it was real, you were real, real as the cold press of the barrel on his head.

This was madness.

PART TWO | NO WIND OF BLAME

If you cannot recover, you can no longer live. It’s time to wake up.

PART THREE/ EPILOGUE (TBD)

[dearlydevoured]

minors do not interact, please! — oh, a troubled adler left to stare at the ceiling after having sex with bell.

they are so trusting of him, an unknowing sacrificial lamb who sees adler as the soft glow of trust and love despite it all, head on his chest as they are fast asleep and unaware. it’s all fabricated, woven by his thick fingers stained with the stench of nicotine and a permanent need to scratch an open wound. bell is the enemy, so what is he doing here? he’d think about how maybe things could’ve been different, but it didn’t matter anymore; the past has merged and shifted, placing you both in the same bed.

[littlemissclandestine]

Soft!Russell Adler x Reader pt.2

Note: Hello again my fellow Adler enjoyers! Just thought I'd add some more hcs because tbh this list is endless. He knows exactly how to treat a woman and you can't tell me otherwise. Look at him! GRAHHH!! Enjoy my lovelies... - Star ✰

🤎 Soft!Adler who has a habit of doing everything for you and you tell him to stop but he says that you've been a strong, independent woman all of your life and that it's one of the reasons he fell for you but now it's time for his girl to relax and enjoy life a little, and for you to let him take care of you

🤎 Soft!Adler who has the cutest pet names for you such as sweetheart, darlin', doll, honey, beautiful, gorgeous, tiger, princess etc

🤎 Soft!Adler who loves calling you his girl and gettin' all possessive

🤎 Soft!Adler who stands behind you while you're in front of a mirror as you're almost ready to go out, putting the necklace that he gifted you on for you, planting kisses on your neck, his hands tracing the outline of your body as he looks at you both in the mirror, in awe of you

🤎 Soft!Adler who always picks up your favourite things when he's out shopping and you're not with him, your likes and dislikes ingrained in his brain

🤎 Soft!Adler who understands your needs, both physical and emotional and fulfils them in a way that makes you adore him even more everyday

🤎 Soft!Adler who craves intimacy but denied it for far too long because of how his last relationship ended and underneath all of that bravado, America's monster needs to be reminded he is, in fact, human

🤎 Soft!Adler who takes time out and makes a conscious effort to visit your family when you finally introduce him even though it's something that makes him slightly nervous but he does it for you whether they like him or not

🤎 Soft!Adler who buys you flowers, chocolates, bath bombs etc. when you least expect it

🤎 Soft!Adler who makes you breakfast in bed during slow mornings, insisting he cleans up the plates and you have a nice soak, coming up to massage your scalp, scrub you gently and read a book to you as you hang your arms over the edge of the tub, your chin resting on top of your hands, listening intently

🤎 Soft!Adler who catches a whiff of your scent on his shirt or jacket at work, smiling to himself, leaning back in his chair as he remembers how you wore it the day before and he closes his eyes, inhaling it once more before getting back to his job

🤎 Soft!Adler who lets you apply his war paint for him on missions

🤎 Soft!Adler who offers to give you massages, claiming he is an expert and nobody would pass up on it, not even Woods or Mason

🤎 Soft!Adler who secretly loves skin on skin

🤎 Soft!Adler who picks you up bridal style or throws you over his shoulder whenever he feels like it, carrying you around the house

🤎 Soft!Adler who kisses every part of you that you don't love and cherishes it because he knows the pain of low self esteem and in his eyes, every inch of you is beautiful

🤎 Soft!Adler who opens car doors and pulls out chairs for you like a proper gentleman would

🤎 Soft!Adler who playfully smacks your ass when nobody's looking as you're boarding a heli or getting into a SUV if you work together

🤎 Soft!Adler who admires you for who you are and feels inspired by you, making him want to be a better person, not just for him but for you

🤎 Soft!Adler who won't get up and move when you've fallen asleep on him, even if his limbs are feeling numb, out of fear of disturbing you

🤎 Soft!Adler who's only vulnerable with you

🤎 Soft!Adler who tells you how you make him feel alive again after all of the trauma he has endured over the years due to the requirements of his job and the toll it takes on him, no matter how much he denies the extent of it

🤎 Soft!Adler who always wonders if he's doing right by you, how he managed to pull a girl like you in the first place, if you'd stay in his life no matter how long he's away for, how hard it gets and if you'd accept his hand in marriage when, not if, the time comes

🤎 Soft!Adler who lets his tears fall when he finally gets to see you walk down the aisle

dividers by @chachachannah <33

[mockerycrow]

Hii here's my request if you'd like to write it; Adler x femreader w/ "I had a nightmare...can I stay with you tonight?" Thankss <3

DREAM OR REALITY? (Adler x Fem!Bell!Reader) — 4K CELEBRATION

authors note: i couldn’t resist.

[WARNINGS: Black Ops Cold War Spoilers, very slight Mentions of Torture, nightmares, minor paranoia, toxic little hurt/comfort.]

YOU WAKE UP in a cold sweat, your heart pounding against your rib cage and with a voice in the back of your mind. You’re trembling as you can’t make any sense of what the voice is saying, and soon the sound of your blood rushing in your ears overtakes the incoherent voice.

You rub your eyes to ground yourself before you glance around, noting you’re still in the warehouse. You look at your watch, groaning quietly as you realize it’s quite early in the morning. Your chest feels quite heavy, and you have an odd craving for a cigarette when you don’t remember ever picking the habit up.

It’s one of those nights; you can tell you aren’t going to be able to go back to sleep anytime soon. Adler and the others wanted you to stay in the warehouse just in case you were able to decrypt any more information; you had no problem with that, as mostly everyone else also slept in the warehouse, although in different areas. Unfortunately though, your makeshift sleeping cot is not too comfortable, so you have an ache in your neck along with stirring anxiety from your nightmare. 

You push the cheap blanket off of yourself and you adjust your sleeves before swinging your legs over the side of the cot. You slip your boots on and lace them up, letting out a heavy sigh as you do so. A nervous energy remains under your skin, like you’re being watched. You know you aren’t—or do you?— but you shudder nonetheless. You grab your leather jacket, sliding it on before you exit the room you’ve been sleeping in for the past couple of days. The common area is clear except for Helen by the radios with her headphones, trying to make out Russian messages.

You rub your sternum before exiting the warehouse right in front of the garage door, the cool nighttime air filling your lungs. Goosebumps rise underneath your jacket for a moment from the fresh sensation, and you’re so caught up in your own mind you don’t even notice the man standing a few feet away. “What’re you doin’ up?” You jolt at the sound of someone’s voice and you look over, locking eyes with Adler. Lacking his usual sunglasses, his eyebrows are more visible and furrowed. A half smoked cigarette is between his fingers like usual, and he takes a drag from it.

You let out a breath and you shrug, stuffing your hands into the back pockets of your jeans, shifting your weight as you glance away. “Couldn’t sleep.” You utter. You technically aren’t lying, though you didn’t even attempt to go back to sleep. Adler doesn’t respond as he tucks a hand under his other arm as he takes another drag off of his cigarette, shifting slightly closer to you. Your eyes train on some bugs flying around under the big light overhead for a moment, the silence being filled with crickets. 

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?” Adler hums, his eyes never leaving your form. He notes the way you’re reluctant to share anything, your conflicted and far away gaze; he’s already thinking you’ve had a nightmare. “What was it about?”

Your gaze moves from the bugs to him—his stare feels like he sees all of you, your bare soul; your skin and bones and every sin you’ve ever committed. Adler’s gaze has always felt like that and you’ve never known what to make of it. He’s so.. vague yet so on the dot every time he talks to you, so friendly yet so cruel. You aren’t sure if you should say anything. “Bell.” You feel a nudge against your arm and you blink for a moment before looking back at Adler, your hearing returning—you aren’t sure when it left.

“I just.. I had a nightmare.” You admit with a weak laugh, looking away nervously as your hands fidget in the back pockets of your jeans. Your weight shifts as silence fills the air between you two and you kind of want to reach over to strangle him a bit—you know he’s waiting for you to elaborate. “I couldn’t make any sense of it, honestly. It was a weird horrid mixture of Vietnam and.. this room. Televisions.. hm. I don’t know.” You mumble, trailing off before you look back at him. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

There’s an unreadable look in Adler’s eyes as he drops his cigarette, stepping on it and squashing it to put it out. It takes him a moment before he nods. “Sure, Bell. You can stay with me. We can go over some files, yeah? Take your mind off of it, since we have a job to do.”

A weird sense of calm washes over you from his words and you nod, letting out a relieved breath. “Yeah, we can do that.”

[strawcherrys]

Russell Adler x Reader

content warning: nsfw, unsatisfying smut, unedited (as all of my work usually is), fluff

MDNI!!!

When you look at Russell Adler, you do so with rose colored glasses. You've truly fallen for him, and him, for you. It's the conclusion of a rather long evening for the two of you. Not that any of it matters now, with his shirt unbuttoned revealing the curled hair on his chest and your shirt strewn on the corner of the bed.

He can taste the dinner the two of you had together on your tongue. It only spurs his movements as his hands cup the back of your head. The silence is filled with soft gasp and the racing of your breath. "I need you closer," you tell him with a whisper.

You're so close to him you can feel the way his face pulls into a smirk. You revel in the way the uneven stubble near his scar scratches your face. You wouldn't have it any other way. Sure, he's gone a lot, but his cheeky comments and lingering smell of tobacco will always feel like home.

He pushes your hair aside and lays you down. His chest laying flush with yours. It excites you, he pulls you into another kiss and his hand cups your face. "Need me closer?" He laughs under his breath, before pulling away and making quick work of your belt.

Any stress from the day is melted by Adler's touch, none of it was important anymore. Russell never failed to make you feel important, as he shimmys your pants down your legs. You can't help but giggle at the sight as he struggles before you shift your hips and your pants fall on the floor.

"You laughing at me?" He ask with a raised brow but there's no real offense behind it. He lets out a sigh, clearly checking you out. He takes a moment before he tugs his pants off just as quick joining your pants in unholy matrimony on the floor.

"Wouldn't dream of it, you know how serious you are," You pull your hair into a ponytail and ready yourself for him which only seems to fuel him further. His arm meeting the bedsheets besides your head. Anticipation builds inside you.

You had forgotten to account for something, he had forgotten to account for something. His signature sunglasses fall off of his face and hit you straight in the forehead. It's like you had grown so accustomed to seeing him in them that it has alluded you. You two had been so excited to get your hands on each other.

Adler freezes, grabbing his sunglasses from the way they tangled themselves in your hair. With a clink they're left on the bedside table. "Are you okay-"

You burst into laughter and Adler lets out a sigh of relief, plopping down nearly naked by your side. He can't help but smile too. He always thought you looked beautiful like this.

He pulls you closer to his chest with the rugged smile he knows you love so much. He plants a kiss to your forehead starting to laugh as well. "I love you," He says an undeniable hint of fondness in his tone.

"I love you too"

[delta-06]

Trying Shibari with Adler is all fun and games until you are the one tied on the chair with your legs spread and him teasing the fuck out of you

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Prompt { Nice } : 14. “Would you like to put the star on the very top of the tree?”

Character: Russel Adler

Fandom: Call of Duty/ Call of Duty Cold War

A/n: Bell!reader { bell not brainwashed here }

Two years, two years of being married to someone he actually loved. It was hard at first, to wrap his head around the fact that he fell for a former KGB agent though he still couldn’t handle the constant teasing from Woods.

This year you seemed particularly excited for this Christmas, though he guess it was due to it being the first one you both were spending alone. Titling his head to the side he watched you place bulbs on the tree. “Need help darlin?”

Jumping, you turned around placing your hand on your chest. Scowling for a moment you reached out grasping the star topper. “I am doing just well.” Stepping close to your husband you placed your hand on his chest smiling. “Would you like to put the star on the very top of the tree?”

Shaking his head, he wove his arms around your waist as he placed a kiss to your head. “Hmm, you sure you don’t want to do it y/n?”

Shaking your head you stood on your toes placing a kiss one of his scars. “I asked you for a reason Russel, I’ve already done most of the tree. Plus I am not tall enough.” You accent slipping through as Adler let out a snort.

“You’re not that short Bell…but since you’re giving me those puppy dog eyes, well how can I not.”

Taking the Star from your hands he reached up placing on the top of the tree. “Now isn’t that perfect, gonna be a perfect Christmas this year.” He muttered pulling you in for another hug.

Burying your face into his chest a small formed on your face, it was going to be a perfect Christmas because you had Alder by your side.

[animefreak1145]

Church Bells(Adler x Bell!Reader x Woods)

Previous Intel

Eighth Intel | Before

Description:

The world ended for Bell after Cuba.

The whole world followed soon after.

Zombies AU | Drabble Format

Warnings/Tags: Mature Rating, Graphic Violence, Dark Themes, Trauma, Body Horror, Gore, Major Character Death, Brainwashing, Post!Cuba, Pre!Solovetsky, No Solovetsky, Female Bell, Older Man/Younger Woman, Toxic Relationship, Obsession, Menticide

Words: 4k (What's a drabble again?)

▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▛ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚ ▟ ▞ ▚ ▞ ▚

 ■ ▞ ■ ▚ ■  “Bell” ■ ▞ ■ ▚ ■ 

Day After Ukraine Mission

16:07 | February 28th, 1981

CIA SAFEHOUSE E9, “DIE LANDEBAHN” 

“You do that a lot.”

You start from what you were staring at, the codes that are so tricky and you feel so close. The intel from what you have in your hands adding a piece to the puzzle that you’re enamored with—the complexities satisfying a carnal part of you that you can’t name. Your head turns to find Lazar’s curious yet amused smile, close to the television they used sometimes for the news not at your usual spot at the too small desk with the too large computer; at the center table instead is where you chose to haunt. 

“What?” you reply dumbly, too out of your element to say a more snarky reply. The transition from focused on the task to this interruption from the man that is more of an Eema than an Abba due to how hearty he looks and feels and making sure everyone felt the same by also stuffing their face. 

“That.” You were met with Lazar’s finger in your face. You resisted the urge to stare cross eyed and instead gave him a more inquisitive look, eyes searching. Which only humored him more, releasing a chuckle. “You have quite an intimidating stare.”

You push the hand away, scoffing,

“What? At my work? Isn’t that like everyone else?”

Lazar hummed, his eyes glittering at a joke you can’t understand.

“No. You have that type of stare that will freeze lesser men. Or get slapped by someone who thinks you’re looking for a fight. Or get you put into an asylum. Only, when you decode, you have an insane smile on your face. It’d be creepy if we didn’t know you.”

“Uh huh.” You dismissed, eyes glancing at the medical office. “You should work better on your compliments if you want Park to have a drink with you.”

If Park wasn’t in the medical office room along with Adler, you’re sure Lazar would throw his old cup noodle at you. Alas, he only gave you a dry “Ha. Ha.” with a neutral expression but still didn’t leave. He wants an answer. 

You turn to him fully, elbows leaning back against the desk, petulant.

“I doubt I smile like how you describe…” Lazar snorted while you frowned at him, before shifting your gaze back to your papers. “I don’t know. I just…love puzzles. They’re fun to solve.”

“Is that what makes you stare so intently?” Lazar leaned against the television, the stand slightly creaking at the movement, his intrigue seeming sincere. Another question hidden, two subjects being asked for one answer. A wall. “The thrill?”

Is that what love is to you?

You tapped at the papers, biting your lip in thought. 

“Maybe a part…I just have this need to figure things out. To open it up—to find the numbers, the letters, the riddles. In an order that is random but it’s not. It’s just a trick. A shadow on the wall. A reason for each piece. Each hint. Every piece of the puzzle has its purpose. It’s reason for being.” You didn’t notice when you started smiling, the topic consuming you like books and pictures do. But you just kept going as you grabbed your pen and fiddled with it, miming writing numbers or letters. “Like Sims with mechanics, I think. Or you with bomb wiring. You find the hardy wires or broken pieces—and I untangle it all. I even love how difficult it could be if I find a cipher intellectual. It’s fun.”

“Sounds maddening,” Lazar replied simply, brow raising. “And painful. Maybe even obsessive.”

You shrug, staring deeply at your own pen, tone far away. As if you were speaking about another topic than this. Something other. Like a secret.

“That’s love, isn’t it? Pain and obsession?”

“Your books tell you that? Or you come to that conclusion yourself?” You pressed your lips, silent. Only glancing at Lazar(are you easy to read?) who only smiled gently before switching gears and letting out a booming laugh. “With that description of love—you very much implied Adler is in love with our friendly neighborhood Perseus.”

Your jaw dropped, a gasp being released as you sat up rigid in your chair. A defense for Adler and a denial ready only for a startling guffaw to join in.

“What the shit are you talking about, Lazar?” Woods comes from his previous spot practicing with the boxing bag, Mason side by side with his own amused gaze as they come close to the center table. Woods snorted as he leaned back against the table near you instead of taking a proper seat. “Can you imagine our own Robert Redford switching spit with a commie? Ha!”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Mason quips to his friend with a nudge while Woods expression quickly changed to offended with no heat as he pushes Mason back with a disbelieving snort. “What? Sorry I’m airing out your fantasies.”

It was strange watching them. The easy back and forth quips and teases. Lazar felt like a warm hearth and home cooked meals compared to Mason’s steady kindness of a worn animal despite its past and Woods…

You briefly think of the night prior, how charged he felt out in the field. Not eager for it yet…willing to take everything and anything out his way. But his friendly taunts and words to you too. The arcade. The room where you got the intel and the knowledge he had of you, knowing you would’ve loved to play around more with the tech and computers there if the both of you had time and not world ending doom.

You weren’t impressed by his skills. Skills are to be expected in this line of work. People can call you cocky all they want.

But how personable he is? That was different.

It was unexpected.

(Why did it feel like he’s more close to you than Sims right now? Why has everyone been so disconnected from you? Even—blue fire for eyes hidden by the shaded wall, wheat dancing in the wind, artful cracks across a canvas—)

A hand waved in front of your face, your eyes broken from its lost look as you blinked back to the present.

“Hello? Earth to Bell?” Woods was still next to you and you couldn’t help but notice that Mason moved away with Lazar to where Lazar’s station is. Still talking with friendly smiles and easy atmosphere. You blinked again before turning towards Woods, who looked at you with a mix of amusement and concern. “What happened there? Did you even listen to a word I said?”

You didn’t. You’ve been doing this a lot. Getting lost in your head. Your brain foggy and mind distant. Not as quick as you usually are. You thankfully haven’t had this happen in the field. You hope it stays that way.

Instead of giving a straight answer, your lips only rose in a dry smile.

“Sorry, was thinking just how you got the guts to punch Hudson of all people.”

Woods huffed, crossing his arms and leaning back, brushing your shoulders as he did. 

“Doesn’t take guts to punch a prick.”

“No,” your smile turns up a tad, more mischief. “Takes some balls instead. Can’t have balls without a prick nearby or there’ll be trouble.”

Woods made a choked sound, as he stared at you dumbly before slapping the table and releasing a loud boom of a laugh. You wonder how he does that. So loud. So free. 

“You got more spunk than I thought, Bell. Guess you need it to even get the idea to escape in a Ruskie tank.”

You huff out your nose, but your chest still lightened at the praise. Your smile coming easy now and tension completely fallen away. You hid it though as you turned back to your work, picking up a stray picture of the Ukraine base you took.

“Did it for you. I figured you would want to run some commie’s over.”

“Oh, I’ve dreamed of it. I would say top five of my favorite wet dreams.”

You couldn’t help it. You snorted, it bursted through your chest and it didn’t stop, only turned to a laugh. You put a hand over your mouth to try to contain it but Woods satisfied expression only made you laugh more.

“Why—why did you say that?!” You try to collect yourself but you couldn’t. Not when Woods waggled his brows as if in answer. “Pfft—should I even ask what’s top one?”

Woods shrugged. 

“No can do. Gotta protect your innocence somewhere. My mind is a crazy place. Don’t wanna scare you off.” You snort again, shaking your head at him and tried to get back to work. Woods didn’t move as you stared around at the different pictures you took with Intel. “Say, where’s the random pics you took of me?”

“Don’t worry, Woods. I didn’t take out a camera with you over the mannequin—“ You stopped when he shook your shoulder, a warning gaze that only made you bite back another smile and only glare at him with no heat as you pushed his hand off. “Calm down,” you say quietly. “I haven’t said anything. Scout’s Honor.” You raise a hand as if to show.

Woods rose a brow dubiously.

“Were you even a Girl Scout?”

“Doubtful. Looks like you just gotta hope I don’t open my mouth about it.”

Woods grunted. Yet still didn’t leave. 

“Do you normally take pics of everything and everyone? Even on missions like that?”

“I like it. I like taking pictures. Did I make you uncomfortable?” You did take a few of him before you took a picture of the base. It was nice lightning and he looked good. “I can give you the pictures I took to you, if you want. They were good shots.”

“I suppose I can add it to my scrapbook.” Woods joked before shaking his head, his eyes turning more curious as the conversation went on. Gaze more assessing as he stared down at you. “Nah, it’s fine.  Don’t mind you keeping them. After I take a look of course. I guess I’m just asking…what’s the obsession with the camera? Film is precious right?” At your shoulder tensing, you starting to get defensive, he quickly changed tactics as he rose a hand in calming manner. “I ain’t judging. Just curious. Couldn’t help but overhear Park talk to you that Adler doesn’t like wasting resources. Or some shit like that. I don’t get the big deal. But it must be if you keep doing it despite them having a stick up their asses about some film of all things.”

Your brows pinched together, gazing intently at Woods eyes. You don’t see a reprimand. Or exasperation. Or even amused exasperation, like you were just being cute while doing something disobedient—like a pet jumping at their owners even as they tell them no with an amused smile. (“Always the one who never listens. Huh, Bell? Didn’t I tell you before about the pictures?”) He’s being sincere in his interest. It was his expression that did it.

You looked away, eyes taking in the safehouse around them. 

“Ever feel like a ghost in your own body?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Woods answered roughly. You nodded next to you, him taking that as permission that he can finally properly sit next to you. You didn’t mind thighs or shoulders brushing. Comrades now. Both of you throwing your lives on the line. Getting shot  by a common enemy brings people together no other way can. 

“Well, the coma did a number on me. I don’t remember much. I can’t put a story to scars on my body. My life, my memories—it’s only Vietnam.”

“Fucked up thing to remember. That whole war was a shit show,” Woods provided. “You must’ve been young.”

You only hummed, distant. Eyes straying in the direction of the red room. Your skin prickled in goosebumps, ears falsely hearing shots and napalm strikes. You shuddered but hid it by clenching your fists on the table, eyes on your jumbled words of your work. 

“Yeah…Hue City was just the start of everything going downhill…But I guess my point is…” You don’t know how to properly say it, you can’t find the English word for this. Esurient for memories erased. The feeling of not quite fitting in everyone’s circle, even with Sims. Monachopsis. (Are you even here at all? It’s like they stare past you.) “Life is memories. I don’t have any. What’s a person if not memories? So…I don’t feel…like it. A person.” You shrug casually, mutely. Hand wandering to a picture, thumbing it. “Ghosts don’t seem to remember stuff besides a deep motive. That’s what others believe. But…with pictures…pictures are for memories. If I take pictures, I’m actually taking memories. And if take enough memories…” You struggled once more how to explain but Woods was sharp despite his looks.

“You’ll be a person again.” Your eyes darted towards him, giving him a minute nod as he seemed to consider your words with a tilt of his head. The silence between the two of you wasn’t stifling, just…there.

You felt like something was released from you. 

Unlocked. 

The key was just for someone to ask. 

“Hey, listen—“ you turned at the soft touch to your shoulder, and you noticed Woods looked uncomfortable about the atmosphere you created. Not used to sharing open emotions like this no doubt but still had what appeared like care in his eyes. “You should really talk to Mason, he—“

Your ears honed in on the medical office opening, your eyes quick to follow as your head swiveled. Everything turned silent as your eyes settled upon the body you can recognize even in the thickest of jungles or deepest of wet rice paddies. And as your eyes settled, your thoughts of ruminating toska and the sense of lacuna dissipated.

You were so busy trying to catch what Adler was saying to Park beside him, you temporarily forgotten Woods next to you. You could hear him talking. Some form of advise. 

You turned back to your work and absently nodded with a quick smile to match at him. Your lips moved to say thanks. You think you did.

You didn’t see Woods throw another look of concern towards you, of suspicion. Turning something over his head.

You forced your ears to stretch, as if with force you can have super hearing. With brute force you can have the arcane man with valleys upon his visage, with liquid nectar that bounces with voluminous silk, voice of gravel that leads to the path of victory and makes your mind hazy. 

You still had a pen in your hand, tight as you looked down with a frown at the papers. Your leg beginning to bounce under the table. Impatient. Restless. Athirst.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” Adler called out(Beckoned, Signaled, Enticed—trinket waved like a treat. Your nepenthe.) clearly, more loudly than how he was talking to Park. You didn’t turn your head as he walked out the door near the garage door, too obvious. But you did sneak a look when he exited, stealing gaze right when you saw his back before the door closed.

Except it didn’t. A small rock held it ajar.

A secret.

“What the hell?” Woods was bewildered, staring after Adler while you tried to hide the fact. Waiting a beat. Or two. Your leg bounced under the table, growing more insistent. “Doesn’t he get his fix in here anyways?”

You heard Lazar answer for Woods, something about Adler needing a change of scenery sometimes. You can see in your peripheral his glance. You ignored it as you stood up to head back to your computer desk.

“I’m taking a break too,” you say, quickly picking a book from your pile in the corner after a brief deliberation.

“Uh…” Woods face would’ve made you laugh from how scrunched up it was as he stared as you quickly fixed your work papers back in the center table, book under your arm. “Isn’t that what you were doing? Like fuckin’ a second ago?”

“No,” you answer, organizing the pictures and quickly scanning them before you do so. “Lazar interrupted me from my work. And then you did. It was an interruption. Not a break.”

“You sure turned prickly,” Woods said in answer.

You pause, seeing Woods was somehow offended. He just doesn’t get it.

“Says the cactus,” you quip with a quick smile, twitching up more at Woods huff out his nose. “I…like taking my break the same time as Adler,” You decide to answer the question in his eyes. He did listen. “It’s what we’ve always done. I read. He smokes. And right back to work we go. It works better this way.”

You didn’t wait for his reply. 

You didn’t even bother to see if he was about to.

You have the book in your hand, and you have your tether(Your eyes looks for the sun tanned gold even though it should blind you, but you never cared for your wellbeing. Protect the quiet monster like a demon enraged. Demon for monster. Monster for demon. The coin. You keep it in your pocket, whelve it—the whispered confession—the gravity of your ustulation and agastopia can burn through your pockets and skin all it wish. You keep it in. Like the pain killers Adler gave you earlier for your migraine after their meeting with Hudson about Ukraine.) outside. 

You open the door and without looking, you went to the left side of the door that’s by some unused pallets. Sitting on them and opening your book to your last point, as if you were ignoring him. (How could you?) He was smoking as he leaned against the wall beside the door. You always left of it, him always right. (▞ He’s always right. ▞ He ▙ never ▞ lies. Not to ▖ ▞ ▗ you.)

It was silent. Only the turning of your pages as you focused on reading, and the occasional exhale you hear now and then if you strain your ears. A puff of grey smoke above the two as your audience.

You don’t mind the quiet moments. You take what you can get. The two of you have too long a history for you to be uncomfortable at silence. Or needing something more. 

You don’t.

(The secret coin in your pocket burns, and you try not to flinch nor whine. You must stay sated, ▚ демон ▚ ▛ ▖ ▖.) 

A shot went through the front of your skull, your hand darting up as it seemed to go to the back of your head, a hiss to your lips. You almost dropping the book with your other hand.

“Another migraine?” He was close. You opened your eyes you didn’t realize were closed as you were hunched over your knees, spotting his shoes. 

You only offered a small nod before closing your eyes again, jaw tight. 

“I don’t…” you stop, speaking more quietly to help with the pounding. The sunlight was too much already, you don’t want to add your own voice to your own misery. “Dont know why it’s getting worse. Is this…normal?”

“It can be.” He replied simply, to the point. “Here. Take this.”

You blinked your eyes open and lifted your head to spot he took out some more medicine from his leather jacket, holding it out to the pills in the palm of his hand. At the sight, your stomach curdled.

You felt yourself pale and you don’t know why.

Adler must’ve noticed your hesitation. Tilting his head and lips twitching to a frown around his cigarette. He lifted a hand, taking one deep inhale, embers subtly lighting his face before he threw it off. He exhaled out his nose, smoke flowing smoothly. 

Your throat tightened as you stared. But not in want. It felt more heavy. More heady. Your mouth open more in a wince than for anything else.

“You know this will help. We gotta make sure you’re in shape for this, Bell.” You bowed your head in shame, book now beside you on the pallet as you clenched your hands on your knees. You heard him sigh. And now you see him, closer—he’s kneeling in front of you. One knee down, the other having his elbow leaning against it. “I don’t have to explain to you the stakes currently. You know how serious this is since you and Woods found out Hudson’s dirty little secret about Perseus and the nuke he has. You know it. We can’t fuck around anymore.”

You hunched your shoulders, as if that can hide you from your guilt. Because you spotted his glance towards your book. You can guess what else he’s hinting.

Stay a ghost or try to be a person? A part of your mind asked. You tried to not let your heart crack of no more pictures.

“I know…” you say, eyes down and to the side. Yet… “It’s just…it wasn’t that long ago you gave me them…I don’t—I mean—“ Your tongue is tied again. Like always near him. You didn’t mean to sound accusing or hinting. Adler is trained for medical issues on the field. You tried to take a breath. “I just don’t want to be a burden with all this. Slow you guys down. I don’t want to disappoint you.” You did a tight squeeze of your knees, practically white knuckled grip, a mix of uncaring at your honesty and hating yourself for it.

You felt your chin be lifted up, Adler’s forefinger doing so you can be face to face. He assessed you seriously.

“You won’t, kid.” He’s so close. Breath to your face. So calm too. Your anchor. He believes in you. If you or him leaned just an inch or two forward—he took his hand away from your face before bringing his palm with the medicine again. “Taking these will help. I’ll watch over you. Just like the good ‘ol days.” He tilted his head, a quirk of the mouth up. And you think he couldn’t be more charming. 

You ignored your past nerves, quickly taking the medicine in a dry swallow, gloved hands brushing his bare ones(Damn it all.). 

He nodded at you, the barest thing of it before he stood up. Glancing at your book again with pressed lips before facing you once more with a raised brow.

“Oscar Wilde? Here I thought you only read Dostoevsky and Nietzsche.”

“It’s a collection of some of his poem’s. And a break from existentialism and nihilism is good for the mind. But you’ve always been more of a stoic,” you shoot him a teasing look, an attempt to get your bravado back. “Our very own Prince Andrei Bolkonsky.”

Adler did a small huff out his nose.

“Just don’t start bowing.” Adler did a quick motion of his to the door. “Come on. Back to work, Tolstoy.”

You nod, marking where you were in the book before following Adler back in, your hold on the book tight. Who knows when you’ll get to read again.

Stay a ghost or try to be a person? 

(It doesn’t matter. Adler made the choice for you.)

You tell yourself it’s fine. You instead let yourself be a book for Adler—willing to be read. You imagine how he would do it, a book of you in his hands. Read through your pages, open up your spine and let his fingers run through your creases—how easily can he finish you? How many times could he, until you’re worn and wrinkled from use? Will his touch trace the abuse of a loved book?

The place where he put his finger on your chin burns.

…

The page you marked on the page reads: “Never regret thy fall, O Icarus of the fearless flight, For the greatest tragedy of them all, Is never to feel the burning light."

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A/N: Bell is a SIMP. Poor girl. The best way to tell if Bell is in love, is if she suddenly starts thinking in poetry. Bell stares intensely you say? Bell loves intensely too.

I’m also confusing myself with Dark!Adler and Soft!Adler. But again he’s both so 🤷‍♀️ Man so toxic and a red flag, he’s even confusing the author.

Also, I’m planning to write really quickly to finish up For Whom the Bell Tolls. Didn’t want to but I really want to go ahead and write for BO6. Then again, that fic was NEVER supposed to be that long or longer. Sorry if I speed through some stuff, I just want to finish it and move on then torture you all further.

Tag List: @tr1ppylady @parkeepingparker @weirdoartist21 @gojocat247 @mayaibnlaahad @dallmaistir @salvija @kylezkie4adler @asaltryefl @stupid-stinky @aurora-windu @zachfoxx121 @pyxis-stellae @makeyourpeacenow @obsessedgremlin

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.

[altcvnningham]

needy

adler x f!bell

summary: adler gets up for a morning cigarette. or tries to. read on ao3

tags/cw: established adlerbell, f!bell, she/her pronouns, bell is russian, fluff, light angst, no plot, drabble, smoking mention, kind of domestic i guess, bo6 adler so he's a little soft, pre-bo6 but post-panama, cw references galore, dog imagery as is synonymous w adlerbell atp, author has adhd and goes on prosaic rambles in lieu of an actual plot. this fic could have been an email?? sorry wc: 3.1k

a/n: bwuhhh this was just an excuse to write self indulgent soft morning adlerbell at the rook while i work on my actual pre-bo6 adlerbell rook fic when i have the energy . no plot, lots of rambling, once again kind of just a thinkpiece on their relationship now adler's an old fossil. idk she was doing nothing being left in my notes app ajdkhjkasjk

He reckons she’s needier these days, more than she ever used to be back in Berlin.

Sometimes he wonders if it’s just his age that makes him feel that way; that perhaps she hasn’t changed at all, and instead it’s the dust settling on his bones, rusted shrapnel over the years snagged in the joints and sinews, that makes him feel sluggish in comparison. It’s the first time in his life since Livingstone brought up the CIA’s desire for more sprightly recruits that he wonders- is he struggling to keep up?

Their reunion after all these years was a messy one: a scrap in an indistinct bar, bloodied knuckles split and bruises welted dark blue, the white of his eye burst red, the curve of her jaw swollen for a good week. Fresh after Panama. As soon as she caught wind of what happened she’d picked up his trail barely a week after he arrived in Bulgaria. Had she come to kill him? He doesn’t know. It isn’t as if she’d confess to it even if she had, and maybe he had it coming anyway. It stopped mattering at all the second the fight had descended into the alleyway, wrestled onto their backs against the cobblestone, where hands had found throats and then jaw, waist, hip, and everything else. Punches had calmed to caresses, curses to kisses, and somehow he’d found himself patching her up back at the Rook, his stray dog come home to him, like old times.

She’d eased herself back into his life easily enough then. Simple and unspoken. Or, rather, wedged her foot back in the door well enough that he couldn’t shut her out again, even if he’d wanted to (as if he hadn’t always kept it ajar all these years just to let her in, never closed, never closed). Never a word for what they are, what they have, the routine they’ve slipped almost effortlessly back into again- that hasn’t changed since the old days- and yet he doesn’t find that it robs it of meaning whatsoever.

If anything, it makes it something rare, special, his diamond in the rough, glinting sea glass washed a perfectly chiselled bead upon the shore. Just as she’d crashed along with the tide as time brought her back to him, he picked her up, tucked her gently back into that place she belonged, in between the rib and vertebrae, nestled inside him all to steady the beat of his restless heart. Her alone enough to settle the frantic, ceaseless palpitations he’s suffered nightly, since… Solovetsky? He thinks? The dull gnawing in the back of his mind all those years in between, that wasn’t sure if he was more frightened for her inevitable return or her disappearing forever, slipping through his fingers back to sea again.

He supposes it doesn’t matter anymore. That was then, and now seemed to fare much nicer.

Now, she rolls sweet and placid onto her back against the mattress, limp as a daisy in rain, soft body bowing to his careful manhandling; he’s itching for a smoke, aching for his vice the second he awoke, hours too early for his alarm. He lifts her off him delicately, almost methodical as he starts with her arm, the heavy loll of her head, her shoulder. Like defusing a bomb, he’d joked once, a comparison she’d only proven right by her explosive reaction to it.

It’s an odd feeling, though, the calm where there had once been nothing but war between them, the quiet, the warmth upon his chest now fading where she’d laid her head after he came back last night- back home, back to her- and it’s in moments like these, just mere glimpses of normalcy, that makes him wonder what could have been his life, theirs, had things not happened the way they did. MK Ultra, Berlin, Solovetsky. Perseus. Then again, he supposes, if she hadn’t been shot in Trabzon that night, if she hadn’t been there at all, then he wouldn’t have known she’d even existed. This mundane moment lost to time like everything else.

She murmurs in her sleep, spurred to wakefulness when the mattress lifts and groans at his absence, her eyes squinting through the sliver of morning light bleeding through the gap in the curtains; even when she’s completely out of it, she doesn’t miss a thing. He’s never exactly been the paragon of stealth when he excels at everything else, but even if every factor in the world had worked in his favour- if the beaten mattress wasn’t so rusted, if the ancient floorboards didn’t squeal underfoot when he stood up, if there wasn’t a constant draft on his side of the room that hit her as soon as he moved- nothing would have stopped her from registering his absence, clawing to fight off sleep just so she had an excuse to grouse at him. Ever his stubborn girl.

“Mm… where y’going…?”

Adler smiles to himself, flat but genuine, stifled by the lethargy that hangs over his head heavy as an anvil. Her accent so thick in the early hours it hardly sounds like English at all. He’s half tempted to reply in Russian, just to see if her cottonmouth tongue latches quicker to that instead.

But he doesn’t, just lingers in the doorway leading out to the hall, feeling only a little guilty for letting in the cold. It rather satisfies him instead to see her shiver and pull the blankets further over herself, keeping her right where he wants her. Right where he needs her, so he knows she’ll still be there when he comes back.

“Smoke,” is all he says, rattling the crumpled pack for her to hear.

She’s half coherent when she grumbles, English sandwiched between Russian endearments. Cussing him out.

“Y’can smoke in here… m’don’t mind. Come back to bed.”

Something tugs at his heart, almost foreign, vague. Something he only feels when she digs her claws in him just like that, even if only to graze. It’s the same certainty as when he wraps his finger around a trigger, pulls a pin, wrenches his hand around the hilt of a knife- unspoken, inevitable. The drop of a guillotine, inexorably quick. A certainty that verges on frightening, a promise, which he’s never been good at keeping, but knows she means wholeheartedly, down to her marrow. Possessiveness, he thinks- (is it irony, now, how often he finds her fist wrapped around the leash he doesn’t even notice he’s wearing?)- people not in their line of work, those with nice houses and desk jobs and white picket fences, he’s heard, call that feeling belonging. To be beckoned like that. Home.

It’s her demand that he stays. Hardly a question. And Bell doesn’t beg.

He’s sure that in her spitefulness, if he’d had a trigger phrase just like hers, she’d spit it at him ‘til he turned heel and crawled back on over to her, slid under the sheets like an apology scrawled onto a note and tucked under the door. It’s a near enough thing- the way her bleary eyes fix on him vengefully through matted lashes, searing her betrayal into him. Every morning he gets up before her, it seems to say: you left me. A petulant notion, only half serious, but one cold enough that it almost works. Frigid. Familiar. Arctic air.

It works a little at least- getting soft in your old age- because he lugs himself back over to the bed and just stands by it, refusing to give her the satisfaction of quiet victory if he climbs back inside. She stretches a languid arm flat across the mattress, rolling catlike onto her stomach, splaying her fingers in the hopes that she might somehow pull him back in to her. She manages a knuckle grazing his knee, before she gives up, pulled under by sleep once more. Head slumped against the pillow, she muffles her disdain.

But Adler is nothing if not at least a little amenable. If he’s sweet on anyone, it’s his Bell. His baby. Hard to let a thing like that go, when she was quite literally made for him. Made by him, in his image. Scraped marrow from rib like Adam, caulking the hole Arash shot through her chest and bestowed life upon her once more. He’s happy to have a piece of himself broken off and left inside her, a tithe tossed to the slab of her altar. The fracture of his soul a discarded lamb in sacrifice, sustaining the sick hunger that starves her.

It keeps them inseparable, he thinks. He’d read something somewhere, pretentious shlock about strings of fate and those bound to it- romantic crap shmucks use to justify ugly marriages and affairs, the suffering of co-dependency given some transcendent meaning, a purpose greater than the mundane. The notion that two people, by whatever higher power, are bound to one another no matter what they do to separate themselves of it, tethered from their first breath and suffering an endless togetherness until their last. He’d rolled his eyes the first time he’d heard of it- there wasn’t a world where he’d be enough of a sap to actually buy into that shit. Maybe his ex-wife might’ve been fond of it, maybe it was something she wrote into one of the letters he kept under his bunk back in ‘Nam. He doesn’t know.

But Bell made him understand it. He’d dug a grave in her when he denied her her own on that airstrip in Turkey, and he buried himself in it, over and over again. His memories, his life, his voice ringing like God’s. His favourite things, treasured, secret. His fears and doubts and worries, every little thing that made up the culmination of his being. It was never just Vietnam he put there. It was everything. She’s half himself, a faded mirror image. It only makes sense that they’d find each other again, eventually. She’d walk the earth, stalking like a bloodhound trailing his dried scent until she found him. She’d roam the endless nights, a ghost shivering their old haunts until he meanders his way back to her again, pulled along by a gnawing ache inside himself- a missing piece he’d seek the rest of his life to fill. She could track him blind. And he would feel her coming, like blood in the water. He did. He did.

It’s that tether that makes it impossible not to relent to her, when he kneels down next to the bed, knee joint cracking under his weight, the mottled floorboard doing nothing to steady him. It’s her, when she has enough leverage now to close the distance between her fingers and the collar of his shirt, curled inside the bleached cotton, fist wrenched tight. The seam digs into the back of his neck but he doesn’t let her pull him to her; he waits, making her work for it. The satisfaction that tends to follow when she does is usually worth her ingratiation.

She drags herself across the mattress, using his body as an anchor. Heavy and boneless, she lays right at the edge of the bed where he kneels, her nose nudging at his jaw as she turns, belly up like prey. Too easy a kill, he knows that. She’s gloating. The fact he’d come back at all means she’s got him right where she wants.

“C’mere,” she murmurs gently, saccharine, cloying. He’s surprised it doesn’t make her gag- the pretend domesticity of it all. Dragging her dried lips, smiling, against the underside of his jaw, her fingers sliding idle up the back of his neck, arm slung around his shoulder like she’s expecting to be carried out.

He humours her with a smirk, his blues nearly grey in the dim dark of the room as she mouths at him, vying for his attention. It’s as much a demand as her words had been, sharp as her tone as she nips at his jaw. Adler sighs, as though turning his face to gaze down at her were something laborious, and not the blessing he counts on every finger, every day, seemingly numbered since Panama. He tuts, and it says, what am I going to do with you?

But if his condescension was an attempt to dissuade her advances, it doesn’t work, because she sees right through his playful façade, and the wry smile that unfurls sleepy on her lips betrays her excitement, the sifting of her legs under the sheets audible as she squeezes them together. Needy. She knows he notices.

“Not gonna work, Bell,” he hums dryly. Yet he steals this moment of her surrender, his eyes flitting to every feature of her face. He doesn’t need to commit her to memory, she’s dug in there like a tick. But God, if he doesn’t like to look at her. He brings a rough hand down against her temple, smoothing the baby hairs back, eliciting a satisfied sigh from her as her eyes slip shut. Her head falls back against the pillow, anticipating a kiss he doesn’t give her.

“C’mon. Back to sleep. I’ll be ten minutes.”

“Five.”

“Bell.”

“Five minutes.”

Adler sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut.

“C’mon,” she croons, “five minutes… n’then…”

He thinks she’s fallen back asleep, the way her sentence carries off like that into silence. But when he opens his eyes she’s blinking prettily up at him, looking far too satisfied. Just as he opens his mouth to ask why, he feels the warm press of her hand against his knee, sliding up his thigh, fingertips tugged impishly at the sweatpants he’d haphazardly thrown on. He’s lightning quick to catch her, fingers circling her wrist; where the darting action might scare a weaker person it makes Bell’s eyes light up like stars, enamoured with his roughness. Excited. The way only she could be, eager pup biting at his ankles for a reaction.

“Behave,” he scolds, giving her knuckle a cursory smack before releasing her. That must finally be enough to spoil her fun, because she huffs, growling low in her throat, and rolls back over, burrowing herself deeper into the blanket than she’d begun.

It’s always a game to her, one she doesn’t much like losing. He can’t blame her for it. It’s always been that way. Back in Berlin, he’d taught her to play poker the proper way, the American way- whatever that meant- her downfall eternally being the fact she couldn’t bluff for shit around him. And it was just him- she’d caught on quick to the play, and had triumphed a couple times against Sims and Lazar; Park had refused to indulge the game, and Woods wiped the floor with the lot of them, even Adler. But with him, Bell just couldn’t lie. He was carved from marble, impassable- what he’d been trained to do. And she was a piece chipped off his softest part, malleable- of course he’d catch every minute twitch and wince, the flitting of wet lashes, the purse of an uncertain lip. She always told him the truth even with her eyes, her heart bore on her sleeve. It almost always felt like cheating. After all, it was what she was made for, wasn’t it?

And this felt much the same way. Not as strict as the luck of dealt hands and stifled poker faces but she’s never said or done anything to him she doesn’t mean. After he missed the shot in Solovetsky, all cards were strewn on the table. There was no mystery anymore. No joy taken in a good old fashioned backstab when the real damage was done, much too late to rectify. Maybe that’s why she makes it her personal goal to poke and prod and tease him now, chasing her fun in her own way, a decade late. Suppose it’s why she hates when he doesn’t just drop the cool attitude and give in.

He rises from the floor, that same knee joint clicking again. Where she might have mumbled a curt jibe about it, she’s silent, sulking into the pillow.

But just as he goes to leave, Adler stops at the door, a foot out into the hallway, the rest of him still stuck here, stuck on her. He sees a similar image in the back of his mind, of her laid upon the gurney in Die Landebahn, halfway into the back room with a syringe in hand when for one single moment of sobriety it dawned on him, what he’d been doing to her. Nothing like guilt, but it came close. Tinged with the regret of something so shameful as affection, Cupid’s arrow dipped in kerosene, shot straight through his heart; to come out the other side, to let him survive, to let him have this, here, her, now. And it’s a torture to have lived it, to know he doesn’t deserve a lick of it. The soft rise and fall of her breath beneath the blanket. Her hair splayed upon his pillow. She buries her nose deep in the old goose feather to try and keep him where he’s left her. Hold him close even when he’s gone.

The decade’s done much to him. He’d put on a couple pounds, had to start plucking the errant greys flecking his hairline, begun to wake most mornings with a tell-tale crick in his neck. He’s learned to relax that hard line in his brow, drawn too deep to reverse the evidence of age; let himself laugh a little easier, surprised people with his newfound ability to actually smile. He’s lost a lot, gained half as much. He’d been through hell and back, worse maybe than what he did to her- his karma, he supposes. And he supposes the decade’s made him soft, sentimentality creeping in to nestle somewhere he can’t reach, hidden inside himself with all the other things he doesn’t talk about. And he supposes of everything he’s lost, he has Bell again, and all things considered- it’s a fair trade.

He sucks in a breath, a sigh made audible for her to hear. Even as she feigns sleep, he knows she catches it, a flinch of her shoulder- where the shot he missed had landed in lieu of her head. In Solovetsky.

Then, Adler sighs, followed by a promise that feels to her like a confession.

“Five minutes.”

And when the door clicks shut, Bell steals herself a little victory smile.

[ineylesian]

Adler taking care of a drunk/and or high reader😭😭 THERES NOT ENOUGH ADLER FICS IM GONNA CRY I LOVR HIM

AO3 | NAV

wc — 1k

author’s note — hii sorry this took so long!! arqhms we’re-so-back arc took a little longer than expected, but here a little drabble for you. still learning how to write for adler, he’s a little tricky, but i’ll cook when BO6 comes out 🫡

Your head is pounding. 

The world around you is shrouded in a dark shear. Blurred sit the lights that shine down on shaking hands, gently tapping against the ring of a nearly emptied glass. Ice swirls and clashes as you slide the drink back and forth, in and out, steady as the breaths that pool from your mouth. 

In. Out. You’re convinced that you’re fine. You just need another drink– something bitter to wind you down and help you forget. That’s all it does, anyway. All you can do is forget, and drink it all down once you remember. 

You raise your hand, silently waving to the woman who served your last four, five shots to you. Her head falls into half of a nod, eyes moving from yours as she stills, cloth in hand slowing on the rim of the glass she cleans. 

“That’ll be enough for tonight, thanks.”

Your eyebrows narrow as her nod changes to acknowledgment toward the voice behind you, sending a look of sympathy your way as she turns. Sighing, you quickly down the last watered down drops in your glass, swiveling sideways to glare at a pair of tan aviators looking your way.

“You can’t tell me-”

“You reek of whiskey, can smell it all over you.” He’s quick to cut you off, ice clinking together as he pulls the glass from you, sliding it out of reach. “It doesn’t take a genius to tell you’ve had enough.”

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, your gaze wanders down to his jeans. Your features contort into a resemblance of a sneer, finger jutting out to point at the outline of a pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

“And who says what’s enough for you?” 

A few moments of silence pass; you don’t miss the quick roll of his tongue over his lips. The aviators can’t hide the vision of him briefly closing his eyes, searching for what he’ll say next. It’s something you know he always does when he’s trying to pick his next words carefully. 

Drunk or sober, Adler is always logical with the way he talks to you. You believe it stems from the desire to never give the sense of a false promise. They sit reserved for nights of uncertainty, unsure of whether tomorrow is a guarantee. Whispers of his desires only seem to visit you in your dreams.

“Smoking doesn’t impact my ability to think.” You sense his gaze flick between your face and legs. “I could go through an entire pack and still be able to carry myself out of here. Half a bottle of Jack Daniels prevents you from getting up and walking out of here.”

Adler doesn’t miss the look of defiance that crosses your face after he’s done speaking. Following the clearance of your tab, he leans back, arms settling over one another. 

“Go on, then. If you can get yourself out of here, you can tell me when to stop for the rest of my life.”

Antagonizing, snide. It’s the tactic you’ve seen more times than you can count, saccharine tongue used to taunt and beckon failure. However, the amount of alcohol in your stomach lets his provocation slither into your brain like honey, liquid courage screaming at you to shut him up. 

You barely lift your shoes off of the barstool’s bottom level when your vision goes blurry, large spots of black making the floor seem akin to the wall 10 feet away. The rush of fear that you’re falling is swiftly diminished as a pair of hands pull you forward, and you’re met with the brush of cashmere on your cheek.

You’re too drunk to notice the action. He’s quick, the way that his fingers gently card through your hair, the feeling gone as a summer breeze washes over your skin. However, the warmth lingers, and you lift your head to look at him, eyes brimming with tears due to the gradual worsening of the pounding in your head.

“Take me home.” You drawl, arms blindly reaching around his torso, locking together. “Please, Russ.”

You hear his scoff, lightly chiding, but you can barely make out the amused quirk of his lips as he stands up, slowly situating your feet onto the floor.

“Walk with me.”

You do as you’re told, whining incoherently at him as he loops your arm around his neck. Adler calls a thanks to the bartender, and you stumble over your feet two or three times before you reach the door. The cool rush of night is quick to dust your face as you move outside, a harsh contrast to the contents of your stomach that causes you to mindlessly shiver.

“Adler...”

Your complaint is met with a soft click of the tongue, yet, the sensation of warmed leather falls over your shoulders within seconds. A lopsided smile graces your face, and you allow your eyes to roam from chestnut strands that fall over his aviators to the polished black leather on his feet.

“And the next layer?”

A gentle push follows your remark, and you scoff dramatically, arms looping around Adler’s neck as he spins you back toward him. You grin as he tilts your head up against his chest, silently celebrating the empty streets that allow him to hold you as he does. 

“Does the princess require any more care?” 

Still heavily whiskey blooded, you hum, neck craning up to meet his gaze. 

“Just your bed.”

You don’t expect a response, and he doesn’t give one. Satisfied, you lean back into the soft fabric of his turtleneck, knowing the soft strokes of his hands along your back won't leave you alone tonight.

[littlemissclandestine]

Soft!Russell Adler x Reader pt.1

Note: Howdy Adler nation! Hope this isn't too OOC. I just know that man is a big softie really. Might do some more parts to this such as a solely nsfw one and a married/family life one. Please let me know if this is something you'd like! <33 - Star ✰

Warning: Mentions of sex, MDNI

💙 Soft!Adler who's heart has been thawing ever since he met you, his stoic and cold demeanour melting away whenever you're around

💙 Soft!Adler who pats his man-spread thighs as he's sat down, holding out his hands for you to grasp to ease yourself into his lap in the evenings

💙 Soft!Adler who takes your hands in his, rubbing the back of them with his thumbs as he talks you down after a bad day, kissing your forehead

💙 Soft!Adler who is never the first to pull away during a hug, his chin atop your head, eyes closed, arms wrapped around you like he truly never wants to let go

💙 Soft!Adler who will lift you up from your waist to grab things from the top shelf, lowering you gently and kissing you, teasing you about your height, expressing how cute he thinks the difference is

💙 Soft!Adler who will hug you from behind as you do the dishes, kissing your neck lightly, whispering nothing but praise in your ear and then offering to dry while you wash

💙 Soft!Adler who loves to slow dance with you, a hand on your waist and the other holding yours to the side or his hands both on your waist as you look up at him, arms around his neck as you both sway to the beat of slow romantic/jazz songs

💙 Soft!Adler who will take a few days off work to look after you when you're ill, cooking the few dishes he knows you love made by him

💙 Soft!Adler who drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other lightly squeezing your thigh as he shoots you little knowing glances and smirks

💙 Soft!Adler who takes his time with you, careful not to hurt you, intertwining his fingers with yours, caressing your skin with love, every curve, every scar and imperfection perfect to him because they belong to you

💙 Soft!Adler who worships your body and mind

💙 Soft!Adler who genuinely wants to get to know your body, what satisfies you, smiling against your skin as he makes your back arch

💙 Soft!Adler who cares for you after sex, asking how you feel, littering your body with wet, sloppy kisses afterwards, running a bath for the two of you, his chest to your back as he lays with you in the tub and you both almost fall asleep

💙 Soft!Adler who always puts you first when his job allows, protecting you, making sacrifices to keep you happy

💙 Soft!Adler who has no qualms about landing a blow to anyone who so much as looks at you funny

💙 Soft!Adler who is a chronic smoker but actually considers quitting if you dislike it

💙 Soft!Adler who will hold your hand under the table in public, planting kisses to your temple and cheeks or wrap an arm around your waist or shoulders, pulling you closer to him because he can't bare having you even half a metre away

💙 Soft!Adler who makes up for any date nights, birthdays etc. missed because he was gone for months on an op or got hung up at the offices in Langley

💙 Soft!Adler who gives you time and space to process things, respecting any boundaries

💙 Soft!Adler who struggles to apologise and talk things out after an argument but will make the effort and chat when you're ready as he can't afford to lose you because he'll surely lose himself

💙 Soft!Adler who didn't necessarily want a family even with his ex but would give anything to see you carry his child, if and when you're ready

💙 Soft!Adler who will fuck you roughly when he gets back from deployment, apologising and telling you that you feel even better than he remembers and how much he missed being inside of you

💙 Soft!Adler who could listen to you for hours, talking about your interests, how your day was, getting distracted by the way your face glows as you smile and get excited about something

💙 Soft!Adler who will put a blanket on you if you're out of it, napping on the couch during the day, kneeling in front of you, smiling as he strokes your hair because of how angelic you look

💙 Soft!Adler who will call you when he's away, telling you he misses you, to take care of yourself and stay safe when he's the one in a warzone

💙 Soft!Adler who shows you how much you mean to him, not just saying it, buying you gifts when he's away to surprise you and thinking of things you may have forgotten about, tears filling your waterline because he remembers every single small detail

💙 Soft!Adler who melts when he sees you wearing his turtlenecks and jackets etc that look oversized on you but in the right places, as well as his signature sunglasses

💙 Soft!Adler who only allows you the privilege of seeing this side to him

who is afraid of losing you But...

who isn't afraid to say the words "I love you, sweetheart"

dividers by @saradika-graphics <33

[dearlydevoured]

teeny continuation of this because i had an idea, content warning for strangulation at the end. not proofread.

partially inspired by @altcvnningham !

you’d never say a word, silently trailing behind adler to every room of his house and leaving your presence on everything that was once his.

hot to the touch, he would always reach out to you but you’d always flinch away. it left a certain ache in adler, you used to appreciate every brush of skin and now you were wordlessly afraid of it. the curve of your back always appealed to him when he laid on his stomach in bed, fingers tracing your body as you faced away from him.

he probably should’ve told someone about the entire thing but when he really thought about it? ��bell has been walking around my house for the past fuckin’ month.” probably shouldn’t leave his mouth. “i’ve been hallucinating our mkultra pet and their skin is disgustingly warm.” as a passing conversational comment, completely normal thing to say!

adler would eventually do everything to get a reaction of you, nauseated by your blank face and lack of personality. he’d mostly blow cigarette smoke into your face knowing that you quit, hoping you’d squeeze your eyes tight and tell him off for being mean the exact same way you used to. when he finally gets frustrated enough, he’d wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze like there was life still in you. he’d grow desperate for anything out of you other than silence and expressionless features, even your flinching had stopped. all he got in return was a bullet hole mockingly staring back at him, reminding him that nothing would come from what he was trying to do.

[hedgehogsaretheultimatelifeform]

Okay a bit more of it yk

You weren’t sure how much time had passed since Adler had laid back and beckoned you up. He’d gently held your hand as you crawled up over his chest, onto his face. You’d locked your hands around the flowers carved into the headboard of the bed to keep yourself balanced, as he’d locked his arms around your thighs to make you sit, his warm tongue lapping at your pussy as the cold metal of his sunglasses dug into your thighs. It could have been minutes, hours, days, that you’d been up here. 

You knew that the room was hot. Either that, or you were, as your blood coursed through your veins, trying to keep you alive and breathing as you struggled to process how many times he’d made you come. You knew that Adler’s face looked good even when mostly obscured between your thighs and his sunglasses. You got a peek over every time you looked down, his hair sprawling back messily from his brow. 

You could feel your chest catching with each breath as he rubbed his nose against your clit, dipping his tongue in and out of your cunt, his nails digging into your skin making it feel like he was trying to eat you alive. You choked out a half-formed syllable that was meant to be his name, the letter S hissing between your lips, your body clenching as you came again. Your grip on the headboard tightened, and you were sure it was going to break under your fingers as your pussy fluttered on his tongue, your thighs squeezing like a vice around his head. A deep groan rumbled in Adler’s chest, until it was interrupted by an unmistakable crack, that came from between your thighs. 

You fell back into his lap as he sat up, catching you in one of his arms as he dragged you back from the headboard, pulling the broken sunglasses from his face. They were split clean in two, right down the middle of the bridge. 

“Would you look at that.” He mumbled, struggling out of his pussy drunk state into shock and horror, as he cradled the pieces in his hand.

You struggled for words, not wanting the first thing you said to be a horny-hazy, whoops. You took a deep breath and leant up on your elbow, propping yourself up against his shoulder. “Good thing I got you a spare pair, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, letting the shock peter out into laughter, carefully studying the place where the glasses had broken apart.

“You know, next time, you could just be conventional and not insist on wearing sunglasses while you eat my cunt.” You reached out and took the pieces from his hand. You knew he liked his sunglasses, but you were sitting here with your tits out, for fucks sake. “Kinda feels like you care more about these things, than me.”

“Fuck. Didn’t mean that.” He said, but kept watching the pieces closely, tightening his arms around your middle as you leant over to the bedside table and carefully set them down. “What’re you doing with that?” 

“I’m gonna keep them. As a trophy.” You leant back up and took his chin between your finger and thumb, pressing a kiss against his scar. 

“For what?”

“Winning.”

“Against my glasses?”

You nodded. 

He shook his head, smiling very slightly. “Well… if it means that much to you, I suppose I could give it a go.”

“What?” You tilt your head in feigned confusion. 

“Eating you out… conventionally.”

You mock gasped. “But what if you end up liking it?”

He tried to hang his head, only for you to tighten your grip on his chin, tilting it back up so he had to look at you as he spoke. “If, and I mean if, I like it… we can keep doing it.” 

“Really? For me?”

“For you.” He murmured, prying your fingers away from his chin as he slowly lay back down, pulling you with him. 

“Good boy.” You murmured as you reached out for headboard again, the huff of breath that came from between your thighs telling you that he heard that, before all was right in the world and his tongue was on your cunt again; this time without the prick of a glasses frame digging into your thighs. 

Ahem

Sitting on adler’s face and clenching your thighs around his head so hard you crack his sunglasses down the middle

Next

[ruerecs]

PSA! you don't have to have smut in your fic to make it good.

for all the butthurt people in my reblogs, i’m literally a writer too. that’s literally why i made this post, never said you shouldn’t. just said you don’t have to? (all the people complaining about this post just know i’m laughing at your replies🙂‍↕️)