#russell Adler

[maymaylyn]

Bobs burgers and black ops 6? I'd watch that.

[lorvdz]

I KNOW THIS ISNT DONE BUT ITS TOO GOOD NOT TO POST IT ON HERE!!! :3

[adlerboi]

Russell Adler

[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.

[infiniteheartsglitch]

He’s drawn so perfectly 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Some Adler sketches I didn't know what to do with xD

Might redraw the last one tho with colours and rendering 👀

[artistcalledbella]

small drawing inspired by Felix from bo6

[imjustsocute]

Young Adler!!🚬 [Headcannon]

I put some freckles on his face because it’s make him more like a nerd.😂

[simp-ly-writes]

Professionals

─────── · · A Black Ops 6 FanFic

Pairing: Russell Adler x Fem!Spy!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: You are a MI6 spy with a secret mission different to what the CIA has requested you for; using your information gathering expertise, you pose as Russell Adlers wife as the both of you go undercover abroad, the catch? MI6 wants to know everything about your "husband" just as much as you do.

─ · · TAGS: no use of (y/n), non-canon compliant, flirting, use of pet names, teasing, fluff.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 1,607

─ · · A/N: I always wanted to try and make one of those series that stems off into prompts and scenarios so use this chapter as the basis! 😊 (I hope this somewhat makes sense lol).

─────── · ·

Monday Night | MI6 Agency, London

It was one of the few nice nights of the year yet here you were sat inside your Directors office. A couple dozen high ranking officers swarming around you, the room tense in wait as the leather of your seat groaned as you took a seat.

One thing happened after another, a team was preparing your looks, another briefing you on culture, customs and speech. You had worked for the secret intelligence service for over two and a half decades, starting right out of university yet had never experienced something quite like this in all your history. All you could do is nod along.

"He'll be sat there waiting when you arrive. He is CIA, Clandestine special officer. A full report will be sent to your room when you arrive, deployment immediately. You are dismissed, officer," was all you gathered from your Director before you were being followed out into a car, your belongings already packed for you, ring box sitting heavy between your hands in your lap. You couldn't find it in you to open it.

"You ready, (last/name)?" one of your fellow operators, Bill asked you, driving the car another office sat shotgun, so much security... you think to yourself, worried for what the hell kind of a mission they were sending you on and with who of all people?

"What am I not ready for?" you ask back, faking confidence yet feeling frustrated by the lack of information you were receiving before going overseas and acting as a double-agent.

"Well, from knowing you, marriage," he chuckles, fixing the rear-view mirror as you shuffle around in the backseat. It was obviously meant to be a joke to cheer you up yet the word marriage rung through your head, echoing on repeat.

"Well it's not like I'm actually gonna get married, Bill. Just got to look all pretty, get the information, and get the hell out. The ring is just another thing of the disguise at the end of the day," you reply with nonchalance before opening the ring box- immediately regretting so as you stare at the most gorgeous ring you could ever dream of.

What the fuck, is all you can mutter underneath you breath before Bill is pulling into a parking sport at the airport. The other officer already running around back to the truck, unloading your gear. Bill lets out a long low whistle after seeing the ring.

"Well, everyone's going to know your a taken woman with that rock on your finger." You flip Bill the finger, placing the ring onto your left hand before throwing the box into your handbag and stepping out of the car. A plane waits for you on the tarmac, engines already roaring and with one wave back to the boys, you are off up in the air on on your way to America.

─────── · ·

Tuesday Morning | Hotel, Washington, D.C.

When arriving to the "Land of Freedom," you quickly hailed a cab to your to-be-shared hotel room for the next few days. Your boss mentioned it as a speed, "get-to-know one another" meeting but in your eyes it would be the opportunity to get the upper hand on information.

Your mission was simple, do the missions the CIA wanted you in, provide them with the information they wanted all the while taking what your agency wanted- who exactly is Russell Adlers and what the hell they were doing with brainwashing.

You were surprised to see how many lanes of traffic there were on your want to the hotel room and once arriving to the five-star hotel, staff members were there awaiting your arrival, "Mrs. Adler, please allow me to hold your belongings and bring them up to your room for you. An assortment of breakfast has been prepared at your husbands request and will arrive in 30 minutes."

White gloves swiftly took your baggage from out of the trunk another holding the door open for you both before leading you up to your room. Deep stained hardwood made your heels click against its surface in tune with the live performance piano. You took in the dazzling crystal chandeliers of the lobby with its panelled walls and luscious plants. The elevator was glass with a gold banister that you leaned upon, examining every exist and staff member positioned for the "just-in-case" that came with the job.

With a ding, you were up to the ninth floor and lead down a cosy lit hallway before being presented with your keycard. A white glove motioned to the scanner before holding the door open for you to enter first.

The room was moody and romantic just as the lobby was fit with golden accents, walls in that signature wood paneling, and floor finished in a plush cream carpet. A kitchenette, small living space and bed set with fresh white sheets and a few too many pillows off to another room set within the suite. You were impressed to say the least once hearing the last of your luggage be placed within the room.

"Is there anything else we could assist you with Mrs. Adler?" the staff member asks, eyes hanging onto your every word- eager to help. You smiled at the young man before shaking your head with a smile. A strand of your hair falling out of place in doing so. "No, I am quite alright. Thank you for your work, I'll be sure to make my husband reward your service this morning." And with that, the door closed behind you as you took in the silence of the space before going digging.

Grabbing your gloves from your purse on the counter you opened every drawer and cranny, looking underneath every piece of furniture in the main room before heading towards the bedroom. The singular bed mocked you as the white sheets glistened through the sunlight peaking through the sheer curtains.

A singular small suitcase sat on an armchair that faced the bed. Delicately zipping it open you took apart its components yet finding nothing out of the ordinary, not a sloppy worker, you praised your "husband" before placing a small tracker into one of the open seams.

Standing back up and looking outside the reflection of another body behind you had you freezing in the moment. A tall man stood behind you by the outline of his broad shoulders, your eyes flickered between the two of you in the reflection. His voice casting goosebumps across your skin before you were reining yourself in, remember who you are, remember what the job is, remember-

"Hello, Sweetheart. Anything your looking for in particular?"

Shit. You turned around, casting a quick signature smile before slowly taking off your gloves and walking over to the side table. You felt his stare watching as you moved around the room as you took a seat on the corner of the bed.

"Just making sure that my husband was leaving me with no surprises after all you do know how much your wife hates them so," you retort now taking your time to stare. You took in the loafers he wore, freshly polished and leather matching the belt looping through pressed dress pants with the collared shirt he wore, a pair of aviators hanging from the unbuttoned part of his shirt.

His muscles bulged from the sleeves, veins casting up from his fingertips and up to his neck, beard freshly shaven and fitting the classy affluent couple look you both were assigned. Your eyes stopped at his face, watching as his head tilted in a silent demand for you to dare ask about the scar running up from his cheek to his nose.

"Already getting protective of me?" Adler teases catching your ring finger twitch at the name with a smirk.

You didn't appreciate him already trying to be above you, "the papers never said my husband would be handsome. How could they leave such an important part out?" you smile, your words genuine but the way in which you cross your legs after saying it as your husband raising a brow before rolling his eyes.

"I'm not the one you're trying to charm over. Save it for when we get overseas, I'm sure they'll enjoy it more-"

"And you didn't enjoy me calling you handsome?" you press forwards watching Adler roll his shoulders before scoffing. "I know I am, didn't need you to say it."

You gasp playfully, standing to tease more of his personality out of him but before you can reach Adler has your wrist in a firm yet gentle grip, cautious of his own strength. "I'm not going to break if you hold me so gently, Mr. Adler."

"Well, Mrs. Adler. If you think I'm going to get handsy you're wrong. Take the bed tonight, I'll settle on the couch."

Breakfast arrived shortly after your teasing match and while eating you appreciated that Adler did in fact hold table manners. Always making sure your coffee and water was filled yet apparently it was a step too far in asking for a bite off his plate as he waved you off.

It was the first day of a mission that you did not know when it would end but as you laid there in the cold sheets listening to Adler hum along to something on the radio before taking a drag from his cigarette. There was the smallest part of you hopeful that he would not hate you after all of this that became overshadowed by the job and everything you had at stake. There was no question but being the utmost professional.

─────── · ·

─ · · A/N: what did you think?? 👀 I've got some ideas of Adler finding out you have a side mission, introducing you to members of the team, missions gone wrong-AH! So many ideas, let me know if any of these stand out! 😄💕

[pampanope]

Just some Red11 stuff I’ve been hoarding

I might have more but am too lazy to search XD

Emile|[redacted] belongs to @kings-out-of-pocket-hell

Efren|7-11 belongs to meeeee

[sharkys-disco-stick]

By now most of us have played the BO6 campaign, and while it’s looking very likely that there will be a BO7, I can’t help but think of what the future looks like for certain characters.

Namely, I’ve been thinking about a Russell Adler who gets to grow old.

Who trades in the leather jackets of field work for the cashmere cardigans of the office. Who rotates out his watches with nylon and leather bands for those with metal links; ones that he never wore while traveling abroad out of the fear they’d be lost or ruined.

A Russell Adler who finds himself smoking more out of boredom habit than stress. And begins wearing cologne again to cover up the smell.

Who’s allowed to stay on with the CIA in an advisory capacity long after his retirement because his experience is just that valuable.

And the truth is, he just doesn’t want to admit to himself that it may no longer be needed.

Who’s finally forced to trade in his shades for reading glasses.

A Russell Adler who hopes his hair goes gray before his mind does.

It doesn’t.

7-7-7

[callmelitlesunshine]

let's bring a little summer into your feed... here is some summer renders with my lovely AdlerBell <3 I made it in May, but i still like it and i wanna share it here while i'm working on my another artworks!

Sooooo let them stay here🧡🧡🧡

Taglist [in/out]: @that1avian @gerdi-mitchell @mutantthedark @adlerdaduck @carlosoliveiraa @adlerboi

@tommyarashikage @alexxmason @hehehuhu490 @violetflavia @courtana

@iamcautiouslyoptimistic @sergeiravenov @pricescigar @ladysouthpaw1213

@drug-overdose @guigz1-coldwar @kings-out-of-pocket-hell @lordskellington003

@icecutioner @fw-priyanshu

[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

[singedscorpion]

my power is out so i can’t write the whole fic i was planning to write for you guys today so have this little snippet instead….

When Bell thinks about their eyes, they think about needles—the glint of thin metal, easily sliding through sensitive, gooey matter—they think about calloused hands and old-fashioned clothing, the gravelly vocals they just can’t quite get out of their head.

Yes, when Bell thinks about their eyes, they think of Him.

A reverent, irresistible, and untouchable being that guides their hands in prayer, tells them their omniscient gospel.

Russell Adler is no God, but Bell still finds their head bowing in everlasting faith.

[adlerboi]

Russell Adler

[altcvnningham]

black ops 6 where everything is the exact same except adler has switched to vapes