Russell Adler

Every man had his urges, and most had the necessary control over them. If needed. Adler flipped his lighter open, bringing up both hands to light his second cigarette of the day. A deep inhale, followed by the sweet sting of nicotine that his subconscious had led him towards once more. No need to gain control of that, it wasn't harmful. Adler's life would be over before lung cancer could catch up. Craving something was not an excuse for simply taking it, not in the real world. Smoking was bad, it harms you and bothers others. The world Adler was confidently striding deeper into, however? People took, and took every single day. He takes another drag. Adler's job was to fix that, and as an amusing oxymoron, he had to take to achieve that. Like he took Bell.

It hadn't even really been his idea at first, but an opportunity gladly taken. That's what it was all about, and maybe this was the real world. When rules start getting blurry, people start dying; Human nature shows it's true face. Ironically, Adler was technically doing this to protect a world in which people weren't entitled to get their slimy fingers on everything. The true reason for all of this had been lost somewhere along the countless bodies buried though, it was just one thing after another. He did this out of personal conviction, wouldn't hesitate to go against the world he'd sworn to protect when taking this job.

Despite the dim lighting of the shitty safehouse he'd been assigned, his blue eyes are hidden behind shades. That way it's not outwardly visible how his eyes had been resting on Bell's closed ones, the only thing visible on the other's face with the mask still in place. Bell had once asked about his scars, why Adler didn't wear a mask. The handler had simply responded: "Those? They're noticeable?"

Of course they were. They stretched with every word and drag of his cigarette, made him recogniseable to all enemies. But Bell? Oh, Bell would be recognised in another way. As a Lieutenant, by their old name. So Bell wore the mask, Adler didn't. Also made it easier to smoke. One more drag, one step closer to Bell.

With this kind of work there came many difficulties, but in Adler's twisted games they could be turned into perks. A good example would be, what had become, a bit of a personal Project; Bell. Somewhere among the way Bell had become less of a partner and more of an asset for him to handle. It was almost ridiculously easy to get his way with Bell, a simple phrase thrown in casually and they were at his beck and call. Breaking someone's mind, it came with great control. And almost no responsibility attached.

Adler didn't need to pay attention and meticulously be manipulative, he didn't need to get Bell attached to him. The usually delicate balance between praise, appreciation and putting a person down. Bell was already past that point, conditioned to stay loyal to Adler no matter what, and believing it was his own choice. No fun to play like that, though. It almost felt like cheating. As a CIA operative, Adler sure as hell wasn't above cheating, but he did feel a certain cocky pride at the way he handled Bell without falling back on the comfort of conditioning.

Warehouses typically don't have windows, but they're big enough for the smoke to not be a bother, even inside. On their last little excursion, Bell had gotten distracted. Those damn screens always seemed to catch their attention. It was impossible to tell what exactly Bell saw, what they thought. But it was obviously becoming a problem.

A single gunshot, a fluid motion, had snapped Bell out of it. This time. It all went as smooth as it could have gone after that; A Russian officer used for barely useful information and now to be found dead in his office. Adler had Bell do it, if only just for reassurance he still had a grip on the asset, toy, whatever they were to Adler by now.

Just to be safe, he'd knocked them out. The drug had been given to him by Park, as much as he couldn't stand that woman she proved useful time and time again. Originally the plan had been to test, perhaps deepen the conditioning. But Park wasn't here, and Bell was fast asleep. This was far from the first time Adler and Bell had ended up like this.

Bell's legs are carelessly pushed aside to make room for Adler sitting down. He doesn't bother to shed his own holster, but puts away Bell's gun just out of habit. Bell wasn't going to fight back or wake up, but it just gave him more satisfaction to know Bell couldn't fight back, even if he could make the decision to.

A quick check of Bell's carotid pulse is telling, Bell is still going to be out for quite a bit. The pulse is steady and calm, as if they were just sleeping. Adler's hand slides higher, under the mask without fully taking it off. His hand almost instinctively tightens, that's when he gives in to the urge. This is his to take.

Adler pulls his hand back and properly rolls Bell onto their back. kneeling over them. One shin on each side, Adler sits back on his heels, although most of the weight rests on Bell's thighs. He stretches first, taps the ash off his cigarette on Bell's clothes. "Might as well do this proper" he mumbles and pushes Bell's arms out of the way, pushing one off the couch and the other up and next to their head.

The cigarette's nearly done for, Adler's not one to smoke during sex either way. That would probably be one of those fetish things, not something he liked to indulge in. Being in full control, perhaps the whole having Bell completely mindwashed thing. That wasn't a fetish though, it was just what he enjoyed. The way Adler took his cigarette and pulled Bell's shirt down just enough to use their collarbone as an ashtray, that wasn't a fetish either. Adding another burn to the collection was a simple act of dominance.

Not once had Bell asked about the scars, they were subtle enough and always healed well. That was bullshit, but it was nicer than the truth. In reality, Bell was just too much of a victim to even question any of this. They were used to the pain, even if most of it could also be defined as pleasure. Relief. Bell didn't have to worry about a thing, Adler steered their life for them. "Lucky bastard."

If Bell were awake, they'd take the insult without a second thought as well. Adler fully grinds his cigarette out, flicking the stump away. He'd clean it up later. Bell's skin is irritated, turning a sad color. There's no flinch, no sound, no sign of weakness. Just a mark that would make any shoulder holsters uncomfortable for three days, maybe more. It would leave Bell wondering, but accepting. They were just so easy.

Hands go under clothes, in places they normally don't belong. The world makes an exception because Adler's actions demanded it. Adler pulls Bell's shirt up just enough so he can admire the collection of scars on his charge's chest, some clean and surgical while others tell tales of desperation. His own marks are now hidden, as much as Adler loves the new addition, these ones are less deliberate. They echo the mess of his face and entropy of the world around. His thumb brushes along one and he leans forward, resting one arm next to Bell's body to keep himself upright.

His glasses slip a bit, allowing him to peek over the edge and take in the sight before him without the yellow tint he usually gets from them. The industrial light coming from above is unfiltered, harsher and almost eery as it bounces of Bell's pale skin. Adler doesn't notice, pressing a kiss to the scar furthest up which happens to be right over Bell's nipple. The warmth of his mouth increases blood flow, and Adler almost smiles as they react just as they would if Bell were aroused. His free hand pushes inbetween Bell's back and the mattress, lifting the limp figure slightly so he can push the shirt further up.

Almost instinctively, his fingers dance along the ridges of Bell's chest, muscle memory guides his hands along the patterns he's traced countless times, enjoying the journey them once more. Adler relishes how Bell's body, even in it's unconscious state, at least has the decency to respond. The high that comes from being able to play Bell's body like an instrument was indescribable.

Adler's pulls his body back upright, carefully traces his hand lower. Bell's belt is easily undone his fingers hooking into the waistband of Bell's pants. "Just stay real still." He mocks Bell, patting their upper body soothingly as if that would change anything. There was no room for softness like this, not usually, but Bell wouldn't remember this so he might as well. If they were awake, they could get used to this and that just wouldn't do.

Adler's eyes flick up, catching Bell's sleeping face. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips. "We have so much more work to do, my subject"

Despite the dim lighting of the shitty safehouse he'd been assigned, his blue eyes are hidden behind shades. That way it's not outwardly visible how his eyes had been resting on Bell's closed ones, the only thing visible on the other's face with the mask still in place.

Somewhere among the way Bell had become less of a partner and more of an asset for him to handle. It was almost ridiculously easy to get his way with Bell, a simple phrase thrown in casually and they were at his beck and call. Breaking someone's mind, it came with great control. And almost no responsibility attached.

Originally the plan had been to test, perhaps deepen the conditioning. But Park wasn't here, and Bell was fast asleep. This was far from the first time Adler and Bell had ended up like this.

Bell's legs are carelessly pushed aside to make room for Adler sitting down. He doesn't bother to shed his own holster, but puts away Bell's gun just out of habit. Bell wasn't going to fight back or wake up, but it just gave him more satisfaction to know Bell couldn't fight back, even if he could make the decision to.

A quick check of Bell's carotid pulse is telling, Bell is still going to be out for quite a bit. The pulse is steady and calm, as if they were just sleeping. Adler's hand slides higher, under the mask without fully taking it off. His hand almost instinctively tightens, that's when he gives in to the urge. This is his to take.

Adler pulls his hand back and properly rolls Bell onto their back. kneeling over them. One shin on each side, Adler sits back on his heels, although most of the weight rests on Bell's thighs. He stretches first, taps the ash off his cigarette on Bell's clothes.

The cigarette's nearly done for, Adler's not one to smoke during sex either way. That would probably be one of those fetish things, not something he liked to indulge in. Being in full control, perhaps the whole having Bell completely mindwashed thing. That wasn't a fetish though, it was just what he enjoyed. The way Adler took his cigarette and pulled Bell's shirt down just enough to use their collarbone as an ashtray, that wasn't a fetish either. Adding another burn to the collection was a simple act of dominance.

Hands go under clothes, in places they normally don't belong. The world makes an exception because Adler's actions demanded it. Adler pulls Bell's shirt up just enough so he can admire the collection of scars on his charge's chest, some clean and surgical while others tell tales of desperation. His own marks are now hidden, as much as Adler loves the new addition, these ones are less deliberate. They echo the mess of his face and entropy of the world around. His thumb brushes along one and he leans forward, resting one arm next to Bell's body to keep himself upright.

Adler's pulls his body back upright, carefully traces his hand lower. Bell's belt is easily undone his fingers hooking into the waistband of Bell's pants. "Just stay real still." He mocks Bell, patting their upper body soothingly as if that would change anything. There was no room for softness like this, not usually, but Bell wouldn't remember this so he might as well. If they were awake, they could get used to this and that just wouldn't do.

Adler's eyes flick up, catching Bell's sleeping face. A slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips. "We have so much more work to do, my subject"