#Cod cold war

[xenop0p]

0 Simon 😋😍

Simon Riley x Reader

Title: One or two?

Synopsis: Simon wants to know how many kids you want.

Warnings: yes... This is pregnancy themed. Again. I love pregnancy fics.

AN: I think... I think I have baby fever. Also happy 1000 notes!!! :) <3333

Maybe it's how soft and supple your skin is, maybe it's that smooth voice you mumble to him at night, or maybe it's how you wear nice fabrics, the kind that brush against his skin and he can feel his muscles relax--but Simon is hooked on you.

It all started when you saw him at a coffee shop and his jaw practically dropped at how soft you seemed. You were so polite, spoke so quiet to the barista, that he had to make sure he got your number!

So when Simon saw a man that clearly didn't deserve you hitting on you after you politely declined him, of course he came up, hot black coffee in hand, and asked if there was a problem.

And when you first fell asleep beside him? He laid his head on your chest like a small child and just closed his eyes and he felt so... Held in that moment, even though your arms weren't around him that the next day when he drove you back to your place he stopped by the jeweller and got you a perfect ring.

Now you're on the couch, feet propped up, pretty little rock on your finger and he's laying on your lap, head beside your tummy, kneading at your thigh when he finally speaks.

"'Ow many kids?" Simon asks in his gruff voice, "One or two?"

You pause, looking down with a cocked eyebrow. Your hand reaches to start running through Simon's hair and he groans, relaxing entirely, "What do you mean, Si?" You ask in the soft voice that makes his knees buckle.

Simon picks his head up to look at you, "One or two kids?" He repeats, "'Ow many do ya want? 'Onestly, if it's more than two, we'll need a bigger 'ome."

Your eyes widen and your cheeks flush, and it makes Simon grin that devilish grin. He kisses your stomach, then your thighs. You let out that cute little giggle, your thighs squishing together because it tickles.

"C'mon, dovie. Ya gonna be my missus. Ya gotta know how many kids ya want," Simon says, rubbing up and down your thigh. He starts to get up, pulling you close, curled up beside him.

You breathe out a giggle, nestling up to Simon's side, "'M not sure.. maybe two?" You offer up, before Simon throws you down onto the couch playfully and gets on top of you.

He starts to plant kisses all up your stomach, then skipping your chest to kiss up your collarbone and shoulders. He kisses up your neck to your jaw, and you're giggling the entire time, squirming.

Then, he props himself up overtop of you to look into your eyes, "One or two?" He asks again, and all you do is giggle.

[callmelitlesunshine]

But if i have a pack of cigarette in my pocket So the things aren't that bad for today

my artwork from june 16 2024. since then i even didnt draw, but i hope i can back to it so soon as i can!

i post it here again cause i still love this one, i think, thats one of the best of my drawings! and the song of course. it gives absolute vibe to this art.

i'm working on some commisions, so, i dont have a new renders for now, but soon it will be A LOT!! BE READY!! 👀🧡

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

[ryatsdollface]

dress up as ghost, give me a 10 second head start to run, then the rest is up to you 🥴

[guigz1-coldwar]

Birthday, 2024 edition

4K: https://deviantart.com/guigz1/art/Birthday-2024-edition-1120626364…

Tagging: @efingart / @efingcod , @adlerboi , @loafaethernaut , @alysaurous

[animefreak1145]

Not many may agree but…I don’t think Bell and Case would get along.

I at first thought they would. Can argue that both safehouse crew’s thought they both had calm demeanors. Bell may have been seen a little more cheeky depending on which dialogue you choose for Park regarding her knowledge about Adler’s scars(“You’re cute.”) and how Bell seeming to always talk to someone or else they’ll get branded by Sims “Look everyone, Bell’s lonely.” (Still hurts. 🥴) Both pretty deadly. Deadly good at their jobs. Doing what needs to be done.

But then I paused. Really thought about how many times they used Case as bait(twice), how they treated him being exposed to gas (“Well, at least you’re still alive.”), and how uncaring they seemingly were again that he died with no mention of a funeral nor any more words from Marshall, at least of concern towards Case after it went black.

And then there’s the issue with Adler. How easy Case seemed to accept Adler’s orders of throwing a man into a PROPELLER AND BE CHOPPED UP AS HIS DEATH.

Depending on the Bell you write—they all will care about Adler’s orders and him only. May listen to Woods. The way they treated Case in the game was horrible and Bell would find such doormat behavior pitiful. Bell is hard to impress it seems based on Woods words (“Legends? Get the fuck of here with that. You didn’t seem impressed in the base. Unless…you’re talking about Mason right now?”) and hard to earn their respect. An ultranationalist terrorist raised with Soviet type training has standards I guess.

And Case…well. Bell seeing a Case would be a mix of emotions. Especially with Adler involved. Jealousy? Pity? Interested? Disgust? Familiarity?

Cause at the end of the day, Bell also didn’t tell Adler about the TV’s lighting up and seeing Vietnam. Just like Case doesn’t seem to talk about what he saw(I get he couldn’t talk about the experiment, but the man could talk about seeing ZOMBIES that were switching from Pantheon soldiers to his actual team mates that he shot down). They are the same, yet different. They would have an interesting dynamic.

Perhaps I’m not explaining it very well. Don’t worry. I’m working on something. I promise. 😭 Hopefully the fic explains better than me just ranting here.

(I LOVE THIS FREAKIN ART THO!!! 💗💗💗 The way they are both just standing there. MENACINGLY. 😂 At the end of the day, I do think they would be a deadly duo. They can both be seen as unhinged 💀 LOVE UNHINGED MC’S!!!)

schizophrenic protagonists

[bowls-art]

Just husband things ❤️

[alexa-mwll]

Where is Bell? 🔔

-Let's say I locked him in a trunk and threw him into the sea- Adler says looking at her, she knows something.

Adler and Anastasia looked at the man standing at the railing, it was Case.The two looked at each other, it was a look, not of complicity but of something more, they knew something.

-Anyway, once I finish this shit, I'll be leaving- Anastasia says looking at the view of the Safehouse.

-Does that mean you'll stop being my kids' babysitter?- Adler says making an oe that the joke.

-I admit that the pay is very good- Anastasia jokes- But don't think I don't know that you changed the subject of conversation, I'll soon know what happened....

Hello my loves, here I bring you another drawing, I hope you like it, it is a little of the conversation that Adler and my dear Anastasia have. 💜🦋I hope you have a good weekend

[tomialtooth]

Adler voice: Park I assure you the cock and ball torture is an integral part of the MK-Ultra process

[ghxst-beach]

Ay, Bell. 🥀

¿Qué es una sola rosa contra un bello arreglo de flores? 🌺🌹

Pobre hombre.

[pampanope]

More Dadler and Graveson~

I got this hc that a lot happened around Phillip without him ever noticing 👀

But he’s probably gonna look back on all this shit with adultier sensibilities and have his mind blown away

[j0hnpr1c3sm1ssus]

Johnny x Reader

Title: Sun burns

Synopsis: Treating his sunburns

Warnings: LIGHT steamy content (a kiss)

AN: I THINK this is my first Johnny here? If it isn't I'm sorry lol. Anyways eat <3

"Ow- ow- ow- Owah!" He enunciates that final ow before pulling back, looking up at you with a pout.

Currently? You're sitting on your lovely boyfriend's lap, straddling his hips while you attempt to put aloe vera on his sunburns. He was out all of yesterday with his Task Force--all they did was hang out at Price's pool--but he came back to you sunburnt.

"John MacTavish if you don't stop moving right now.." You don't finish your statement, it was clearly an empty and loving threat, "Johnny... I'm trying to help you. Quit movin'!"

You grab his chin between two fingers and move his head, which makes him get an insatiable smirk, "Fine... Bu' only if afterwards..." Johnny trails off, winking.

This earns an eyeroll, a scoff, and a small blush to dust your cheeks, and you continue to gently rub the Aloe Vera on his skin.

He frowns at your lack of a response, "Ya know you'll wannae... don' play coy.."

You start to out that cold ooze onto the skin under his chin and he winces.

"Ow!" He glares at you with a playful pout.

Once all that aloe is rubbed into Johnny's skin, he's crossed his arms and he looks rather unhappy.

"Ya done yet, bonnie?" He asks, an accusatory eyebrow raised causing you to laugh. You nod your head and he grabs your face, pulling you in for the most sensual kiss possible.

Meaning tongue in your mouth, swirling his tongue around yours, sucking and groaning. Then, as quick as he starts? He ends, letting out a laugh.

"How's 'at, hm? Feelin' good ye'?" Johnny asks with a smirk.

He really got you good.

[diientedegato]

after cuba probably

[eloisyw8]

"Careful hudson, i might not stop woods next time."

"Stop what?"

[godsfavoritelitlesilly]

Friendship bracelets for all <3

[illusivesoulgaming]

Some Cold War memes

[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.