#Cod cw

[septic-salad]

Eyes Without A Face

[guigz1-coldwar]

Smoking through the pain (working with Adler)

4K: https://deviantart.com/guigz1/art/Smoking-through-the-pain-working-with-Adler-1125558052… Tagging: @efingart / @efingcod , @adlerboi , @loafaethernaut , @alysaurous

[altcvnningham]

so i was reading this post and started yapping in the tags before deciding i actually just needed to make a separate post because i have brainworms. long unedited ramble sorry this doesn't make sense at all

adlerbell & co-dependency;

the sick irony lies in the fact that the co-dependency that exists within their relationship, most of the time, isn't even of their own volition, and yet they are the constant cause of their own entrapment. they NEED one another as much as they hate one another because they ARE each other. to their core.

bell is everything adler hates and opposes and wars against yet he NEEDS them to catch perseus no matter the cost; adler is bound to bell in a way where he is ironically beholden to them, his fate in their hands, even when he's technically the one in control, with the power and rank over them, the one holding the leash. yet without bell adler has little to nothing. powerless entirely. in that way, bell has power over him, that his whole world rests upon the pinprick that is their loyalty to him, which is a hairswidth away from being shattered the second they piece together who they are, what he's done to them.

and bell is obviously only who they are because of adler. warped god wrenching hands into their head and rearranging it all until they suit whatever he deems his perfect image when he needs it. friend, ally, team member. dog, prey, victim. whatever he needs them to be, they are.

and bell's entire personhood is adler. bell's entire world is adler. half himself, a mirror image, their head a scrambled soup of his memories and fears, of vietnam, of things that didn't happen to bell but did happen to adler, a point in time that existed but they were not a part of, not until adler dragged their body off that tarmac and forced them to be. without adler, bell is dead in trabzon, or nothing. and that kind of co-dependency is indescribable- to believe that this man is one who went through the horrors of war with you, your friend for over a decade, is one thing. but even when bell breaks free of their conditioning- to know that they are possibly only alive because he found them? to know that mk ultra, despite being the very thing that destroyed them, was the only thing that stood between them and an unmarked grave??

bell wants adler. but adler needs bell. and mf wants to stand at that fucking clifftop and claim that none of it was personal?? he created a home for bell within himself, how they trust him, rely on him, believe that he'll always pick them up- because even if not in vietnam, he did, once, in trabzon. and bell is a home to all the worst parts of himself, scraped out of him and put into the empty pit he carves out of them- his weaknesses, his fears, his trauma, his ruthlessness. (i could talk about how adler's hatred of bell might even be a reflection not only of them being the very culmination of everything he opposes, but that they're also an amalgam of every worst thing he hates about himself, but that's another post entirely.)

i just. it wasn't meant to be personal. bell was a tool for adler, and adler was just this figure meant to be imprinted on. all means to an end. but against their own volition, they rely on each other. they need each other. they are dead without each other. i think adler needs bell to make himself feel powerful. but god, if they aren't the very thing he has to tiptoe around and revere because without them he has nothing. no team, no perseus. and to bell, adler is not too far removed from a god, whether they know it or not. he made them. and i doubt the lamb wants to stray much too far from its shepherd. ugh. whatever.

don't even get me started on how their fates are inevitably intertwined. how even the narrative itself demands them be slave to each other's will. fuck everything

[godsfavoritelitlesilly]

mustachioes your normally clean-shaven man

[tomialtooth]

Russell Adler smoking a cigarette and frowning while bouncing on it

[ivqnx]

no doubts, a literal starboy (idek what am i saying)

[eloisyw8]

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

"Stop what?"

[t01s0]

some Adler sketches, featuring Bell in the last one!

[girlfcker]

if you see me getting manipulated and brainwashed by russell adler, i am begging you to mind your fucking business because i am exactly where i’ve always wanted to be

[morthern]

Bell deserved better.

But surviving would probably be just as bad.

[septic-salad]

HAPPY TRANS AWARENESS WEEK!!!!

[guigz1-coldwar]

Four years since Cold War released

4K: https://deviantart.com/guigz1/art/Four-years-since-Cold-War-released-1121792255…

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

[altcvnningham]

waning moon

helen park x madam shell

summary: helen park sees the cracks in her lover's façade. (inspired by @mickstart and their amazing post on perhaps the most underrated ship of all time??)

tags/cw: nsfw, wlw, angst, pre-cw, betrayal (but vaguely unspecified), light choking, younger woman/older woman, age gap, references to coercion, vague references to abuse of authority, so much bird imagery, doomed sapphics wc: 1.1k

a/n: i literally read @mickstart's park x shell (shellen???) post and got possessed, blacked out for an hour and wrote this. i have 0 memory of how i got here or what this means and though it isn't like 100% what the post was talking about it DID inspire me to spill out this ramble ab a character who has 0 canon appearances outside of dialogue. sorry for pretentious purple prose and rough editing!! it's 12am forgive me

She doesn’t know when she sees the change, but it slips in slow and sweet, like a paling knife glinting in the moonlight. How sand sifts to the bottom of an hourglass, she too feels just as suffocated under the weight of borrowed time.

Yet Shell’s eyes are paler still even in the dark, the waning moon of this interminable night, one that feels to Helen Park like the bookend of something. An answer, unspoken, but as implicit as though it had been there all along, a truth she’d known deep down but refused to acknowledge. And why would she? How could she? It had been three long years since Shell took her under her wing, her pretty little bird, three years that had changed everything. Irreparably. Even now as Park finds the pieces of it all scattered and frayed with Shell’s silent betrayal, she sees the beauty in each and every one, too besotted with the finer details to bear looking at the bigger picture.

Shell is lying.

She knows, more certain than she has ever been of anything in her life. As the older woman climbs languid atop her narrow hips, smothered in perfume bergamot and liquorice, plum coloured lips close over her own in a lazy mimicry of a kiss. Helen parts open her mouth, as she had her legs countless times, like a good little protégé, showing her madam just what she’s learned. All for her. Tongue hot as she kisses back with hooded, half-open eyes, curling around Shell’s like a proclamation. I know what you are. I know what you’re doing.

(And do you know, how powerless I am to stop you? As if I’d even try?)

And Shell knows it too. In the dark of this Parisian hotel room, blinds drawn to cast away the world’s prying eyes, she can see it on the girl’s face plain as day. Sweet Helen is a pretty thing, much too clever for her own good, but wears her heart on her sleeve, with eyes as big and shiny as a doe’s- and now hunting season had come for her sweet girl, and how wide they had looked at Shell upon her return, hands smothered in blood. Blood that she hadn’t bothered to scrub, knowing Helen had likely smelled it coppery on the air when she’d walked in. Her fingers are still tinged pink with it, even as she traipses them up the girl’s waist, cupping the plush undersides of her breasts.

That is to say, Helen isn’t the best at hiding her expressions. It’s what Shell had loved about her. The shrill gasps when Shell would come up behind her, grasping her waist in lieu of a polite excuse me; the way she’d avert her eyes shyly when she’d caught hers across a room, crowded, empty; how she’d been so young when Shell had met her, blushing like a schoolgirl at the mere whisper of praise; and how when Shell had asked her but a month later if she’d ever been touched before- properly, darling girl, like a lover might- Helen had flushed red and bright as a virgin. Perhaps she had been, too proud to admit it. For a girl who is as sharp as a knife and twice as lethal, Shell had held in her hands a mourning dove, cooing softly in her palm, willing to piece together its nest there. Right there. With her.

Now, not so much. Her songbird doesn’t sing as she used to, her eyes parsing through the fog she’d been happy to let Shell pull over them. Helen sees her for what she is now, and they both know it.

It isn’t a strange thing, what she’s doing. Not at all irregular. It’s a gesture Shell had exercised over her innumerable times before, a kind of sordid foreplay, staking her claim over her. Shell’s hands lay flat upon Helen’s sternum, her heart thrumming steady but beating violent as a war drum; the older woman smiles- how well she’s taught her. Calm, girl, slow breaths. Don’t let them see you falter. Don’t let them feel you shiver. Don’t let them hear you breathe. In the face of fear, Helen had grown around herself flesh of stone, unyielding. That doesn’t change, not even around Shell.

But this isn’t a test. This isn’t one of her many lectures, her teachings. Very rarely does Madam Shell separate work from pleasure, seeing the two overlap rather conveniently; but for Helen she had all the time in the world. Perhaps not after tonight, given what they both know now. But pleasure is a special thing she keeps locked in a drawer for Helen to pry open and play in, rifle curious fingers through until they snag on something that piques her interest.

And yet it always ends the same way. Like this. The older woman atop her, faraway look in her eye, warbled smile on her lips. Hands around neck.

Her fingers slide slow, deft, thumb parted to curl her hand around the pale column of Helen’s throat. And she can do nothing but be still for her mentor, her lover, holding her breath in wide-eyed submission, a devotion that spoke beyond words, beyond meaning. A kind of reverence she knows only Shell would understand, a stillness like prey clutched within a lioness’ maw. Playing dead, prettily.

Shell’s eyes fix upon her, steel grey boring into vivid green, alight with something akin to amusement; in the daytime, Helen mistakes the glint for adoration, something like love, when she’s drunk enough on Shell’s affections to believe it.

Now, in the waning moon of their last night together- as they are, as they could have been, if only she didn’t know what she knows at the very pit of her being is true- she recognises the errant flicker for what it is. Kindling. A struck match, willing to burn it all down, even if it means taking sweet Helen with her. Her mourning dove. Cast to the fire like everything else. For a terrifying moment, Park isn’t even sure she’d much mind it at all. Ashes to ashes, as they say.

And as Shell squeezes her hand soft and gentle around her favourite girl’s neck, Helen surrenders her head against the pillow, spilling back with a moan shrill like a song. It’s the last time she knows she’ll ever sing for her again, so she makes sure it’s a good one.

[makeila04]

Frank Woods saying in black ops 6 that "now Adler likes expensive clothes" Bro, literally Russell Adler's goat since cold war😭😭

Frank Woods diciendo en black ops 6 que "ahora a Adler le gusta la ropa cara" Bro, literalmente el goat de Russell Adler desde cold war😭😭

Sigue igual

[diientedegato]

CW sketches 1/2

[ivqnx]

The truth lies.

i draw this in my spare time during a trip, just a quick art to pass some times

alt ver.