#call of duty blacks ops cold war
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Simon Riley x Reader
Title: Our House
Synopsis: He slips up and you tease him in the mall.
Warning: Just a tooth-rotting fluff piece because I ADORE writing fluff <3
AN: THIS MAN HAS EYES THAT I WOULD KILL FOR AGH. TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF IS ALL HE DESERVES <3333
You haven't went to the mall alone in a year, not since Simon started seeing you. If he's deployed, he'll have a friend escort you--he won't have his birdie walking around the mall aimlessly where a bad person could take you!
You moved in two months ago when he was honourably discharged--he was shot and it was bad enough to get him discharged, but hey, he doesn't have really major hand tremours unless he's pissed--and today you're at the mall.
"Are you kidding, Si?" You ask, holding up some random basket, "It's 15 pounds, and it'll fit in the bathroom!"
He's rolled his eyes and drug his feet about calling it "your house" or "his house", it's always been "the house", maybe the lack of ownership meant something to him.
Simon crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow, "Can we fit it? I mean our bathroom is small," he says, taking it out your hands and setting it down.
He doesn't even catch his slip up at first, but you pick the basket back up, "This so could fit in our bathroom," you retort, enunciating the 'our' to tease him.
This man.. This man has been through hell and back, literally tortured, so you wouldn't think your teasing would affect him, but this man has the reddest ears as it dawns on him what he said, his face getting all splotchy-pink.
"Oh.." is all he mumbles out, taking the basket and quietly holding it, "it will fit, we'll get the basket."
His heart is fluttering and his brain is mush, all Simon can think about is how heavy that three letter word is.
You let out a small chuckle, shaking your head lovingly, "C'mon.. lets go back to shopping for our house."
You take his hand and Simon just lets you lead him around the mall, and this man looks so helpless following behind you, a large clunky man, a bull in a china shop beside the love of his life, a porcelain doll in comparison.
Occasionally you pick an item up and show it to him, and he just nods along to whatever you say.
The second y'all are home, he mumbles "our house," to himself as he kicks off his shoes and he sets the bags down on the nearest table, taking the bags in your hands out and picking you up.
Your arms wrap instinctively wrap around his neck and your legs around his waist, he holds you close, nuzzling your noses against eachother's, twirling you around like you're a cherished childhood toy.
"It isn't our home, it's our house. You're my home" Simon finally mumbles to you in that gruff voice, effectively melting your heart.
Because he isn't wrong, it's just a house. A house of memories, sure, an apartment where you both live and eat and sleep, because your home has no permanent relationship. He's currently carrying you, after all, twirling you around and nuzzling your nose, treasuring you.
#call of duty cold war#cod black ops#cod cold war#the missus#black ops#cod fanfiction#ghost#simon ghost riley drabble#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley drabble#simon riley#simon riley cod#simon riley fluff#simon riley imagine#simon riley x female reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost cod#ghost simon riley#ghost call of duty#ghost mw2
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ššššš„ š„šØš¦š¦ššš ā šš¢6
šš¢š”šØš¦: THIS LINE...
I need this tired, traumatized old man's cock down my throat.
#yanderestarangel#cw suggestive#bo6 spoilers#cod bo6#call of duty fandom#call of duty#call of duty bo6#russell adler#russell adler x reader#russell adler bo6#adler russell bo6#adler russell#cod black ops 6#call of duty black ops 6#my thoughts#cod bops#black ops 6#cod black ops cold war#cw smut#i need him#i need it#adler russell black ops 6#russell adler x you#russell adler black ops 6
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Russell Adler in Call of Duty: Black Ops 6
#damn.#when he looks at me in that way i just- š„°#russell adler#black ops 6#black ops cold war#call of duty
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Fuck around and find out, Bell
#fanart#call of duty#call of duty black ops cold war#bell call of duty#cod bocw#cod bell#black ops cold war#black ops
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evidence board
#still love these freaks#black ops cold war#digital art#russell adler#cold war bell#artists on tumblr#procreate#portrait#drawing#adlerbell#adler cod#cod bocw#call of duty bocw#cod black ops cold war
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"Careful hudson, i might not stop woods next time."
"Stop what?"
#call of duty#call of duty black ops#cod black ops cold war#bocw#cod cold war#russell adler#cod adler#cod bell#frank woods#cod cw#black ops cold war#jason hudson#cod hudson#my art
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Based on a post by @kings-out-of-pocket-hell and the reply thread of that post
Idk man, but young single parent Russell Adler having to balance CIA job with parenting will always be funny to me š¤£
(I took adler and shoved him into new MW timeline lol)
(Lil Phillip knows tears donāt work on his dad so he uses CUTE and it is actually effective āØ)
#lil phillip learning to play people like his father lmaoooo#yes he was adorable as a babeh#call of duty#phillip graves#russell adler#cod cold war#cod black ops#my stuff#dadler and graveson
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MY NAME IS BELL AND MY NAME ECHOES HEAVY; PLEASE KNOW MY ACTIONS ARE NOT MOTIVATED BY ENVY
#art#digital art#artwork#call of duty#adler x bell#cod bell#cod black ops cold war#illustration#russell adler#russell adler cod#bell cod#russell adler x bell#call of duty cold war
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Friendship bracelets for all <3
#bell made one for everyone#except hudson#hudson doesn't get one because he was being a prick#got this idea from making similar stuff for my friend group#we've all got one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse#but these guys just get their names#russell adler#cod cold war#call of duty black ops cold war#adler#cod#cod black ops cold war#adler cod#cod fanart#cod black ops#bell cod#cod bell#bell#eleazar azoulay#eleazar#lawrence sims#helen park#bocw#cod bocw#alex mason#frank woods#lazar cod#cod community#call of duty#black ops cold war
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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.
#the missus#call of duty cold war#cod black ops#cod cold war#black ops#cod fanfiction#call of duty#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley drabble#simon ghost riley fanfiction#ghost simon riley#simon ghost#simon riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost x reader#simon ghost x you#simon riley cod#simon riley drabble#simon riley fluff#simon riley imagine#simon riley x female reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#simon x reader
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Okay everyone in the cod fandom thirsting over mw characters, itās time to introduce u mfs to the black ops world cuz honestly Iām tired of the lack of appreciation and fanfics (mostly fanfics) these people get.
Lemme introduce you to some of the main baes
This mf right here is a grade a ASSHOLE but itās why we love him. Honestly if you love effed up relationships and angst you should read some of the bell x adler fics going on. Bell is YOU. Itās the customisable character in Cold War who Russell Adler brainwashed and itās a whole thing and itās toxic af to pair them but I fuggin loveeee itttt (second pic posted by @adlerboi)
Alex Mason <3333 my wifey for lifey
He was brainwashed by the Sovietās and heās our fave lil mentally scarred old man. Seriously tho itās criminal the lack of love this guy gets he is so handsome
Ahhh mr frank Woods. Asshole but not in the same way Russell adler is. Heās the kinda guy who would act annoyed when you ask him to hold your drink but would protect that mf with his LIFE. Would treat you right but itās a whole ādick to everyone else but sweet as pie to youā kinda vibe yk?
Miss Helen Park. Honestly we should hate her. She manipulated and brainwashed us alongside adler but would I kiss her on the lips? Maybe possibly yes. Nuff said
The CRIMINALLY underrated navy seals commander david mason. Yes heās alex masons son yes we keep it in the family here. He has some mental scars like his father but honestly who doesnāt?! Handsome as fuck, and so kind and respectful <3 I luv him
So please guys I beg you!! Play black ops 1, 2 and Cold War so we can get some love for these guys!!
If you like the sound of it please read this fic about adler x bell omg my heart
#john soap mactavish#soap mactavish#soap x reader smut#soap x you#captain john price#captain johnathan price#captain john mactavish#john price#simon ghost riley#ghost x you#ghost x reader#kyle gaz smut#kyle gaz garrick#gaz x reader#modern warfare#modern warefare ii#call of duty#cod x you#cod x reader#141 x reader#task force 141#black ops cold war#black ops 2#russell adler#alex mason#david mason#frank woods#helen park
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ALEX MASON & FRANK WOODS in Call of Duty: Black Ops Cold War
#call of duty#black ops#black ops cold war#codedit#callofdutyedit#gamingedit#video games#*mine#*gif#frank woods#alex mason#cod
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Saluting the flag or something like that?
you know where to go for the uncensored version :3c
#call of duty#cod#fanart#call of duty black ops#black ops#black ops cold war#black ops 6#russell adler#adler call of duty#adler black ops#call of duty bocw#cod bocw#bocw
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Some Cold War memes
#call of duty#cod cold war#call of duty black ops#call of duty memes#illusivesouledits#codedit#russel adler#alex mason#frank woods#codedits#call of duty meme#cod meme#helen park#cod black ops#perseus call of duty#cod black ops cold war#bell cod#woodson#imran zakhaev#eleazar azoulay#jason hudson#lev kravchenko#lawrence sims#call of duty perseus#cod perseus#bell call of duty
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canis major
adler x bell!reader
summary: adler doesnāt go back to berlin to forget, but he isnāt 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 youāve 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 isnāt 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 ātil 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 canāt find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it canāt come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wifeās hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetskyā
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 doesnāt 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 doesnāt do well to remind himself of old times, not when heās 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 doesnāt miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesnāt 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 itās 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 heās sure. And itās the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.
Not like Arctic air. Not likeā
The one dogās 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 dogās 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 isnāt much noise after that.
But the quiet doesnāt 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. Itās getting cold, and heās left his drink inside. Wouldnāt 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 itās 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.
Adlerās 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 hasnāt been able to wash his hands of since ā81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.
Heās 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 couldnāt, because it isnātā¦ thatās notā
Bell.
Itās 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 heād find in his clenched fist when youād 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 eyesā
āyou feel someone watchingā
āyour eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adlerās heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he canāt speak, canāt move, canāt thinkā
Open the door, Bell, open the doorā
āand 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 donāt 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.
Youāve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You donāt know how, or why youād 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.
Adlerās heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. Heād 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 heās 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 youāve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. Youāve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. Youāre the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now heās watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose youāve 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 itās just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow heās surely due. But it never comes.
You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. Itās a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of dĆ©jĆ vu. You donāt 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 itās 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 doesnāt. 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 heās 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, heās a fool.
But it isnāt 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 ātil 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 likeā¦ comfort.
Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You donāt quite know why.
#im so nervous but like whatever 3 people are gonna see this so idc#i wanna write more for this but hhhh no pressure so prolly short snippets#just feels good to write something im proud of again after so long!!#my writing#my fics#one shot#adlerbell#adler x bell#russell adler x bell#adler x reader#russell adler x reader#adbell#cod x reader#cod cw#cod bocw#call of duty x reader#cod bo6#cod cold war#call of duty cold war#call of duty black ops#black ops 6#black ops cold war#russell adler#adler
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Adler @ Bell
Soon as I saw the meme I had to. And yes I had to use my WIP for it lmao.
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