#call of duty cw

[krabokot]

Saw someone on twitter say it's Adler and Bell coded so,,,

original picture + higher quality↓↓

I'm actually working on a small sculpture rn so have a shitpost in the meantime.....

Adler looks like the roblox man face.

ALSO TYSM FOR SO MANY NOTES ON MY PREVIOUS POST AHH🫶🫶

[makeila04]

Facts (and some theories) about Russell Adler - Part 2

In Call of Duty: Black Ops 6, Adler is 54 years old, in 1991.

Speaking of Cold War, we can infer that Adler’s divorce was complicated, to say the least—possibly awful. He might still have harbored resentment toward his ex-wife or something similar. I deduce this from a line he says: "The CIA is like my ex-wife, it doesn’t waste even a used tissue."

Russell Adler is divorced.

In the dossier from Black Ops 6, we can briefly see that Adler apparently had children, but that part is censored.

My theory: Adler got divorced because his children died, which is why things ended so badly.

In Black Ops 6, Troy Marshall jokes that Adler likes yachts, and Russell Adler doesn’t deny it—he actually confirms it.

I’m not saying Adler owns a yacht… or maybe he does, but he probably enjoys them occasionally when he has the chance.

Adler belongs to the Silent Generation, having been born in 1937.

He was recruited during the Vietnam War, around the age of 30 or 31.

During the Cold War in 1981 (Call of Duty: Cold War), Adler was 44 years old and already divorced.

In both Call of Duty: Cold War and Black Ops 6, we can see that Adler doesn’t get along well with women. At first, I thought this was just an issue with Helen Park, since she herself says she prefers working with other people. While Adler might be a great professional, Park has worked with much nicer people. In Black Ops 6, Park tells Adler she doesn’t trust him much, but he shouldn’t act surprised because he already knows this. Additionally, in both games, they rarely agree on anything.

In Call of Duty: Cold War, Adler was 44 years old, and Park was 27. By Black Ops 6, Adler is 54, and Park is 37, and their friction continues, which strengthens my theory.

Speaking of Call of Duty: Black Ops 6, the same dynamic happens with Sevati Dumas. When she sees Adler, the first thing she asks is about her payment. Later, Sevati reveals that she’s only there because Adler hired her, as he believes there’s a connection between the organized crime network in Avalon that she’s investigating and Pantheon, who are hunting Adler.

Speaking of payments, I suspect Adler is practically a millionaire, because when Adler learns that $1,000—Sevati Dumas’ payment—has been stolen, he doesn’t freak out or seem worried. In fact, he acts so calm and even jokes about it. It seems like he doesn’t care about losing $1,000, even while being hunted by the CIA, Interpol, Pantheon, and others. (Luckily, Frank Woods reveals that he, Case, and Troy Marshall were the ones who took the money. Still, Adler doesn’t seem bothered at all.)

I also think Adler is almost a millionaire because of his taste for expensive clothes, cigarettes, and whiskey.

We know Adler speaks several languages: English, German, Russian, possibly Spanish, and maybe others I don’t remember, but it’s likely.

He knows how to drive cars and motorcycles, although we always see him preferring to drive himself. This is evident both in Call of Duty: Cold War (1981) and in Call of Duty: Black Ops 6 (set 10 years later, in 1991).

Since he works for the CIA and it’s implied that this is set in 1991, I assume he lives in Langley, Virginia, where the CIA headquarters are located.

In the MBTI, Adler is an ENTJ.

In Black Ops 6, there’s a tape where Adler speaks with hatred and resentment—something like suppressed fury—about how he despises that Daniel Livingstone, the CIA director, has been trying to retire him for five years now. If Black Ops 6 takes place in 1991, and Adler is 54, that means Livingstone has been trying to retire him since 1986, when Adler was 49… and Adler still refuses to give in.

This leads me to think that Adler is addicted to adrenaline. It’s not very normal for someone to do everything he does at 54 years old in 1991.

Well, I’m not sure if I’m missing any more details, but there’s probably more.

Remember, this is just my point of view and only conjectures, even headcanons.

[tomialtooth]

Park was 28-29 in cold war that's so young compared to everyone else... She should've been at the club

[blut-xxx-tod]

Viscera | Russell Adler / Bell

Minors Do Not Interact | Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Summary: How far is too far? What is the threshold? Adler wanted to know, and Bell was already a perfect test subject.

Word Count: ~ 1k words

Trigger Warnings: Dub-Con, Graphic depictions of torture, Blood, Gore, Medical malpractice, Cannibalism, Emetophobia, Emotional abuse, Abusive power-dynamics, Manipulation

Author's Note: Positively wicked this one; I was always fascinated with cannibalism, and writing dark and taboo stories about murder was always my cup of tea. Ever since I finished Martin Z. Brite's "Exquisite Corpse" I wanted to write myself a splatterpunk piece of my own. So I take great pride in this piece, and hope it disgusts you just as much as it disgusted me to write! A song recommendation for this is "FIRMAMENT" by Gao the Arsonist; I had this, along with Crystal Castles' discography, on loop while writing! Also, hope you guys can find the little 1 800 Pain reference! ^^

Breathing was as impossible as ignoring the vague sense of pain buzzing up. Bell gasped, desperate for air, as the strap across his chest came undone. The air tasted equally sterile and putrid. He couldn't bear stench escaping the open cavity that was his cut open stomach. Thoughts escaped him, only receiving a slow flickering film as he came to - just brief, disgusting glimpses; remembered sensations. Purple blood, on calloused hands tenderly feeling satin-soft entrails, sucked clean off a finger with a dark smile. Thick fingers worming unimaginably deep within, nauseating and numbed out with anesthetics. Warmth pooling out and under going cold.

Under a hulking frame, Bell writhed. He was strapped down and painfully vulnerable; helpless. Head, wrists, and ankles were kept down, raw from a struggle. Looking over, he despaired at a line from his arm. It lead from the meat of his forearm up to a heavy collection of bags hung a distance from his head; blood, low grade anesthesia. Dying wasn't an option.

Bell stared pleading at the silhouette as was given some form of mercy. Hands were pulled out and Bell jerked a bit at the sensation. He saw the way his stomach lurched as bile clicked up and past his tonsils. Painfully, Bell choked it back down, squeezing his eyes shut to spare himself the sight: his own gore rolling against itself like maggots. The haze of blue smoke and hot breaths in cold air obscured the face already lost to blinding light. Barely lit by the ember of a cigarette, a scar caved into the left cheek was seen through the smokescreen.

He heard the silhouette step back. Bell winched an eye open. A body (blonde, male, and uncomfortably familiar) was leaned back, looking over his shoulder to a doorway and checking his angles. The body chuckled and sucked another finger clean as he came back and became a shadow. "Almost better than sex," he said in a low voice, "right, Bell?" Watching the other's hand reach for a tray just past his head, Bell trembled at the implication. Something clattered and the other hummed. When he pulled back, and his hand came into view armed with a scalpel, Bell's breathing hitched.

He squirmed, restraints rattling with every little jerk and motion. Heaving for every breath, he looked up to the other's face, worked out as much details as he could get in the low light, and panicked at who he saw. A bloodied finger met his lips and he was shushed.

"Easy there," Adler cooed, "I got you, Bell." Bell's body betrayed him, settling nicely against the smooth surface against his back, believing Adler's words. In that moment, he didn't mind being cut open and violated to such a degree. It was almost romantic, in a morbid sense. As intimate as they could get. Almost better than sex. Bell relaxed and Adler smiled.

Taking the scalpel, Adler hummed. With great care he traced small, delicate lines into the layers of Bell's skin. He parted the slit he had cut out further with an index and middle finger. He tenderly traced the raw edges of skin with his thumb, felt the fibers of muscle, admired the colors weeping out. As the blood breathed in air, it went from a cool plum to a brilliant red, trailing ribbons down Bell's belly.

Adler tilted his head. His expression unreadable. "Good." Such small praise as he worked the blade through hard, yellow fat all the way to the jewel toned tissue.

Meticulously, Adler cut out a piece of Bell; pain burned white hot in Bell's vision, but Bell held as still as he could, jerking but fighting himself, like the good little thing he was.

Pain was good. Hurt was good. Enduring the blade slicing through flesh was good. Letting it cut free was good. Bell rasped for air.

Adler lifted the small bit of meat to the light, turning it over like a fine jewel. Thin, glistening and wet. Traces of a smile tugged at his lips. He halved the piece and tucked one half into a palm. "Here's a reward for a job well done," he said.

When offered the piece of himself, Bell took it into his mouth willingly but wretched at the taste. Disgusting; far too rich and pungent - salt and nickels, crunching like sinew. It was a struggle to chew, let alone swallow.

Adler tipped his head back and dropped his piece into his mouth. He took a moment to chew, savoring the flavor. "So it does taste like veal." He chuckled, swallowing it down with relative ease; vile bastard.

"Alright," he said, "let's wrap this up, you must be tired." Adler padded over and reached up to the heavy bags over Bell's head, twisted a knob, and moved out of Bell's sight. Soon, Bell was melting, and was coaxed into oblivion as he returned into his hazy, fading vision with a suture kit.

Bell was curled up small, weak, and trembling on a gurney. Swaddled in a ritzy angora, bleeding from stitches, burning from disinfectant, (all lovingly curated gifts from Adler) he slept.

Adler took a step back and turned on the flats of his feet to a nearby sink. He held a lit cigarette between his lips as he scrubbed jellied blood out from under his fingernails and washed his hands of guilt. A thought of a post sex cigarette, and he chuffed his smoke down to the butt, tossed it down, and snuffed it out under his shoe before blotting his lips clean of blood on some paper towel.

"What the fuck too you so long?" A voice; it echoed from outside the room.

"Just wanted to be thorough." He answered.

"Sure." It sounded suspicious, but not enough to be cause for alarm. Adler knew that the others were suspicious of him, but he was a sly motherfucker. He knew the power of optics, and he was clean enough to be left alone. He didn't have to worry.

"Are you satisfied?" Another voice asked.

Looking over his handy work he answered plainly. "You could say that."

[frost-westbrook]

Lazar was one of my favorites from cold war. Sad him and other cold war characters get left in the dust

[amaranthinespirit]

husband!simon riley who backs his wife's rights and wrongs cw: murder next

you fucked up. majorly, as you stared at the bloody body on your living room floor, red seaping into the grooves of the floorboards. you were frozen, perhaps it was shock as you watched the carnage seep into your nice rug that simon had bought you.

you ran your hands through your hair, only spreading the blood across your soft skin and threads of hair. how would you explain this to your husband? how would you hide this from your husband? how would you explain to him the rug, that you begged for, was suddenly not to your liking, because it had a massive splotch of someone's else's blood? no mistaking that for a period stain.

you were royally fucked, pacing back and forth, avoiding splatters of blood as you thought millions of plans in your head.

what if you dumped the body in the dumpster? no, the body would decompose far too quickly, and not to mention the smell. it's the middle of the fucking summer and hot as balls outside! okay, well, what if you stuffed the body in a suitcase and buried it? no, no, it was too big to fit in even your largest. oh, what if you cut him up? back up, that's even more blood that you'd have to deal with. plus, digging was never your thing.

all this time panicking left time wasted, and soon enough, your lovely, unsuspecting husband had pulled into the driveway. you shrieked to yourself as you peaked out the blinds, scrambling back to the body, but yet again, what the fuck could you do?

the front door opened and closed quickly after, the sounds of boots being kicked off and disposed as panic rose in your body. fuck, this was it. you were definitely going to jail, your husband will never trust you again, wouldn't even pay a visit. you could hear his voice calling, increasingly becoming more concerned without a response.

footsteps followed, and he appeared around the corner. his eyes landed on you, then the body, and then you, and then the body, and then—you get it. his eyes scanned your smooth skin for injury, narrowing at the blood before confirming it wasn't yours.

"wot have i told ya about makin' messes near yer precious rug, swee'eart?" he grunted, shrugging off his coat and tossing it to the couch, pulling you in by your hips, pressed against his front as a thumb swiped away a blood splat on your cheek, "y'okay?"

you looked at him dumbfounded, lips parted in shock as you stuttered, "y...yeah," you swallowed thickly, immediately moving to explain yourself, "but simon, i-"

"shhhh, don't say a word, pretty thin', I've got't." he coos lowly, petting your hair, rubbing the strands between the pads of his gloved fingers as he eyed the blood, "go take a shower 'n look all pretty f'me, yeah? can ya do'tha?"

your eyes darted around, but a firm grasp on your chin kept your attention to him. you swallowed thickly, meeting his eyes for the first time since he walked in, and nodded again. detaching from his side, you skidded down the hall to rid yourself of the dead man's blood.

after you disappeared into the bathroom, simon let out a deep sigh, "who the fuck is this?" he muttered gruffly to himself, shaking his head as he crouched near the body, tilting his head multiple ways as he examined further before shrugging it off, "wot'vr the missus wants."

yeah, he wouldn't question you. you wanted someone dead? had to be for a good reason, and he'll buy you a new rug after tossing that one. but he wouldn't tell you when the police dropped by about the disappearance of the man. don't wanna stress out the missus.

[lay-z]

Simon Riley, who discovers (and accepts) that he has a raging Mommy kink on a random Saturday, when he meets you in the supermarket around the corner of his flat, where you click your tongue at him in reprimand, ogling him shamelessly as he checks out the new flavours of Ramen noodle cups.

And his spine goes rigid, when you address him directly.

"Big lad like you needs a proper meal," you remark, pushing your grocery cart full of fresh meats, produce, and other healthy goodies past him. "In my humble opinion." You add, nearly cooing at him as he dares a side glance from behind his balaclava.

Within seconds, his eyes flicker to your left hand on the cart, checking for a wedding band, checking for anything that could help him figure out who you are, really.

His fingers dig into the plastic cup that looks comically tiny in his hands, fingers nearly denting the fabric as he tries to come up with a witty, dry remark to keep you from leaving, to start a bloody conversation for once, but then you hit him with a "Have a good day, love." and his breath catches in his throat like someone punched his solar plexus.

By the time you round the corner to the next aisle over, his cock is so painfully chubbed up in his jeans, Simon fears he might faint from the sudden rush of blood down south.

And he doesn't quite know what he's feeling in this moment, but he puts the Ramen back into the shelf, boots squeaking on the linoleum floor as he turns on his heels to give chase like an abandoned pup who might have just imprinted on his new mommy.

Oh, Simon's going to get that proper meal, one way or another—hoping you'll let him have your sweet cunt for dessert.

➥ READ MORE × | [ SUGAR PLUM PROMISES MASTERLIST ]

[elysianightsss]

Something something becoming an accidental prostitute for Simon lol.

Hear me out though, you’re at a bar. You’re making out, you’ve had a little too much to drink. Not enough to be completely gone like you’re sure Simon is but enough to be making out with a stranger.

Then you’re back in his truck, he’s practically begging for you to let him fuck you and you say no. You ‘don’t do that type of shit, one night stands and all that’ you say. Simon’s next thing is to beg for a blowjob, you again say no. ‘Part of the boyfriend package’ blah blah blah.

Then Simon delivers his final offer. He is so desperate he offers to pay for a handjob, he cringes after the words come out of his mouth thinking you’d be offended. But to his surprise you say yes. You need the money, and want him to feel good so why the heck not.

And it’s the best damn handjob he’s had in his life.

He drives you home and soon enough after a few days he’s at your door offering more money for another handjob. You feel a little dirty but when his calloused hand slides up your thigh and his hot breath is fluttering on your neck, the feeling fizzles away into something else.

Seeing him come undone with just your touch drives you wild, it becomes increasingly difficult not to do more for him. So when Simon comes over again, this time you kneel in front of him watching as his dark eyes widen when your knees hit the ground.

And just like your handjobs, it’s the best damn blowjob he’s ever had in his life. All sloppy and filthy, not like he imagined but so much better.

You don’t ask for anything but after Simon has kissed you goodbye -(after he’s done begging to let him make you cum)- you turn to find a stack of cash on the coffee table, almost double the amount he’d given for the handjob.

It’s not long after that, that you give in and let him spend hours between your thighs. He even pays you for that, mumbles into your cunt that it’s just as good as your lips around his cock as he ruts his hips into the mattress. You don’t see it until later, long after he’s left, but there is a triple stack of cash on your nightstand.

A day later you receive a text from him saying he’ll be gone for a couple of weeks on work but he can’t wait to see you when he’s back. You feel a strange fluttering sensation in your tummy that makes you feel sick. You thought Simon was the type to hide his feelings and be more stoic and blunt so seeing that message from the hulking giant has your stomach in knots.

It stays that way, you can’t rid the feeling so much so that when he finally shows up at your door you tell him whatever it is between you had to end. It was certainly not the welcome Simon was expecting after dealing with a gruelling mission with nothing but men for weeks on end. He feels something snap in his mind and suddenly he’s throwing you on the bed, gripping your jaw, brown eyes glaring into yours as he speaks, “I’m not goin nowhere sweet’art.”

You ‘fight’ with him blah blah blah but let’s get real you let him finger fuck your pussy until you go cross eyed. You let him fuck you into the mattress until you can barely remember your own name. You let him kiss your neck until the sun starts to rise. And you let him pull your body into his as you both drift off to sleep together.

In the morning you hear the envelope, heavy with weight to it, placed down on your nightstand. Then Simon kisses your forehead and whispers he’ll be back later to take care of you.

Then, the money stops appearing but he’s still fucking you. Soon the rent is paid in cash by an anonymous ‘good samaritan’. And before you know it, you’re waking up with a glittering diamond on your wedding finger and a swollen belly that moves when Simon says I love you.

[clancycatears]

MDNI (18+) ; thinking about how ghost gets under your skin juuust right after an argument.

you’re giving him the silent treatment as he’s floating around the house, carrying out little bits of service in an attempt to catch your attention again.

doing the dishes? nonsense, he’s always doing them anyways, even if he’s scrubbing the pot you left to soak—neglecting it because it was your least favorite dish to clean.

cleaning out the fridge? you could’ve sworn you’d done it last month—but it had to be so much longer, because he’s throwing out three glasses of expired sauces. (that neither of you had used since you first bought them)

cleaning out the shower? you’d just gone in there yourself, conditioner still slick on acrylic floor. but no biggie, he’s cleaning it off since he has to shower later, anyways.

and then, he’s returning to the living room where you sat, your fumes dying with every little task he works, to dust off and clean the 55-inch telly screen.

you still don’t meet his eyes, still insistent on being angry—even after all he’s been doing in an attempt to catch your attention. though once you look up, he’s already hooking a leash onto your dog and taking him out for a walk.

oh, so he just needed some air. maybe he was still upset, too.

nope. he’s coming home with a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand, letting the dog free before returning to your form on the sofa.

he tilts his head around to catch your eye, you don’t give it to him. he tries to show off the flowers to you, and you look once, but then cast your eyes aside once more.

so he sighs, setting the flowers to your side, before getting on his knees in front of you. he holds your thighs as he kisses your knee, then rests his cheek on the same spot he’d pecked.

“c’mon, sweet’art. can’t stand the silence.”

and you relent, because he looks too damn good on his knees for you.

ghost masterlist

[goatgoesmbe]

Stalker!Soap putting hidden camera in your bathroom, expecting to see you all naked and wet for him to wank off to-

Only to see you having a breakdown, curling under the shower and crying-

[differenteagletragedy]

Warning: this is so dumb.

Buuuut Simon Riley in an established long-term relationship likes to touch you, I just know it. Holding hands is good, arms are fine, legs even better, but what he really likes is getting his hands somewhere in the middle. Your waist, hips, stomach, back ... where he can feel the meat of you.

He'll sneak up behind you when you're cooking dinner, his hand automatically sliding under the hem of your shirt just to feel the soft, warm skin of your stomach. Or if you're wearing a dress, that's fine too, he'll push it up just enough to dip his fingers into the fat of your hips. He can't get enough of it.

Then one day he comes home and you're wearing a romper, and he's immediately equal parts confused and annoyed.

"The fuck is this?" he mutters, pawing at you like an anxious, dumb animal.

"It's called fashion, Simon, look it up."

"How you even supposed to piss in this thing? Fucking mad."

You stand there patiently as his hands bunch the fabric around your waist, looking for a way in, but there isn't one. The romper is loose and flowy, but down to your ankles with no buttons in the front. He's like a pitiful overgrown gerbil, trying to burrow his way through, and you can't help but laugh.

"Think this is funny?" he asks, finally meeting your eyes.

"Pretty funny, yeah," you answer.

An hour later, you're singing a different tune. The romper has been unceremoniously discarded somewhere and Simon has been thoroughly making up for that little bit of lost time when he wasn't able to run his fingers over your bare skin.

"Need to be able to feel my girl," he mutters, more to himself than to you, and you make a note to go through your closet, tailoring your wardrobe to suit this seemingly serious, but not at all unwelcome, desire.

[bunny-jpeg]

john price would trap you with a baby. no questions asked. he knew the years were catching up to him. he knew that wouldn't be much longer before he couldn't pass on the price genes.

he felt bad when he masturbated, felt like he was wasting his boys. spurts of hot cum down his large shaft wishing that it was inside a pretty little things smaller cunt. his hand was too rough even with lubrication. he needed something with supple flesh that he could sink his teeth into and a wet pussy to stuff full. he wanted to feel himself impregnating someone.

that was where you came in.

you felt amazing, sex with you was something else. the way you were like a bunny when you rode his cock. you bounced on him, not slowing down until he wrung at least three orgasms out of you. he found it endearing that you could take him. and while cowgirl was fun and missionary felt classic.

if price wanted to get you pregnant then, he knew that doggy style would be the best course of action. sadly, that position was a little more difficult given your size difference. price the bear and his little cub, those weren't just terms of endearment. he was burly, hairy, but you were so much shorter that he couldn't easily slip into you. but things could always be modified.

he smothered you under him as you laid on the bed with your legs spread and price was on top of you with his cock invading your slick entrance. the feeling was different and the weight on top of you only added to the pleasure.

his mind was focused, as he worked himself into you. he slid in easily, little resistance from you. your pussy was greedy for him, not that price could blame you. you were just so perfect for him. he shaped you into the perfect thing for him. you were his angel, the sweetest fruit, the woman he wanted to carry his child. if you liked it or not.

thoughts of you dark puffy nipples, the waddle in your step, the complaints of back pain. how your body changed because of him, he marked you in a way that no other man could. price boys grew strong and were a handful both in the womb and out. hungry boys too, but price would happily massage your fat tits to make sure there was more than enough milk for his boys. might have a little taste himself, see what all the fuss was. the heavy milk on his tongue as he fucked his pretty wife.

no need to go out and find a job. price's got enough to make sure that your wallet and your womb were packed full. no need to worry your little head, just make sure the babies are taken care of and price will do all the thinking in the relationship. he knew your dream was to see your diploma on the wall, but he thought that a family photo would be much better.

hard to complete your degree when your pregnant belly doesn't fit in the lecture hall seat or it was feeding time for john jr. there was nowhere for you to nurse his hefty son and you'd in the end miss too much class because price would be keeping you at home to start on the next one.

"that's it, doll. that's my girl. she suckin' me right in. she know what she wants and she's takin' it. made just for, huh, petal?" he growled as he pressed into you further, his cock didn't slip out. he fucked you feverishly.

he felt you tremble as you came not once, but twice, back to back. price continued to fuck you, ruin your pretty little folds and let him feel as much as he could of your sweet sex. you felt amazing, only pussy price would want. he fucked you roughly with his hands pressed into the covers on either side of your head. you were too blissed out by the time he finished inside of you that you didn't even ask for him to pull out.

a good wife took every drop.

he soon after pulled his cock out, the sight of his cum sticking to your slick pussy lips with most of his seed inside of you. made his cock peek at attention once more. "there she is." he purred, "messy girl." he tipped your hips up and held them in his large hands. he dipped between your legs and played with your pussy. something to distract you while his cum slid into the back of your pussy.

now be good, and get pregnant <3

a/n: i don't know what came over me... i'm sorry

[makeila04]

Midlife crisis?

Why would Adler feel like he wasn’t enough?

Personal rejection and abandonment: We know he was married and that his marriage ended badly. There are hints that, if you’ve seen my other theories, he lost children, which suggests he may have faced a devastating loss or a conflicted relationship with his family. His attitude toward women in Black Ops 6 and his constant coldness toward female figures like Helen Park and Sevati Dumas could indicate a deeper issue with attachment and intimacy. It’s not about them; it’s about Adler.

Relationship with the CIA: Disposable and irrelevant. The CIA tried to retire him at 49, which must have been a brutal blow for someone whose sense of identity is so tied to his work. His line, "The CIA is like my ex-wife," suggests strong resentment, as if the organization used and discarded him. This fits the idea that he fears becoming irrelevant.

Fear of obsolescence: In Black Ops 6, he’s 54 and still in the field. He could have accepted retirement, but he didn’t. Why? Maybe because without his work, he feels like he’s nobody. His fascination with upgraded weapons in Zombies mode ("The sweet, sweet aroma of capitalism…") can be read as a metaphor: improving his gear is a way to stay competitive, to avoid feeling old or useless.

Adler Complex / Napoleon Complex: This is where the subtext comes in. His language is loaded with references to power, dominance, and compensation:

"You put in money, spit out firepower, and that’s the American way." → The association between money, power, and masculinity reinforces the idea that he needs external symbols to affirm his status.

"I think it even strengthened my hair." → A subtle reference to virility; hair is a classic symbol of youth and masculinity. If Adler feels like he’s aging or that his physical attractiveness and ability aren’t what they used to be, he’s likely compensating with an exaggerated attitude. His seductive and boastful tone could be his way of reaffirming himself: "I’m still dominant. I’m still desirable."

The desire for absolute control: Lines like "Did I give you permission to look at me?" and "Consider it a mercy kill" show that he needs to be in control of every interaction. In Zombies mode, the world is literally collapsing, but he maintains his image of superiority. This suggests that control is his defense mechanism against chaos. His insecurities aren’t about his work. Professionally, Adler is impeccable. There’s no doubt about his competence as an agent or his leadership skills. But personally… that’s where things change.

Yes, we could say he’s having a midlife crisis, though in his case, it’s more intense than the typical midlife crisis because his identity is too tied to his youth and virility. His luxurious lifestyle (expensive clothes, premium cigarettes, and whiskey) doesn’t just reflect refined taste but also a conscious effort to project power, status, and masculinity.

Fear of impotence (in every sense): It’s not just about sex. Impotence can also mean loss of control, loss of dominance, loss of relevance. Men going through age-related crises often seek to reaffirm themselves with symbols of power: expensive cars, premium alcohol, the company of younger women, or extreme adventures. In Adler’s case, these symbols are in his personality: the expensive clothes, his boastful tone, the way he enjoys upgrading his weapons, his seductive and dominant demeanor.

Some lines that reinforce this:

"I think it even strengthened my hair." → Strong hair = youth, virility. If he’s mentioning it, it’s because the idea of losing it worries him.

"The sweet, sweet aroma of capitalism…" → He says it with almost orgasmic pleasure, as if money and power give him a satisfaction that other things no longer can.

"You put in money, spit out firepower, and that’s the American way." → Again, money and power = masculinity.

So… is Adler compensating? Yes, and on multiple levels.

Emotional compensation: He may have once tried to build a personal life and failed. His divorce and the possible loss of his children reinforce this. He doesn’t try again because his defense mechanism is coldness and detachment.

Virility compensation: He’s no longer the young soldier from Vietnam, but he wants to keep seeing and feeling like one. The references to power, dominance, and strength may be his way of reaffirming himself in an aging body.

Existential compensation: If the CIA retires him, he stops being relevant. If he stops fighting, he stops existing. His ego can’t handle being irrelevant, so he keeps fighting even though his time has passed.

Conclusion Adler isn’t a man who doubts his ability on the battlefield, but he is a man who might doubt his ability in his personal life. His crisis isn’t professional; it’s emotional. His language, habits, and attitude are a shield to avoid facing that fear of irrelevance, impotence (in every sense), and loneliness.

You know, you can tell me what you think. How do you see it?

As a bonus: And yes, I’m going to repeat myself and quote myself (in case you didn’t read my other post, no worries), sorry, but I feel like this is an aspect that reinforces my hypothesis, and it’s:

It really broke me how in Black Ops 6, Adler drops a line that says, "Drinking on the job is like going back to Berlin…" while drinking a lethal daiquiri. And, I don’t know why Adler says it with so much pride or bravado (I wouldn’t be proud to say that). The line is a reference to Cold War… so… was Adler really drinking while working, and we just didn’t see it during Cold War? Wow… I guess his alcohol problem started in the 80s and not in 1991, as we see in Black Ops 6, and… that destroys me. How did we never see it? We only realize it in Black Ops 6 when we see his room for the first time while rescuing him from prison—his room is full of beer cans and whiskey bottles, but after the next mission, none of that is there… it’s… weird… and… painful… as if I could do something… ha… but… why does he do it? We always see him so strong, and then suddenly… we discover he has alcohol problems… ouch… and in 1981, Adler was 44, and in 1991, he’s 54…

¿Crisis de la mediana edad?

¿Por qué Adler sentiría que no fue suficiente?

Rechazo y abandono personal

Sabemos que estuvo casado y que su matrimonio terminó mal. Hay indicios de que, si vieron mis otras teorías, perdió hijos, lo que sugiere que pudo haber enfrentado una pérdida devastadora o una relación conflictiva con su familia.

Su actitud con las mujeres en Black Ops 6 y su constante frialdad con figuras femeninas como Helen Park y Sevati Dumas podrían indicar un problema más profundo con el apego y la intimidad, no tiene nada que ver con ellas, sino más bien con Adler.

Relación con la CIA: Descartable e irrelevante

La CIA intentó jubilarlo desde los 49 años, lo cual debió ser un golpe brutal para alguien cuyo sentido de identidad está tan ligado a su trabajo.

Su frase "La CIA es como mi ex esposa" sugiere un resentimiento fuerte, como si la organización lo hubiera usado y desechado. Esto encaja con la idea de que teme volverse irrelevante.

El miedo a la obsolescencia

En Black Ops 6, tiene 54 años y sigue en campo. Podría haber aceptado la jubilación, pero no lo hizo. ¿Por qué? Quizás porque sin su trabajo, siente que no es nadie.

Su fascinación con las armas mejoradas en el modo Zombies ("El dulce, dulce aroma del capitalismo...") puede leerse como una metáfora: mejorar su equipo es una forma de mantenerse competitivo, de evitar sentirse viejo o inútil.

Complejo de Adler / Complejo de Napoleón

Aquí es donde entran los subtextos. Su lenguaje está cargado de referencias a poder, dominio y compensación:

"Metes dinero, escupes potencia de fuego y ese es el estilo estadounidense." → La asociación entre dinero, poder y masculinidad refuerza la idea de que necesita símbolos externos para afirmar su estatus.

"Creo que hasta me fortaleció el cabello." → Una referencia sutil a la virilidad; el cabello es un símbolo clásico de juventud y masculinidad.

Si Adler siente que está envejeciendo o que su atractivo y capacidad física ya no son lo que eran, es probable que compense con una actitud más exagerada. Su tono seductor y sobrador podría ser su manera de reafirmarse: "Sigo siendo dominante. Sigo siendo deseable."

El deseo de control absoluto

Frases como "¿Acaso te di permiso para mirarme?" y "Tómalo como una muerte piadosa" muestran que necesita estar en control de cada interacción.

En el modo Zombies, el mundo está literalmente colapsando, pero él mantiene su imagen de superioridad. Esto sugiere que el control es su mecanismo de defensa contra el caos.

Sus inseguridades no tienen que ver con su trabajo. Profesionalmente, Adler es impecable. No hay dudas sobre su competencia como agente ni sobre su capacidad de liderazgo. Pero en lo personal… ahí es donde la cosa cambia.Sí, podríamos decir que está en una crisis de los 50s, aunque en su caso, es más intensa que la típica crisis de la mediana edad porque su identidad está demasiado ligada a su juventud y virilidad. Su estilo de vida lujoso (ropa cara, cigarrillos y whisky premium) no solo refleja un gusto refinado, sino también un esfuerzo consciente por proyectar poder, estatus y masculinidad.

Miedo a la impotencia (en todos los sentidos)

No es solo lo sexual. La impotencia también puede ser pérdida de control, pérdida de dominio, pérdida de relevancia.

Los hombres con crisis de edad suelen buscar reafirmarse con símbolos de poder: autos caros, alcohol premium, compañía de mujeres jóvenes o aventuras extremas.

En el caso de Adler, estos símbolos están en su personalidad: la ropa cara, su tono sobrador, la forma en que disfruta mejorar sus armas, su tono seductor y dominante.

Algunas frases que refuerzan esto:

"Creo que hasta me fortaleció el cabello." → Cabello fuerte = juventud, virilidad. Si lo está mencionando, es porque la idea de perderlo le preocupa.

"El dulce, dulce aroma del capitalismo..." → Lo dice con un placer casi orgásmico, como si el dinero y el poder le dieran una satisfacción que otras cosas ya no pueden.

"Metes dinero, escupes potencia de fuego y ese es el estilo estadounidense." → Otra vez, dinero y poder = masculinidad.

Entonces… ¿Adler está compensando?

Sí, y en múltiples niveles.

Compensación emocional:

Puede que alguna vez haya intentado construir una vida personal y fracasó. Su divorcio y la posible pérdida de hijos refuerzan esto.

No busca volver a intentarlo porque su mecanismo de defensa es la frialdad y el desapego.

Compensación viril:

Ya no es el joven soldado de Vietnam, pero quiere seguir viéndose y sintiéndose como uno.

Las referencias a poder, dominio y fuerza pueden ser su forma de reafirmarse en un cuerpo que envejece.

Compensación existencial:

Si la CIA lo jubila, deja de ser relevante.

Si deja de pelear, deja de existir.

Su ego no soporta ser irrelevante, así que sigue peleando aunque su tiempo ya haya pasado.

Conclusión

Adler no es un hombre que duda de su capacidad en el campo de batalla, pero sí es un hombre que podría dudar de su capacidad en lo personal. Su crisis no es profesional, es emocional. Su lenguaje, sus hábitos y su actitud son un escudo para no enfrentar ese miedo a la irrelevancia, a la impotencia (en todos los sentidos) y a la soledad.Ya saben, ustedes pueden decirme lo que quieran y qué opinan, ¿cómo lo ven?

Como bonus: Y si, me voy a repetir, y autocitarme (por si no leyeron mi otra publicación, no pasa nada), perdón, pero siento que es un aspecto que refuerza mi hipótesis y es:

Me destrozó mucho como en black ops 6 Adler suelta una frase que dice "Beber en el trabajo, es como volver a Berlín..." al beber daiquiri letal. Y, no sé por qué Adler lo dice con mucho orgullo o fanfarronería (yo no estaría orgulloso de decir eso). La frase es una referencia a cold war... entonces... ¿Adler bebía en serio mientras trabajaba y no lo vimos durante cold war? Wow...supongo que su problema con el alcohol venía desde los 80s y no desde 1991 como sí vemos en black ops 6, y...eso me destroza ¿cómo nunca lo vimos? Solo nos damos cuenta en black ops 6 cuando vemos en su habitación por única vez al rescatarlo de una prisión que su habitación queda llena de botellas de latas de cerveza y whisky pero al terminar la siguiente misión nada de eso está...es...raro...y...doloroso... como si yo pudiera hacer algo...ja....pero...¿por qué lo hace? Lo vemos siempre tan fuerte y de pronto... descubrimos que tiene problemas con el alcohol... auch... y en 1981 Adler tenía 44 años y en 1991 tiene 54 años...

[hyperprosexia]

cw: 18+ | omegaverse; dub-con; gn!reader; poly!alpha!141; a/b/o dynamics

》 previously

bringing you back to base with him is neither hard nor challenging.

you're so docile and content around the captain, your future mate, nearly glued to his side since the night he fucked you properly, that he must constantly keep his chubbed cock tucked up into the waistband of his trouser to be able to get anything done.

there are arrangements to be made, housing contracts to be terminated and stuff of yours to be moved into his flat instead.

the thing he spends most time thinking about, though, must be the moment he will introduce you to his pack.

first, price considers acquainting you to each of his packmates one after the other, not wanting to overwhelm you at once, but he swiftly comes up with a better, way more resourceful idea one evening while he's having a stiff drink and with his fat cock buried deep, warmed and heavenly stimulated by your dripping omega hole.

and captain price, ever the clever leader, brings an armful of your worn, drenched panties to the next briefing with his boys throughly pleased as he lets out a few gravelly chuffs, when the three younger alphas immediately go nuts about your intoxicating, saccharine scent.

johnny is practically shredding the flimsy fabric in his callous hands as he sniffs and laps at the gusset where your scent is the most intense. simon has nearly stuffed a pair under his mask to keep it cupped tightly over his nose while his broad chest rumbles with excited growls, and while kyle tries to stay calm under his pack leaders vigilant eyes, everyone can clearly see how much he's salivating because of your scent, how his pupils have dilated at the first good whiff of you.

it's but the first soft step of your introduction into his pack, knowing that the next will be much more personal.

however, he's still debating about the best point in time.

perhaps before your next heat?

》 continue

[lxvvie]

Simon proposed to you. While drunk.

To be fair, you were a bit merry yourself.

You were in the comfort of your home, enjoying each other's company and the cheap alcohol when you realized Simon was staring at you. Turns out he'd been staring at you for quite a while. He was definitely inebriated, but it was like he was aware just the same. You saw it in his dark eyes. You would have reflected some more if you weren't tipsy.

"...Marry me."

That roused you from your drunken stupor. You think. You guess. Wait a damn minute. You began giggling. Or maybe you always were giggling. Fuck, you didn't know, didn't care to know, but—"Yer drunk, Siiiii." And still, you giggled.

Wasn't gonna deter your soldier, though. He took another swig of his drink, let it settle, eyes never leaving yours, and said, " 'm not drunk. 'm in love, sweetheart," Oh! ...Oh. Oh shit. "Marry me, luv. Make an honest man outta me, yeah?" Simon punctuated his proposal with a loud burp. When did he take his shirt off?

You couldn't be bothered to care. When didn't he have his shirt off around you? And fuck, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the way he kept staring at you, drunk in love, or maybe—"SURE!"

Smooth. Real fucking smooth. But it was enough.

Simon leaned in to kiss you. At least, he tried to. That's all you remembered until the next morning when you woke up and there he was, comfortably resting on top of you, him in your arms and you in his.

You would've thought last night was a dream if you hadn't seen the drunken text Simon sent the boys later:

im a missus

Yes, you are, Simon. Yes, you are.

And truth be told, you two didn't mind it at all.

[cale3k00]