Sometimes I Feel Like I Don't Even Deserve To See Him On My Phone's Screen. He's So Beautiful With His

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am an observer, but not by choice.’

[text id: my fist has always been clenched around the handle of an invisible suitcase. / i am always ready to leave. / there is not a single room in this world where i belong.]

Forehead smooches 💋

It's important to smooch your Soap at least once per day <3

Need him.

Idk what about this man screams cryptid but honestly. This was fun.

I just read your post about Adler reacting to Philip's trial in MW3. It was so amazing and beautiful that you successfully pushed into that brainrot of Dadler. However! It really got me thinking, what wound he do when in MW2 Philip supposedly "died"? Like, maybe he came home after months but Adler didn't knew at first that his son survived that explosion and like everyone thought Graves died. God I could only imagine..

thank you so much i'm glad you enjoyed it!

And i may or may not have already written something...

so i'll just put this here

The devil knocks on my door. A Dadler and Graveson angst oneshot

Ao3 link

Summary:

Russel Adler’s day was going fine; that is, until he heard a knock at his front door.   And in his gut he knew something was wrong.   Or   Adler gets some news about his dearest and only son. 

(CONTENT WARNING! CONTAINS MENTIONS/DESCRIPTIONS OF SUICIDE AND DEATH.

DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH EITHER OF THOSE TOPICS)

Adler was leaning relaxingly against the plush leather couch, a cigar held comfortably between his lips, the warm burn of smoke flowing through his lungs before he exhales the curling smoke out of his nose. The burn of the smoke searing his throat became an everlasting comfort ever since Vietnam and has become a key staple in keeping whatever sanity Adler had left intact. 

The mindless drone of the TV faded into the background as Adler’s attention was brought from the show that Phillip had recommended; the name was something along the lines of ‘The Good Scottish Cook-Off’ or something like that.

Adler stood up from the couch, cigar still held between his lips. He took another puff of the cigar, his warm hand wrapping around the cold metal door handle, swinging open the door, the words already on his lips. He’d been getting pestered by the damn Girl Scouts for so long he actually earned himself a nickname, ‘grumpy.’. “Listen, kids—”

The words died on his lips immediately.

On his front porch stood four uniformed men, two of whom were marines; the other two were shadow lieutenants he had previously met a few months ago at Shadow Company's annual Thanksgiving event. 

His hand reaches up to his mouth, removing the cigar, and letting his hand fall to his sides. The four uniformed men all give him sharp, well-practiced salutes, and one of the marines and a lieutenant, shadowed by the name of Vinson, step forward, and the pit in Adler's stomach pitches deeper and deeper.

“Sir, we regret to inform you that your son, Philip Alex Adler, was recently killed in action.”

The words hung in the air after the marine had spoken them. Vinson didn't dare to look at Adler's face, keeping his head down and eyes focused on his shoes. 

The other words spoken after that bleed into an incomprehensible silence as Adler simply stood there staring down the marine with a haunted look in his eyes as the marine continued to speak. 

“A funeral will be held in his honour in the next few weeks, and you will also be given compensation for his passing, sir. Thank you for your service, and God bless.” The marine’s words were simple despite deviating from the normal passing script fed into the brains of the soldiers who had to break the news.

War was one thing: the bloodshed, the screams, the never-ending nightmares, and more importantly, the guilt. It wasn't just the guilt of surviving when so many of your friends and allies passed; it's the guilt of looking in the eyes of young kids—children—and having them idolise you, saying they want to be ‘just like you,’ unknowing of the horrors of war.

 It was the guilt of knowing that if you could say anything to those kids, it would be, “Don’t fucking do it.” 

And that was all that Adler felt, guilt. He had allowed both his lives to bleed together once his ex-wife gave birth to Philip. Telling war stories instead of fairy tales, teaching his son how to shoot instead of how to ride a bike. All he could think of was how he had failed, failed his son, failed to stop him from joining the marines, and now he had failed to keep his son, his sweet boy, alive.

He had failed, and now his son was dead, and it was no one else's fault but Russell Adler's.

Adler watched as the marines sharply saluted him before turning on their heels and leaving. The shadow lieutenants went to follow, but Adler lifted a hand, stopping them dead in their tracks. “Wait—” Adler cracked his throat dry, and his shirt collar suddenly felt far too tight. 

Adler cleared his throat. “Wait, come in, let’s talk,” Adler said, opening the door further, giving the lieutenants enough room to enter. The soldiers exchanged a brief glance before stepping past the threshold of the Adler residence.

Adler sat in his worn brown leather armchair opposite the matching leather couch that the lieutenants now sat upon. That couch was Phillips' favourite spot to sit when they would watch movies; the thought stung and burnt more painfully than any wound Adler had gained from his years of service.

Before the lieutenants could open their mouths to speak, Adler cut them off. “How did it happen?” he demanded, his voice not giving way to his grief. The other lieutenant, Osmond, spoke; his voice was quiet and soft. “Sir—” The second the first syllable left the man's mouth, Adler lifted a hand that now held a firmly crushed cigar.

“No, listen to me. Tell me how it happened, or I will report you for not giving information to a clandestine special officer. Do I make myself clear, soldier?” Adler demanded his voice be barred on threatening.

Osmond’s eyes fell to the floor once again. Vinson placed a comforting hand on his comrade’s shoulder before locking eyes with Adler, his voice trembling slightly as he recounted what happened. 

“It was a tank explosion, sir, Commander Garves-Phillip. Was inside at the time we tried to get him out...but...it was no use. I'm sorry, sir. We couldn’t save your son.” Vinson's words filled the quiet space, and Adler let out a soft sigh, his shoulders slumping down from their usual tense perch.

Adler haphazardly placed the squished cigar in an ashtray placed on the glass coffee table. Adler holds his head in his hands for a moment, running his hands across his scalp, nails digging into his skull, before he runs them over his face, catching the small droplets threatening to fall from his eyes. He lets out another heavy sigh before sitting up straight again, clearing his throat. 

“Do you boys have a…replacement lined up for his position?” Adler questions, lifting his head again to look at the shadow lieutenants, who both shake their heads.

Adler hums, eyes tracing over the side table on his left, eyes racing over the videotapes and files that decorated the small table. Adler reached over, plucking a company card from the pile and handing it to Osmond. 

“His name’s Case, an old colleague of mine; he’s a good man. If you're still looking for a commander and want someone out of the system, he’s the man you want.” Adler informs his voice, straining with each word, his throat too dry and his shirt too tight. 

The pair look down at the company card and then back up at Adler, their faces flickering with unseen emotions. Vinson nods once, “Thank you, sir.” He replied quietly, revving a sharp nod from Adler, followed by a dismissive hand gesture.

Yeah, well, don’t let an old man like me keep you from your duties. My son made it a well-oiled machine; I hope you lot will keep it that way.” He dismissed, head turning to look out of the window at the large garden that he had helped Phillip plant when his son was just a boy; the oak tree they had both planted now stood tall amongst the other shrubbery. 

The only sign that the lieutenants had left was the sound of shuffling and the front door opening and closing. 

Now Adler was left alone in his quiet estate with no one to wait for. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Adler's hands wrapped around the grip of his trustworthy pistol that had been through it all with him from Vietnam to the end of the Cold War and the start and end of the Gulf War.

He had used this pistol to kill Bell, and thinking back on it, the communist bastard was probably laughing in his grave right about now. Ironic.

The cold muzzle of the gun pressed against the underside of Adler's chin, thin streams of tears following down his face, dipping into the crevasses of his scar.

“I’ll see you soon, kiddo.”

And with that, Russel T. Adler took his last breath and pulled down on the trigger. 

A gunshot echoed through the Adler estate, and in the deepest pits of the underworld, father and son reunited. 

"It's her first time being a mother."

It's my first time being a child too. She can be a mother again, but I cannot be a child anymore.

It's so hard to fight with parents that broke their back to provide for you, a mother who raised you against so much injustice in your father's family. But she has left scars I cannot heal, pain that cannot be replaced, a void I cannot fill up, and a gaping emptiness that keeps on gnawing at my feet like an animal clawing at me cruelly. At night I'm left to cry in the blankets which are supposed to provide me warmth but acts as a shield instead. Everyday, every second. I know she didn't have the privilege to pursue her dreams, but how is it fair to rip mine apart? How is it fair to crush my hopes, my interests, my confidence. Telling me how useless I am, how no one will ever love me, how I will never be good for anything. Is this what a mother should be like?

Was her resentment towards her life born as me? Is that why I'm subjected to her venomous words and my silence? Her anger and my sadness? Her slaps and my bruises? While my brother recieves her calm and gentle love? It hurts because you know she's capable of loving, but not towards me. Towards him. And I'm left crying like a pathetic dog starving for a shred of affection.

Gaslighting myself into believing I'm fine.

This is why we can't have nice things.

Loose ends

INTERIM // if (then)

(also sorry for the no cws on my previous post. my bad!)

[making dinner together after an argument]

William: Look, I can taste all the love you put in the soup you made!

Sherlock, deadpan: I put hate into it.

William: Sherly, I said I'm sorry for making suicide jokes (⁠´⁠-⁠﹏⁠-⁠`⁠；⁠)