Saw These Beautiful Ladies On My Way To Uni. They Are So Beautiful But Oh So Expensive. Need Someone

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. 

see u in miami sukuna

[New York time skip]

William: Sherly, what does IDK, ILY, & TTYL mean?

Sherlock: I don’t know, I love you, talk to you later.

William: Okay, I love you too, I’ll just ask Billy.

Sherlock: ...darling that's not-

[NY time line]

William, attempting to ask Sherlock out on a date: What if we went to dinner... not as friends?

Sherlock: As enemies???

William: ... Sherly we are past that.

Hii I'm a new one here in your blog! How are you love?

Can I request a tooth rooting fluff of fatigued Mycroft from work (Moriarty The Patriot)x overprotective fem!reader?

Thank you have a nice day <33

a/n: hellooo❕ forgive my late welcome but i really hope you enjoy your time here. i'm good, thank you :) hope you're just as well ! ALSO AAAA i think i went ahead of myself and typed way more angst than fluff 😭😭

##: angst, fluff, maybe implications of depression if you squint ??

MY KIND OF WOMAN 𓍢ִ໋ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ myc. holmes x f!reader

tonight the moon was far too dipped into the shadows of the dark to come out; too tired, too weary. mycroft seems to deeply relate as he trudges his way in, head throbbing and utterly exhausted.

his younger brother, sherlock, was being investigated for homicide of the media mogul charles augustus milverton but thankfully no proof had risen. yet.

that, atop the stress he's facing with the people of the nation complaining and pressuring that the lord of crime be caught and punished to death—not that he could life a finger, though. he'd already been bound to the moriarty's by the contract and his vow.

“haaa..” he exhales gruffly, taking off his shoes—he barely has enough energy to crawl himself towards the couch before plopping down on it. it's quiet, utterly quiet. and dark; like his current state of mind. dark, yet a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

mycroft's thoughts drift to the weight he carries—the responsibility of his work, the burdens of a brilliant mind constantly analyzing and strategizing for the sake of the nation. it was a relentless pursuit, one that often left him feeling isolated and exhausted, tired and battered. wrecked. he's tired, utterly so.

“....” mycroft pops open the abandoned whiskey on the coffee table, drinking from it. were you drinking? he wishes he could share a glass with you.

it's been too long, hasn't it?

it's been days since he's properly even had the time to look at you. he leaves for work at the break of dawn when you're still asleep and returns in the middle of the night; a perpetual, tiring cycle.

he feels like crying for the first time in a while—the weight is too heavy, too harsh on him. and he dips his head low, ducking his chin, even in the dark. as if someone would or could see him like this, so vulnerable and exhausted. he's glad you're sleeping in your shared bedroom — at least you won't have to see him this way, weak and pathetic.

“mikey?”

mycroft freezes, neck of the whiskey bottle still touching his lips. “...(name).” he croaks out and instantly regrets it. his voice is hoarse, cracked at the end, almost whiny. he hates being this way.

“you okay? how was work?” slowly you tiptoe your way to him—the atmosphere was heavy and you could sense it from miles away. your fingers rest themselves on his shoulder, standing behind him and you realize just how tense his muscles feel.

“the same as always.” he replies plainly—the same neverending work. of course he'd like to say more than just that one sentence to you but he worries that if he starts, he won't stop, and that once he starts, it won't end in a simple complain—it'll end in a breakdown, tears and all.

so he sits there quietly. still as a rock. not facing you.

clack. he says the whiskey bottle down.

“i see.” you mumble. you know he hates being perceived as weak and vulnerable so don't force him to face you either. instead your fingers begin to slowly knead his shoulders, massaging him.

and mycroft swears he feels a lump grow in his throat. he leans back against the chair in silence, further back against you. it feels good, he thinks. to be cared for and loved as much as you do to him.

“...thank you, (name).” he whispers earnestly. he recognises he became so accustomed to shouldering the weight of the world that he had almost forgotten the simple joy of being cared for. “truly.”

plop.

a tear falls down onto his lap.

“..of course, honey. anytime.”

but neither of you say anything.

plop. another tear.

he's embarrassed—the tips of his ears are red but he's also grateful that you're not saying anything further. he likes that you're respectful of him and his boundaries and that you're not forcefully prying it out of him. he would tell you himself, anyway.

“i thought i'd lose my little brother today.”

mycroft says it so suddenly that it makes you pause—and it makes your heart ache painfully. he seemed to be going through a lot these past few weeks.

“i thought that he'd end up behind bars, that we'd never be able to bicker again,” he continues slowly, as if spoken too fast and he'd overwhelm himself with his own words. “the constant demands and pressures placed on me... they never cease.”

your hands have gotten softer on his body, more gentle and kind. “i can see the toll it takes on you, mikey. it's okay to feel overwhelmed.” you press a faint kiss to his nape. “you're only human, after all.”

a small silence. and then he breaks it: “i'm...afraid, (name). i'm afraid of failing. of disappointing everyone. and most of all, i'm afraid of losing you because of this— this darkness that surrounds me.”

he's at last allowing himself to feel infront of you.

and this time mycroft turns his head to look at you; you're faced with a grief stricken mycroft, heavy tears dripping down his face. you are strong. stronger than you give yourself credit for. but even the strongest of people need support and love. let me be there for you. share the burden with me." you cup his cheeks and he nuzzles himself against your warm palms.

“i love you.” he whispers softly. weakly.

“i love you too, mickey. i'll always love and stand by your side. no matter what happens to either of us.”

“even if i were to be brandished a traitor the next day for conspiring with the lord of crime & keeping silent even after i became aware of their true identity?”

“even then i would love you.”

“and if i were to be executed the next day?”

your heart hurts for him—you realize this is one of his genuine fears that he's been constantly wracked with. “then i would follow you wherever you go, mickey—even after death, i will forever be yours.”

a mix of emotions flicker across mycroft's face! fear, longing, a glimmer of hope. he takes a shaky breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "promise me you won't give up on me, no matter how difficult it gets."

“i promise.” your voice is filled with determination and he breathes a sigh of relief—something he desperately wanted to do for a long time now. “you're not alone, mycroft; you never will be. as long as i'm alive you will always be well and protected.”

mycroft nods silently, lets himself be embraced by you—he'd allow himself this much of respite. he could face all the horrors the world has to show tomorrow. as long as he can rest in your arms tonight.

there were still a lot of thorns and you were certain there'd be more along the way, but you would never allow even one of those to graze him. you were dead set on clearing a better, smoother path for mycroft and make sure that no one would stand in his way.

you look down and for the first time you feel him softly sobbing into your chest. you kiss the crown of his head and hold him tighter.

yes, you think to yourself as you pat him. the scheming and mind wracking can be set aside for tomorrow. all you want to do is be with him right now.

and you're sure mycroft feels the same.

"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.

Need him.

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

Put a mask on the second one and it's literally you

This is literally you.

Or this.

...i don't see the resemblance

Did you guys read Soap's journal?

While I reading COD wiki, i found out that OG Soap had journal

And he is a fuckin artist

And he really hates army dogs lol

He spent 3pages for talking about dogs

And the first one, he even said "consider me a cat man now"

What the hell kind of name is Ghost?

- Says the man named Soap

Og mw2 Spoiler below

For Ghost, Roach

Drawing of Price

How many times can a man save your life until it's no longer your own?

all the old ghost archives i liked that was deleted off my old blog

this is my new account, same user same style whatever