#cake factory au

[xxduncandonutxx]

I found a old comic I did as a kid and I'm cringing, It's my Minecraft knock-off of Rainbow factory: Cake factory 💀

It was like a sequel comic to my fanfic I had back on quotev, an AU featuring Stampylongnose as like the main villain/owner of the factory and I'm like-

What was I even thinking... god I came up with the most messed up alternate universes, and the funny thing is, I wasn't even a HUGE Stampy fan, I only watched like his videos featuring Hit the target💀 /srs

I made like two chapters, one that was finished and the second one that was left unfinished because I lost motivation and interest to finish it. I'm gonna upload the pages that I found here, content warning for: "gore", blood and also, old cringy art x'D

But yeah, I think in my next tumblr post, I will explain what the fuck even was this AU and how it probably would've ended like... I do remember some ideas I had for it, like that woman outside of the factory is suppose to be Veeva Dash who was spared by Stampy years ago but overtime she forgotten who she was, so basically she's the Absentia of the 'Cake factory universe' lmaoooo.

[red-garden]

Ficlet from this AU (Southeast US SY):

Having the OOC restrictions lifted was a blessing obviously. Well. Probably.

All the formal xianxia shit was a mouthful and a half, and Shen Yuan knew the sect leader was far too soft on him to scold him for indulging in a more casual tongue. Being a Georgia gentleman born and raised, Shen Yuan felt a certain degree of familiarity was owed his students, Binghe most especially.

“Oh come here sweetheart, don’t cry. Oh baby I know.”

His tearful little lamb looked up at him like a deer in headlights. “Shizun?”

“Come on baby, let’s get you something to drink. You like sweet tea?”

Anachronistic he knew, but he needed a taste of home. Not as good as his mama’s, but he never was much of a cook.

There had been a greater number of accidents on the peaks lately. Shen Yuan didn’t know if there was something in the water but every time he tried to be neighborly people started dropping like flies. His martial siblings came to visit more often but left even quicker.

“Xiao Jiu!”

The sect leader always looked like the cat that got the cream when he was let in. He brought a basket of peaches- not the Suwanee from back home, but it was sweet nonetheless.

Shen Yuan gave him a smile as he took the basket to the kitchen. “Ah, thank ya kindly sugar!”

The sect leader went abruptly still. Shen Yuan turned about in concern. “Everything alright?”

The sect leader nodded stiffly, eyes anywhere else but Shen Yuan.

“You got some business needs getting back to? Don’t put it off on my account.”

“Ah, no, Xiao Jiu need not concern himself.”

“Then sit with me for a bit! I made a fresh pitcher of tea and we can have those peaches you brought me.”

“What would Xiao Jiu wish to hear?”

“Anything you please to tell me sugar.”

The sect leader stiffens again. “Ah, I just remembered some work I really must get back to. Please excuse this Shixiong.”

Liu Qingge was hardly better. He came for the meridian clearings on time of course, but he wouldn’t suffer Shen Yuan’s company a moment longer. Frequently he even stumbled on his sword to get away.

“Honey, are you sure you wanna keep clearin my meridians? Seems like it takes a lot out of you, stumblin as you do to get away. I’m sure Mu-shidi would be amenable to trade.”

“S’fine.” He grits out.

Shen Yuan sighs, leaning back into his touch. He huffs a laugh. “Hands like that, I should ask you to be chair all the time! Support soothin my aching back.”

Liu Qingge flinches away, letting Shen Yuan fall backwards. His voice is strained, his face red as a tomato. “I have to go. Bye.”

He falls flat on his face scrambling to the door and darts out like a chicken with its head cut off. Shen Yuan tsks. “If my company is really that intolerable he could just say so.”

Binghe, coming out of the kitchen with a fresh pitcher and a tray of lemon cakes (he knew the protagonist could do it) shakes his head. “Shizun shouldn’t have to put up with him.”

Shen Yuan can resist pinching his little cheek. “Don’t go being so rude to your Shibo now baby, he’s still a grown up…. Even if he acts like a cat in a rocking chair factory.”

[no1blacksapphirefan]

What if we mix up a few of the previous asks about the Self Aware CookieRun Kingdom AU, Hmm? And by this I mean: What if instead of the player being jealous of the cookies, the cookies are jealous of us with whatever media we're paying attention to while we idly play their game?

Example: I keep putting CRK in the background while I play other games on my Nintendo Switch b/c I hate waiting for things to produce in this game. I just wanna make enough resources to feed into the Wish Tree and Bear Train, but noooooo... Every item that they need takes a minimum of like, four hours to produce. And yes, I know I could just close the app and wait, but I like collecting other resources while I wait. So as the things that take multiple hours to literal days to craft are cooking, I play Hello Kitty Island Adventure, ignoring all of my little cookies and only occasionally looking down to refill my cue for sugar cubes and cake logs and jellies and all that other nonsense before getting right back to what really matters to my gaming life at the moment: becoming best friends with Sanrio characters.

So I would like to imagine all of my favorite cookies are trapped in mines and factories crafting enough resources so I can continue playing THEIR game stress free just to look up beyond the screen to see me having the time of my life becoming besties with a bunch of cutesy mascot characters on an island of fun and adventure. You can't tell me they wouldn't be at least a little jealous.

I do this a bit too, usually when Im farming like bounties or such. Let them auto as I concentrate on something else. I can tots see some being jealous though, especially if they're just stuck doing their victory pose till you realise they finished their job

Shadow Milk Hey! HEY!! Look at him, pay attention to him. He is so much better than whatever you're playing, you can't just leave him to cut wood for you and only pay attention when he needs to do more.

He wants your attention, almost craves it. He won't fully admit that though. He won't even admit he's jealous that you're happily playing a different game, oh he could keep you better entertained if you just looked at him. Let someone else cut the wood and he'll put on such a fantastic performance for you that any other would look like jokes...just look at him for more then a second please or else he'll be sulking once you finally log off the the day.

Black Sapphire He’s annoyed, but he has ideas on how to get up ur attention back, I mean being a radio show host he needs to be entertaining after all. But if those attempts don’t work he might make a loud sound come from your phone, something that’ll draw your attention to even for a moment but not let you realise it was him.

Like a screech of sorts as if your audio is distorting. He doesn’t mind making whatever you wish but at least give him some attention, especially since he’s been working so hard

Burning Spice Oh how he wants to throw his axe at that other device. You’ve been paying such happy attention to him, why stop now?? Just because you need some sugar cubes??? You’re lucky he likes you and wants to see you smile. He knows breaking that other device will surely upset you but than again…

He can make you happier, he promises!! Just lay off it for a few seconds and let him fight in the arena, let him hear the sweet praises you give him as he does the finishing move after you thought it was a loosing battle. He could never disappoint you. Just have your eyes on him. Though he wants to he won’t break the other device even if he figured out how…not yet anyways…don’t make it a habit

Black Forest She loves you so much please look at her. You’re who she wanted to marry, the witch she chose. Even if you’re technically not. She’s been doing a good job you know!! Tending to those sheep so you have such nice fluffy clouds.

At least praise her as she gets back to work but oh she doesn’t mind…well she does, shd feels the growing jealousy as your eyes and attention is on a different game. You really like befriending those sweet animals don’t you? Maybe if she convinces the other cookies, she can make it similar!! Surely you’ll stay longer though right? She doesn’t want to feel like you care more for that game.

Pure Vanilla he knows it’s nothing, that you still love the game and you just need to pay attention to something else but he can’t help the growing jealousy as he works tirelessly during Alliance, only having your attention briefly when you’re moving onto the next difficulty, or when you need him to farm that level again.

He feels bad, especially when he realises he wants you to stop play on that game. He tries to remind himself you still love him but seeing you giggle as you play your other game makes him upset, not at you specifically, he doesn’t even know who he’s mad at. He just wants your attention back on him. He’ll be happy for days when you turn back and happily tap on him like you usually do though

[magicalrocketships]

Oh, Mog. I often think of you and hope you have energy enough to do the things you want to do, and if that happens to be writing amazing fic, what a cherry on the top of the cake.

HOWEVER! It is hard to be so altruistic when you dangle a little nugget of fic that is Sugar Baby Daniel au. I neeeeeeed it like Max needs sim racing, like Daniel needs his emotional support athletes. I am never going to get over this idea - I hope you manage to write it one day!

Thank you, my lovely. Fatigue is the worst. It's the worst. I'm so exhausted all the time, so thank you for thinking of me <3

I do have more energy to think about fic than I do to write it, but I did write a LITTLE bit of sugar baby Daniel fic, and here's what I have (it might never be more than this, but I plan on thinking about it a lot). it's 2022, Daniel never got to F1 - backstory available upon application - and Daniel and Max met on holiday in Ibiza during at the start of Max's summer break.

&&&

"What do you want for Christmas?" Max asks, seven minutes into a phone call on Daniel's lunch break, where he's eaten half of a Sainsbury's meal deal sandwich he doesn't want and spent the other five minutes complaining to Max about how he fucking hates his fucking job. 

"Not to work here anymore," Daniel complains, opening a too-small box of tiny bits of chopped melon and squishy grapes and wishing he could afford the fancy packs of chopped mango from M&S. 

"Okay," Max says. "Where would you be instead?"

"Partying with you," Daniel grumbles, because the grape isn't nice and he's sick of working through his lunch and all the late nights in the factory and all for a racing team he's starting to hate. 

"Okay," Max says again. "What time do you finish on Friday?"

"It's supposed to be five," Daniel says, "but, like, it never fucking is anymore. You know it's supposed to be shorter hours when it isn't a fucking race weekend but if I'm out of here by seven then I'll be fucking lucky." He stabs a bit of melon with a wooden chopstick because the kitchen never has any forks and he doesn't like sticky fingers. He's cold and bad-tempered and he's had his Christmas extended leave turned down so he can't even go back to fucking Australia and see his parents. Fuck. The melon's on the turn too. It's not his fucking day. How can it be this fucking rainy in fucking August? This is supposed to be summer. 

"I'll send the car to pick you up at five," Max says, as if Daniel isn't midway through a whine. "It can wait until seven if you're still working. The jet will of course wait for you."

"Wait," Daniel says. "What?"

"You're coming to Monaco for the weekend," Max says. "And I'm going to fuck you in every room in my flat."

Daniel chokes on a going-off grape. "What the fuck."

"You didn't think we were not going to be fucking just because we're not in Ibiza anymore, did you?" Max asks. 

That's exactly what Daniel did think. One week in Ibiza fucking a partying racing driver and a few texts and two phone calls afterwards and he'd assumed this was one incredible, heady dream and not something that was ever going to continue beyond a holiday romance. Even this phone call seems improbable and made up. He's been limiting himself to a dream of just being a name Max remembers. 

"That's very stupid, Daniel," Max says, as if Daniel's the ridiculous one here. "I'll fly you back in time for work on Monday. Okay?"

"Okay," Daniel says, with a slightly embarrassing squeak. 

"Good," Max says in satisfaction. "I've missed being fucked by you."

&&&

Not only is there a car waiting for him on Friday after work, there's a private jet, there's fancy fucking snacks and nice gin and when he lands in Nice, there's a fucking helicopter waiting to fly him to Monte Fucking Carlo. Then there is World fucking Champion Max Verstappen waiting by a car that probably costs more than five times Daniel's annual fucking salary, followed by World fucking Champion Max Verstappen kissing him in the front seat of a supercar and depositing a gift bag in Daniel's lap like it's nothing but a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch. 

"We're going for dinner," Max says, starting the engine. "You can wear that."

Inside is a dark blue Tag Heuer watch. Daniel looks at it. "Are you lending me it?"

"I bought it for you," Max says, as the engine roars and Daniel gets hard. "I jerked off thinking about you in it."

"Fuck," Daniel says succinctly. He puts it on.

[yuqsdug]

Yeah! Factory au!

Equips more

Now do that an [UNDEFINED] time (/silly)

-factory au anon

Please be more specific when asking (TvT)

Random lore tidbits go!!!:

FH!Coolkid uses his pizza minions when he wants pizza. The staff don't technically need to eat in here, but eternal starvation is not fun.

They've tried to get 1eggs to cook for them with minimal results

Out of cake flavors, Cupcake Coolkid's cakes are the worst, according to C00lkidd

The Staff can respawn like the survivors do in the lobby, but it's a bit more clunky. (Respawning is a tricky process.) The spectre had trouble detecting when a Staff; There isn't a set point where they need to be respawned like with the survivors. The spectre solved it by adding a button that other Staff need to press to activate.

Until that button is pressed, the downed staff are in limbo at spawn.

[agalychnisspranneusroseus]

God thinking more about Anne's side of the AU now, her being not only Sprig and Polly's big sister, but the oldest kid in the town with no other kids quite her age so seeing her having a strong link with Ivy and Maddie (and the younger flower sisters) and seeing herself as being responsible for them just as she ends up being the town's protector from a startlingly early age. Oldest sibling not just to Sprig and Polly but to an entire wave of kids who know her as their tall friend. I can see her being especially close with Maddie, not just because she helps with the curse of amab puberty, but also being seen as odd and different, whilst being to a degree indispensable, Maddie's the only mage in town, and Anne is their best protector and warrior, but to much of the town (ie the ones who didn't grow up with her) she'll always be strange and different and to Hop Pop, there's still the simmering blame for the tragedy of the Herons (and the blame Anne herself has, and heck potentially other townspeople)

Longing to be whisked of her feet by her dashing princess penpal, treasuring her connection to the only other person quite like her (who isn't a terrible warlord) and only person in her life who isn't relying on her constantly being there to protect against armed threats and be strong, The only person and can cherish Anne just for being Anne.

How Anne grapples with never quite being able to match up to the toad's own human super soldier who seems obsessed with her, spending years barely fending her and the toads off, only to end up married to both of them and have any romantic dreams of being cherished for being her crushed in one act of final betrayal by a grandfather who never fully got over his loss. God Anne really goes through it in this AU. Yeah I can see where "Spranne against the world" becomes her most important relationship, him and the rest of the young frogs. I can't help but find myself longing for some kind of confrontation after the wedding, similar to Sprig v Hop Pop but much much more emotionally charged for the whole "effectively selling my big sister to our mortal enemy and contributing to crushing her dreams" thing. Hop Pop really digs a massive hole for himself there, way bigger than hiding the box. First the youth of the town, and then everyone else really turning against him over his treatment of Anne, which he the hopefully get's better on but... I can't ever see them getting to canon level fondness ever again.

sobs you got everything so right TT_TT YES Hop Pop is pretty unethical in this AU and hurts Anne terribly, because despite loving her with all his heart, he can never shake the irrational anger, the grief driving him to say and do unforgivable things to a kid not old enough to marry without parental permission. Plus Anne romanticized the idea of Marcy for so long that meeting the REAL Marcy after years of communicating exclusively through letters and only knowing half of what happened in Marcy's life (Marcy herself having gone through some very extreme situations herself and some mind-crushing trauma of her own that she never told Anne about) is just the icing on the cake. And despite Sasha not being nearly as bad as many people seem to think (again, because of personal issues she's going through), Anne still loathes her. So, she feels betrayed by Marcy, feels unsafe with Sasha and completely unprotected by the one person who was supposed to protect her, Hop Pop. Sprig and Polly are the only people who have always been honest, upfront and genuine with her, and she adores them for it. If it were up to her, she'd be 15 forever with her siblings, fighting giant bugs and cooking together and playing games, but Polly is being whisked away for the war effort as the prodigious little engineer she is, or at least she's too busy with these abandoned factories to be with Anne always, I don't know, I haven't decided the specifics yet, but I know Sprig is madly in love with Ivy and when you're in love, your siblings are often left behind. Anne's life is changing all around her and there's no stopping it. She doesn't want to hold her siblings back but she needs them more than ever in this moment, and there's the chance that she may rekindle her friendship with this new Marcy now but Marcy and Sasha seem to have this intimate understanding of each other that Anne now realizes she never shared with her, so really, she just feels very alone.

As for a confrontation with Hop Pop... oh things with Hop Pop get really really bad later on.

[michimonie]

How would the Quack Pack family celebrate April Fools Day?

I honestly forgot about April Fools' Day until you asked.

Every April Fools' Day, Dewey goes full rage-pranking, and outdoes anyone else in Duckburg, except for this year. This story got a little more emotional than I was originally planning but, eh.

Quack Pack AU April Fools' Day Special [Featuring Dewey Duck AKA The King of Pranks]

Shenanigans below

Dewey: That's right. Come begging for mercy from the Prank Master. What do you peasants have to offer me?

Huey: We have this triple layer cake, O' Great Prank Master...

Dewey, scanning cake: My scanners say there's nothing bad hidden in it... Okay, this gift is acceptable.

Louie: So, you're gonna give us a break this year, right? No pranks?

Dewey: I think I'll lighten up a bit for this gracious gift of cake.

Huey, Louie: LIGHTEN!?

Huey: Last year alone you ruined 8 very important meetings AND rendered 3 of my factories useless!

Louie: You sabotaged my superhero gear and made me the laughingstock of both Duckburg AND the other heroes!

Dewey: That's it? I'll have to step up my game.

Louie: Dude, I think we need to use our backup plan.

Huey: You think?!

Dewey: Aw, you've got a little backup plan? Ha!

Huey, Louie: UNCLE DONALD!

Dewey: !!!

Distant footsteps lead up to the door. BOOM the doors fling open to reveal Donald duck.

Donald: Time for you to face a REAL Prank Master.

Dewey: Bring it on, old man.

Donald: Old man?! DEUTERONOMY DUCK! I raised you better than this! Quack Quack Quack Quack Quack Quack Quack Quack!...

Dewey: Are you done yet?

Donald: Don't you talk back to me!

Dewey pressed a button, launching Donald out of the building.

Donald: ? ... !!! WAAAAK!!

Huey: Dude, we've completely lost him. He's gone full villain-mode.

Louie: Nooo, not my awesome bro...

Huey: Who am I gonna hire to make marketable stuff for so cheap?

Louie: Who's gonna design my superhero gear?

Huey: Who can I pay in high-end desserts instead of cash?

Louie: Who can I complain to when I have superhero gossip?

Louie: Hold on... are we bad bros?

Huey: What? Of course not. We're the best bros. I mean— well— ...

Huey: ...

Louie: Dewey, are we terrible bros? Is that why you're in villain-mode?

Dewey: ... Now, you suddenly care about being good brothers? Well, it's too late. I'm done dealing with your problems!

Dewey to Huey: No more designing devices, only to be paid in cakes!

Dewey to Louie: No more spending all of my free time on superhero antics!

Huey, Louie: W— We're so sorry!

Huey: What if I sent you on a free vacation?

Louie: I'll stop asking for upgrades to my gear.

Huey: I'll stop negotiating jobs with sweets.

Louie: I won't come by with complaints and gossip anymore.

Huey: I'll send you free snacks when you're working.

Dewey sighed.

Huey, Louie: ?

Dewey hugs them.

Huey, Louie: !

Dewey: Fine... I accept your apologies.

Dewey: But I'm getting everything you both offered. And I'm still pranking you on Halloween...

Huey: Alright, I'll do what I can.

Louie: Duck yeah! Whatever you need!

Later on...

Dewey: I'm sorry...

Donald: You better be! Don't you every do that to me again.

---

QPAU Blog

[cranberrybogmummy]

Oi, lonelyeyes fans look at 👀what I’m working on!

Working Title: ~Who’s afraid of Jonah Magnus❓~

Fandom: The magnus archives.

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood, Peter Lukas... othere?

Pairings: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Peter Lukas/Elias Bouchard..

Chapter: 1? Or part of chapter one

Genre: humor, AU?, freeform,

Summary: Elias invites Jon and Martin to his flat for a dinner party with his husband Peter and others? (season three free form AU what ever) It's going to be a toxic trainwreck, that Jon and Martin get roped into....

Dedication: To my tumblr friends @beheldandcompelled @syrupwit @klm-zoflorr @horseboneologist @lasalebete @nazguldivorce @hisshex

Enjoy this roughest of rough draft WIPs!

Elias was already inside the lift smirking lazily. Jon sighed, Jon could take the stairs to the library, but that would be weird if he just turned around and left. So he stepped inside.

“Hello Archivist,” Elias said warmly. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?” Jon grumbled.

“Yes, I see that you and Martin have been dating,” Elias added.

Jon furrowed his brow: “It’s just been for a month, it’s not interfering with our work.”

Jon and Martin hadn’t told anyone they were dating, but he knew Elias could just see it.

Elias smiled wider: “No, No, I meant to congratulate you.. both of you. A little romance isn’t a bad thing… sometimes. And I wanted to invite you and your boyfriend Martin to a little dinner party I'm having with my husband Peter and maybe a few others.”

“You’re married?” Jon asked.

“Yes,” Elias countered. “Now it’s going to be next Thursday night at our flat at around 1800. I’ll text you the details.”

“I can’t… I mean we can’t say no can we?” Jon said.

“Do you think that’s wise?” Elias continued grinning.

“Fine... fine I’ll talk to Martin, I’ll see you next Thursday evening?” Jon grumbled.

The lift dinged and Elias got out: “Excellent, see you both there.”

~~~~

It was lunch time when Jon finally got to talk to Martin. Lately Martin had been packing them both lunches, which was good because Jon always had the issue of never really knowing when he was hungry, even before he was the Archivist. Besides, Martin loved to dote on Jon, packing both of them bento boxes, with the care of a Japanese Mother making them for her first born son. Martin had been doing this for two months, swooping into Jon’s office and putting the bento box in front of him, they usually ate together at Jon’s desk. Today there was tabbouleh, an egg and cress sandwich and a bit of battenberg cake Jon assumed was factory made. All neatly put together in their little compartments. Jon had finished the tabbouleh when he decided to broach the subject:

“Martin errrm, Elias knows,” Jon said.

Martin turned bright red: “About us?”

“Yes.” Jon sighed wearily.

Martin took a bite of his egg and cress and looked away. “We can’t end this just because he doesn’t want us dating.”

Jon smiled: “No, no he’s happy for us. In fact he wants us to go to his awful flat for a dinner party with his awful husband and awful friends. At the time I said yes… but if you don’t want to.”

Martin smiled: “Actually I do, c’mon Jon it’s the perfect opportunity for me to dig up some dirt on him and his husband.”

“Won’t he notice?” Jon asked cautiously.

“Doubt it, if he’s hosting a dinner party he’ll be too busy thinking about whether the rolls are burning or if it’s too soon to bring out the roast,” Martin said. “I’ll just excuse myself to go to loo and…”

Jon grinned: “Alright if you say you.”

“So when is it?” Martin asked.

“He’s going to text me the details, but it’s Thursday night.” Jon said.

“Right, I’ll be there with my hair in a braid,” Martin beamed.

“…you’re not actually going to—“ Jon began.

“Jon, it’s just an expression.” Martin replied.

“Right, right…” Jon grinned and took a bite of his own egg and cress.

[hamartia-mmff]

the pack | moodboard dumpster part II

Guess who still has a hyperfixation. was denkt ihr so? Let me know :')

Fae King! Zelos & Fae Prince! Asuka x Human! Rhys

Inspiration: every fae/fairy story ever | drunk Rhys...and free drinks

synopsis: Fae AU, listen Rhys is basically the only idiot I can think about who would fall asleep drunk off his ass in a fairy ring, would for sure eat fae food and hella sure would drink fae drinks, despite the fact he won't be able to leave the fae realm afterwards...like free food and drinks? pointy-eared handsome bastards aren't able to lie to him? he is basically stuck with hotties, that are enternal beautiful and he doesn't age while he is at their place...?✨a guy gotta do what a guy gotta do✨ Rhys isn't stuck with them, they are stuck with him

Secret Affaire! Artist! Jay x Patron! Black Widow! Liri x Rich Husband! Rhys x Private Eye! Zelos

inspiration: film noir | dramas | love affaires | lovers quarrel | hab zu viel true crime gesehen lmao | diese shippings sind einfach so unterhaltsam :') | Irgendwie ist es fast canon, dass Liri Rhys umlegen würde...also wenn jemand aus der Crew, dann wäre er ihre erste Wahl und der Gedanke war irgendwie der Auslöser für das da, aber ich bin sehr happy mit dem Vibe tbh x')) | Liri x Jay lives rentfree in my head anyway

synopsis: AU: Vorher mittellos hat Liri mit ihrem neuen reichen Ehemann Rhys scheinbar das große Los gezogen und geht in ihrer Rolle als High Society Lady voll auf – zumindest scheint es so. Hinter den Kulissen spielt sich jedoch etwas völlig anderes ab; Liri und ihre geheime Liebschaft, die Künstlerin Jay planen Rhys ins Jenseits zu befördern und mit seinem Vermögen zu türmen. Während die beiden Frauen daran arbeiten ihren mörderischen Plan in die Tat umzusetzen, bleibt auch Rhys nicht untätig. Mit dem Verdacht, dass seine Frau eine Affäre hat, setzt er den Privatdetektiv Zelos auf sie an. Liri wiederum glaubt den Ermittler um den kleinen Finger gewickelt zu haben; jedoch weiß sie nicht, dass ihr Ehemann ihr keineswegs treu ist und seinerseits etwas mit Zelos angefangen hat. Auch bei den beiden Männern reift langsam der Plan, die unliebsame Ehefrau verschwinden zu lassen...drama, drama and even more drama and a little bit of a murder plot what am I even writing

Little Red Riding Hood! Bastet x Tame! Wolf! Vi

inspiration: das Märchen lmao ;) | just wanted a kinda wholesome Bastet and Vi dynamic... | bastet is my wholesome factory lmao <3

synopsis: Märchen AU, in dem Rotkäppchen Bastet auf dem Weg zu ihrer Großmutter einem bösen Wolf begegnet...but Bastet is just bringing wine and cake to her Granny...Wolf Vi would eat that shit up lmao...like wholesome family stuff...how could he even think about eating Granny and have Bastet as a snack...so little adventure with a wholesome Little Red Riding Hood! Bastet und einem handzahmen Wolf! Vi, where he is basically just a good boi 🥹

(Fake?) Forest Deity! Liri x High Priest! Prophy

inspiration: I just love our favorite insane duo don't come at me | Folk-Horror-Filme (the ritual, the wicker man, the witch...) | I just imagine Liri and Prophy sittig together and one of them is like: let's start a cult, that would be fucking hilarious | also high priest! prophy and high! priest! prohy...did someone get it?...I will let myself out...

synopsis: AU in dem Prohpy im Prinzip anstatt seinen Gott Miochthanth lieber Liri als eine Art Gottheit verehrt und für sie Menschenopfer in dunklen Wäldern rituell abmurkst...Idk I just find the thought of Propy - of all people - worshipping a basically naked chick in the woods funny :'D

Ghost Girl! Fly x Living Doll! Sune x Isane! Toymaker! Vi

inspiration: Ich wollte etwas machen, dass wholesome ist...und naja... | creepy kiddos in horror movies | Vi has to suffer cause I created him :'D | I need that cerberus pushie..

synopsis: Kleines AU Konzept, in dem Fly die kleine Schwester von Vi war und umgekommen ist. Dieser hat das nie überwunden und endet als wahnsinniger Spielzeugmacher, der den ganzen Tag damit verbringt für seine kleine Schwester "Spielzeug" herzustellen und Teepartys mit ihrer ruhelosen Seele zu spielen, weil seine Tauer ihren Geist in dieser Welt hält. Sune, eine von Vi hergestellte Puppe, der mit dunkler Magie und den starken Emotionen der Geschwister Leben eingehaucht wurde, rundet den grotesken Spielverein ab :) kinda wholesome, just a little bit grim

Farmer's Daughter! Bastet x Outlaw! Liri

inspiration: just vibes | aren't we all love Bastet blushing and fainting, just me? | Bastet als Landei ist irgendwie cute :')

synopsis: Das naive Farmerstöchterchen Bastet staunt nicht schlecht, als sich die flüchtige Kriminelle Liri auf der abgelegenen Farm ihres Vaters einquartiert, natürlich ohne zu Fragen. Nicht, dass Bastet sie davon abgehalten hätte...sie war zu sehr damit beschäftigt in den Lauf eines Revolvers zu blicken und in Ohnmacht zu fallen, nachdem sie den zweideutigen Witz von Liri endlich geschnallt hatte...RIP😭😂

Renfield! Sune x Dracula! Vi

inspiration: basically 'The Master's Song' from the Dracula musical :') | teilweise Vi's und Sunes charakterliche Beziehung

synopsis: Dracula AU in dem Sune als Renfield in einem Irrenhaus einsitzt, aber anstatt eines Insektenessenden Dracula-Fanatiker, ist Renfield! Sune ein Künstler, der alles auf die Leinwand pinselt, was er durch Dracula! Vi's Augen sieht und dem Pflegepersonal mit seinem besessenen Dracula-Fanboy-Gehabe das Blut in den Adern gefrieren lässt :')

Sylph! Fly x Dryad! Bastet x Undine! Jay x Aetna! Liri

inspiration: wollte nur ein moodbord mit allen girlies <3

synopsis: Not much to say...the ladies of the pack as different elementals/nature spirits. Sie passen zwar nicht 100%ig zusammen, weil Zwei davon auf Paracelsus zurückgehen, und die anderen beiden in die griechische bzw. römische Mythologie gehören...Aetna oder Aitne ist sowieso etwas geschummelt, weil das nur eine Nymphe war, nach welcher der Vulkan Ätna benannt wurde leider gibt es keine Feuernymphen oder weibliche Feuerpersonifikationen und Salamander wollte mir nicht gefallen :( the more you know🌈

Werewolf! Vi x Vampire! Zelos

inpiration: classic not so classic movie monster battle | werewolf Vi is kinda iconic lmao und Zelos als Vampir sowieso :') der Vibe passt einfach...

synopsis: Not much brain went into this and I am tired also nur ein AU mit Vi als Werwolf und Zelos als Vampir, die sich gegenseitig an die Gurgel gehen wollen looking at Zelos' and Vi's relationship this is kinda a canon dynamic lol

thank u for reading all of this! (๑ •ﻌ•๑ )

[kayakima]

this is super random but in a modern au what do you think jean and pieck's favorite foods would be?

for some reason I've always seen jean liking fish, and pieck being averse to seafood (lmao) bc I think it'd be fun to see how they'd work around their day to day like that, having opposite tastes in food.

in any case, I'm always interested to hear other people's jeanpiku headcanons and would love to hear yours if you're willing to share! :3

Hmmmm okay great question!!!

So I feel like Jean is very much a steak and potatoes guy who would always be down for a date at Ruth Chris or some other upscale steakhouse, but his guilty secret is that he could fuck up an Olive Garden any day of the week. He’s a big dude with a big appetite and he likes to get his money’s worth, so he doesn’t mind springing for the big portions. He doesn’t seem like the type to branch out a ton so you wouldn’t really see him at real hole-in-the-wall places that serve really obscure food. He’s OKAY with sushi but doesn’t really go past salmon sashimi. On VACATION? This is a man that loves to go fishin’. You can see him booking a deep sea fishing day with Reiner and Connie (while forcing Armin to come as well), and is very excited to show off his catch to Pieck when they get off. Any of those beach front restaurants that serve blackened snapper caught early that morning HATE to see this man coming, and he loves some good oysters if they’re grilled and swimming with garlic and butter. He likes a lot of dried fruit as well and does the “dad wiggling peanuts in his hand” thing. Pieck makes fun of it. He doesn’t have a sensitive stomach but very spicy food will definitely make him feel terrible later.

Pieck is a pickle girl. Pieck is a pasta girl. Pieck is a “full packet of sauce and an extra helping on top” Buldak noodles girl. Pieck will eat anything once and actually does manage to expand Jean’s palate a bit, but he leaves her to tackle raw oysters and uni by herself. Pieck will go into the dingiest restaurant on the street because she KNOWS the B rating on the health code sheet just stands for “best food on the block”. She has never gotten food poisoning. She will never get food poisoning. She also LOVES cake and will eat anything with cherries. She always argues that she can finish her entire meal, but usually gets about 3/4 of the way before tapping out and letting Jean take the leftovers. Jean always insists on taking her somewhere nice on her birthday but he’s learned to not even fight it when she says she wants to go to Cheesecake Factory.

Both of them like a good charcuterie board and some wine and oftentimes make a board that costs upwards of $150 just to sit in front of their fireplace and gossip all night long.

Their kids also grow up with a healthy relationship with food because neither of them really care much about calories more than they push the need to balance things out. The kids ONLY get candy if they eat ALL their broccoli, but they don’t complain because Jean can steam the SHIT out of vegetables.

Anyway thank u for the ask this was fun :3

[beifong-brainrot]

Milkshakes? 🥛

Now, get your mind out of the gutter lmao. "Milkshakes" is essentially a silly goofy 50s AU for tlok, specifically weilin. And the main fuel for this was Bolin's hairstyle being based on 50s greasers, so I was like "haha greaser Bolin would be funny. And maybe prep Wei." Which then spiralled seriously out of control because Wei also deserves to be a mean cheerleader and therefore Bolin must be on the american football team (I believe probending uniforms were already somewhat vaguely based on american foootball uniforms).

You can have this very pretentious snipped abt the 50s AU Beifongs from Bolin's perspective that I wrote a while ago. As a treat. Um. Class angst.

The Beifongs were lovely people. A big family in a big house full of love and life and cheerful, loud voices. A big house with a white picket fence, and all the bells and whistles that came with it. A big garden, a multicoloured galaxy of flowers crawling over to the cozy looking porch and creeping up the walls along fancy looking trellises. Pretty, frilly curtains in every so-clean-it's-shiny window that allowed one to peek into those colouful, warm rooms filled with furniture so luxurious that it barely looked actually expensive. The Beifongs were lovely people. When Opal had found a baby blue jay with a broken wing and brought it back home, the poor thing was treated with the upmost kindness. Even Huan, the resident brooding artist, had become a doting caretaker, while his room became full of sketches and paintings of the little creature. Bright blue paint spattering the furniture in a dismaying array. But why would the Beifongs care? Why would they care about such trivial things as stains covering pricey couches? The Beifongs were lovely people. So much so, that sometimes Bolin felt very much like that little bird. Just another stray Opal had brought in. To be held and cradled in their gentle hands as they tutted in pity over his head. The Beifongs were lovely people. The types to invite you over for dinner. Dinners that were, oh, so cozy and casual until Bolin realised just how out of his depth he was. Digging into a T-bone steak is rather daunting when even chuck-eye is a rarity for you. The Beifongs were lovely people. The types to smile tersely and shift nervously in their cushy seats when you speak of unlovely things. They looked down at their chiffon cakes and their polite laugher wobbled like sugary jelly. Well, with the exception of Wei who had earnestly chortled into his glass of pink lemonade when Bolin made a joke about eating out of a dumpster. Too bad Wei was such a spiteful little thing otherwise. If boys were said to be made of snips, snails and puppy dog tails, then there must've been a mix-up at the factory. Because Wei's entire being seemed to consist of sugar, spice and everything Bolin dislikes.

[itsyamajesty]

[I don't know how to do a masterpost, so this is going to get ALOT of edits]

The way this went is just that one ProZD skit (alternatively, "we doing circles now?")

I be thinking about all this stuff for Curse of Freedom (story based AU)

Then brain latches onto Rising Charcoal AU

"Guess this is happening now"

When the new masterpost releases, this one will be deleted instead of edited to be replaced

Rising Charcoal AU

Cookie Run Kingdom AU by (ya) Majesty

Based on 3 original what ifs:

Dark Enchantress wins

The Ancients are gone (missing, trapped, dead? Who knows, they aren't here to save anyone)

The Beasts have awaken, much weaker

(more below)

'Proper' Plot Description

(some things are ommitted because this is WIP, plus there's some stuff I want to be mysteries)

Most cookies have lost count of how long ago it happened.

The Ancients lost, they were split apart, and she took over.

Despite best efforts, the fighting was in vain. Are the Ancients dead... or simply captured? For some, the answer is clear, but with only the words of the darkness to listen to?

Is it true all hope is lost?

The Hollyberry Kingdom has been invaded by deadly poisons and crimson curses, all cookies who escape the jungles fall to the puppeteered Pitaya Dragon. The biggest settlement remaining is in a deep ravine, everyday spent planning against the fruit dragon, with the expectation of some trying all they can to free them from a hopeless spell.

The Dark Cacao Kingdom appears safer than ever before. Ruled by duel tyrants, the manipulative poisoneer and possessed knight. Together they've achieved a balance between protection of the public and the posh, a paradise most chose to reside. In truth, the smile of the snake and the sayings of the sword are not safe to believe.

The Golden Cheese Kingdom are wastes from which the licorice scented dead rise, clawing their way towards a small settlement of the Sand Slices, protected by shredding sandstorms caused by a surviving deity and the purple smoke of a revived advisor.

The entirety of Beast-Yeast has turned into various factories of unknown products, all being sent towards a laboratory on the island south. Some of these factories however are in ruin, covered by twirling vines and the aura of faerie magic.

In the Vanilla Kingdom, Dark Enchantress rules over it all.

Most other settlements have already been stampeded over by cake monsters, the larger being taken down by large creatures even the best will struggle to clash against.

It should have been this moment that all faith left- and yet hope had returned.

For unknown reason with unknown creators, the Beast Cookies awoke in bodies for their own. They had many new abilities with their vessels, but they were all much weaker overall.

In a fight for the world's fate, the Beasts' wish for conquest fades.

Guided by shards of their lost power, holding the memories of kings and queens who gained their power after, and now before, them.

Fighting it or not.

Their original selves are destined to return.

If they don't, the fate of Earthbread is sealed.

-

At some point, there will be a "key posts" list here:

For now, I don't know how to actually do the embed link stuff so

Everything can be found with the Rising Charcoal AU tag

I'm not expecting to get any fan content, but just incase anyone is interested, use Rising Charcoal AU Fancontent tag (or something else clarifying it's fanwork) instead of the main tag please. Just to keep everything organized (if anyone does make fancontent: THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU)

-

I didn't originally have anything big for it beforehand, but I'm getting ideas, Plus, Curse of Freedom is very story based, and I want to try (and fail) to write it, I can't make half of the posts I want to without spoilers. So I can post this instead. There is still a story to it, but I don't plan on writing more than a couple oneshots or short non-serious series, so there's no pressure for me to keep things secret (although there is some things I'll keep in more mystery for awhile)

Also with school I have a lot of drawing opportunities, I already got some stuff, but nothing post worthy yet

[coffee-master]

What would Kai do in season 3 with the blackout and Nindroids ? I guess he would have a different story than Nya, who had a love triangle problem with Cole and Jay

Ok so first of all- OMG PEOPLE ARE ASKING ABOUT MY AU- THIS IS HAPPENING-!! I'm very excited!!!!

Now to the main point.

In the reboot season, everything would be a little diffrent. I mentioned some things about it on the post about the relationships Jaya & lavashipping in this au here:

But this is only lightly mentioned, so here's more:

In this au Kai would have similar role like canon Nya, but with some differences.

The season begins with the fact "the ninja era is over" and ninjas now are teachers for the kids. They are about to go on a school trip to Borg Industries with the children, but before that could happened, when Cole and Kai are coincidently alone in the classroom, Cole decided to take a shot and ask Kai on a date.

It'd be a little awkward, since Cole has never asked anyone on a date before or was interesed in romantic topic in general. Meanwhile Kai would be taken aback by his question, because he hadn't expeceted that comming. Kai didn't even think that Cole was interesed in him.

However, in the end Kai would agree with a smile, calming the earth ninja down.

Later in the Borg's Industrie as Pixal asked to go to the hundredth floor ninja, Kai at the last moment grabs his sister's hand and asks her to go with him because he wants to discuss something with her.

Even if Kai was good at hiding things and acting cool- He was a little nervous about this date and wated to ask his sister discretly for some advice.

Nya at first reluctantly agreed, but then noticed that something was going on and was curious.

So Sensei Wu, Kai & Nya go together for a tour around the factory. Nya is pretty much interested in the technology, while Kai is thinking how to approach the subject, without her sister finding out about this whole thing.

Eventually they come across this crush-seeking machine and the kids talk Nya into using it and when the result comes everyone is schocked, but Nya doesn't take the result too seriously.

Here her relationship in much better and based on common experiences and trust, and she has is no doubt about it.

The fire master actually takes this more like a joke.

Everyone: *looks shocked at the result*

Nya: Hah, clearly this mashine is broken.

Nya: Cole is only interested in cake.

Kai: ...well actually-

Nya: Hm?

Kai: He kinda asked me on a date today.

Nya: ...

Nya: He what?

After that they are attacked by the machines and ect. and later the whole team meets again. The boy give Nya her new costume and weapoon and later they go to the sensei Garmadon.

There's a lot of fighting, which is practically no different from canon.

Then later on the landfill while fixing Pixal, the result information from the matching-machine comes to light and everyone finds out about the result.

Jay is very concerned about this information, but he does not lash out in anger at Cole. He knows that Cole wouldn't do anything bad and even has crush on Nya's brother, but is still bothered by the result.

Like an inteligente mashine says there's better a match for your girlfriend than you.

That information is just really messing with Jay's head and giving him self-doubts. So during their mission Jay is nervous and wants to prove at all costs that he is better than Cole.

Nya almost immediately noticed that and is both worried and irritated by Jay's behaviour. So after having enough of this nonsense and finding a moment of peace she talks with him.

Nya tires to get this stupid thought out of his head and says that it was dumb of him to even think, that he's not enogh.

In the end everything comes back to normal and nothing too serious happened with their relationship.

Then next fights took place and Kai tries his best to help others, even if he is not very comfortable in the technological world.

Here Kai is also a Samurai X despite lack of engineering skills that Nya has, but but how it happened is another story-

There was not much time for Cole & Kai to interract and after Zane's sacrifice in the end never went on that date.

-----

That's pretty much season 3. I've gotten so many questions about this au lately, I'll try to answer them as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, I'm often busy and write slowly, but I'll do my best!

[Siblings elemental change AU]

First | More about AU | Previous | Next

[calvinconstrut-a-bot]

Decade of joy Au - Calvin's side story

Title: Tow the line

(Ello, @decadeofjoy-au hope you don't mind but I made a side story for my oc.)

----------------------------------------------------------

Calvin, ready for his day, prepared for his duty: caring for the factory's orphans. He meticulously kept a notebook, recording every date for the next five years, each entry in his own hand. The date: Markus's birthday. An hour and a half before his shift, he began baking a cake. He could've asked Picky, but he wanted something special for Markus. Calvin carefully crafted the cake, each layer a testament to his affection. He tucked it away, a secret gift. He arrived at to take on his duties. But Markus wasn't there. He asked the other orphans. Silence. No one had seen him. This was somewhat upsetting. So Calvin went to ask Mommy Long Legs if she had seen him.

Calvin: “Excuse me, Ma'am. I don't suppose you have seen Markus around, have you? I can't seem to find him. I was hoping to surprise him since it's his birthday.”

Mommy: “Markus? Oh yes, since it is his 18th birthday, he was allowed to leave the factory. He must've just forgotten to say goodbye to everyone.”

Calvin: “I— .... That doesn't seem like him... though I suppose the excitement of getting to leave might have gone to his head... Still, it would've been nice for him to say goodbye...”

Calvin felt heartbroken... He has been abandoned, again. Still he pushed his feelings and suspicion aside.

Calvin: “Well, thank you anyway ma'am.”

Calvin then turned back to his duties of looking after the orphans, even if something didn't feel right he pushed the feeling down and tried to drown it out not wanting to know the consequences if he tried finding out what really happened.

[pisupsala]

Of All The Stars in The Sky | 16 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 9.1k

Index | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

Library

Chapter 16 - The End of The World 

That summer of 1943 that you spent with your parents will be the last light before the long and dark night that follows. The war is going badly — for your occupiers, that is. The Allies have taken Sicily, and the Soviets have booked a major victory at Kursk. News coming in is sporadic, the censors working overtime to downplay military setbacks, but rumors persist. The pincer is closing from the south and east; they whisper: Stalin’s Red Army will punch through the Eastern front after winter, and the Allies will be crossing the Alps.

More tangential proof of how the war is going is how more and more men disappear from public life — Hitler must be getting desperate, drafting reinforcements from the traitorous country that assassinated his right-hand man. And where the men disappear, women take their place. 

Registered as unemployed, you received a summons in the late fall of 1943 to report for labor in support of the war effort. At the outskirts of the capital, a car factory has been converted to produce army trucks — massive 3-ton personnel carriers. Every morning, when the sun is barely up, you get on a bus with about fifty other women of all ages, all dressed in the same drab, dirty blue coveralls. The only splash of color in the early morning twilight is the scarves everyone ties around their head to protect their hair. 

Your nimble fingers earn you a position wiring the dashboard and ignition systems; your once soft hands and manicured nails are definitely a thing of the past now. Your fingertips start forming blisters and calluses from twisting the copper wires into place; your nails are chipped and broken, caked in dirt and thick black grease. The harsh degreaser soap cracks the skin on your palms, leaving them sore — the cold winter air stinging the raw skin.

You haven’t heard from anyone in the resistance since your last encounter with Jan — he probably reported you as compromised to Emil, and everyone has been steering clear of you since then. Rationally, you know it’s not personal. But in your heart, you cannot help but be bitter: after all you’ve done, after all the risks you have taken, you end up on the assembly line building trucks for the enemy. And not a peep from your comrades. 

But you don’t need them, you think sourly. You took your first steps into resistance activities by yourself, stealing food stamps here and there to help the people you knew. It grew from there, but it wasn’t until late 1941 that you actually got in contact with the resistance proper and your activities were scaled up. And now that you’re on your own again, you’ll just do what you always did: as much as you possibly can.

The factory is run tightly. Hawk-eyed supervisors check every aspect on the line, writing up workers for faults, deficiencies, and mistakes. They are supported by the armed guards — young boys with large guns and on an even larger power trip — that patrol the grounds and the factory floor and gleefully punish poor performance. 

Poking and prodding, trying to find cracks in the system, you knew you’d push the envelope too far at some point. It’s a risk you’re willing to take — you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you didn’t at least try. So you experiment: wiping sand on the fine gears behind the fuel gauge, making the cursor stick. It’s simple and subtle enough not to get noticed during inspection. The first time you get caught, it’s for cross-wiring to the headlights with the windscreen wipers — which, in terms of sabotage, is mostly harmless, at most an inconvenience. A warning and compulsory study of the manual is all you get. But you know you probably overstepped when you get caught not tightening the contact cables in the ignition system, which would cause them to fall out sooner rather than later, stalling the whole machine.

“With me, missy,” Your supervisor sneers, her red-painted lips twisted into a scowl, knuckles whitening as she clutches her clipboard. It hasn’t escaped your notice how your supervisor has dressed quite nicely daily: makeup, well-fitted dresses, nylons. 

“It was a mistake,” You lie, defending yourself. “It’s cold, and my fingers-” 

You don’t finish your sentence as the supervisor grabs you by the collar of your coveralls and pulls you out of the factory hall. “Are you insane?” She hisses. “Sabotage is treason.”

“They’re going to kill us anyway,” You choke out, stumbling after her. 

Harshly pushing you out the factory door into the snowy courtyard, she stares after you, coiled with anger. “I’ll take my chances,” She spits after you. “Stay there until I come get you!” She adds, yelling.

Folding your arms, you shuffle your feet in an attempt to get warm. It’s still early in the day, and it’s freezing cold. Your breath is coming out in puffs of opaque smoke, and within a minute, you are shivering. Opportunistic bitch, you seethe.

You nearly scream out when you are suddenly doused in ice-cold water, your sopping coveralls now so cold it’s practically burning on your skin. From the boyish laughter behind you, you know these are the guards, joking in German — there’s nothing you can do. 

You stand frozen in place, the cold water trickling from your wet hair down your spine — it’s like you’ve just run a marathon; you struggle to catch your breath, thoughts running through your head in a blind panic. Finally, you sink into a squat, your legs almost giving out from under you — you need to hunker down, tucking your hands under your arms, desperately trying to preserve your core temperature. You are shivering so hard it’s making your stomach hurt, like your intestines themselves are violently shivering too.

It’s impossible to say how long you sit there. You notice it starts snowing again, but you can’t feel it. It’s like you’re frozen into place, your insides still quaking. The snowflakes stick to your lashes, making your lids heavy and your movements even more sluggish. It feels like your blood flow has slowed down to a crawl. You want to cry from pain, from humiliation. From anger. But your tears are frozen solid with the rest of your body.

When you are forcefully pulled up back onto your feet, no sound makes it out of your mouth. Your lungs hurt — your throat is so dry it’s numb. Whatever sound of pain or protest you try to make only comes out as a puff of air past your ice-cold lips. Your legs are stiff and barely cooperating, but the supervisor, who is holding you by your arm, nails digging through the layers of freezing fabric, doesn’t stop pulling until she shoves you down by the coal furnace near the offices. 

The moment she lets go of you, your legs immediately give out again — your knees skid over the concrete floor. The warm air is like relentless pinpricks on your skin. 

“Let this be a lesson for you and everyone that has any ideas,” She hisses at you venomously, grabbing your chin to force you to look up. “Warm up and return to your place on the line.”

It’s a lesson, alright.

Next time, you won’t get caught.

The winter of 1943 into 1944 is long, and the cough you’ve developed doesn’t disappear until late spring. Miraculously, you never really got sick after your punishment besides the persistent coughing, but as your grief wanes, a wave of new anger emerges in you. You never wished ill, hurt, or even death on specific people — your ultimate goal was always freedom. But now you find a macabre kind of glee as you sprinkle sand on the fuel gauge and fray the cables in the ignition. 

I hope your truck stalls as you run. I hope you run out of fuel. I hope it kills you.

When you catch sight of the supervisor, you smile sweetly at her. You’ll get yours too, you think. 

At night, you sit with your ear pressed against the radio, listening to the BBC news on the lowest possible volume, running Bradley’s bracelet between your fingers like rosary beads. You are desperate for any news of the advance. Southern Italy is so far away — is Bradley there now? The reports say the fighting is heavy; progress comes at great cost. You stopped being scared for yourself, but the more you are scared for Bradley. Alone in the dark apartment, tears roll down your tired face. 

Talking during work is forbidden, but on break, huddled together in the corner of the factory courtyard, whispered rumors swirl out of the earshot of supervisors and guards. When one of the armed guards passes, everyone dissolves in a fit of giggles, not from nerves but as a carefully honed defense mechanism. The bored guards don’t bother with women’s gossip. 

Soon, rumors and gossip are the only things to go around: rations are tightening, and more and more is getting diverted to the war effort. Cigarettes get passed around after a single puff, soup becomes more water than anything else, and you even resort to sharing mugs of ersatz coffee. The less there is, the more you care for each other. During breaks, you brush each other’s hair, braiding it or pinning it into curls. Sometimes, someone procures some hand cream, and you take turns massaging it into each other’s sore hands. It establishes a strange sense of normalcy in a world that steadily feels like it’s in free fall.

***

Every key Bradley touches on the creaky piano seems to be the wrong one. He can hear the melody so clearly in his head, but when he tries to play it or even just hum or whistle it, it’s like he cannot find the right tone. It sounds off.

He can remember the moment so clearly: the starry spring night along the river bank, the melody floating down from the open window. Flexing his hand, he can almost feel your fingers threaded through his, your body pressed against his as you followed his lead. Just like he tries to remember the melody, Bradley tries to remember your smile.

He knows he remembers, but he just can’t recall it. When Bradley tries, he is unsure if he remembers you correctly. It’s like it all happened in a dream, and he remembers shapes and colors, but the more he tries to grasp the details, the vaguer they become.

It’s January 1944, and the last six months have been one frustration after another for Bradley. At least he’s no longer grounded, but he hasn’t felt like himself since returning to England. It’s like Bradley woke up, and reality wrapped around him like a coat he had outgrown — constricting his movements, leaving him uncomfortable in his own skin. He can forget that only when he flies, at least for a moment.

Except it’s making him forget everything, he desperately wants to hold onto.

“I thought I’d find you here, Rooster,” 

Bradley sighs lightly before turning to the voice. Mav stands at the door opening, in his crisp dress uniform, an easy grin on his face. As he saunters into the empty pub, a gust of cold air follows him from outside.

“Long time no see,” Mav continues as he pulls out a chair, still grinning, plopping himself down across from Bradley. 

“Yeah, good to you again, Mav,” Bradley responds neutrally as he closes the lid on the piano, slowly turning around to face Mav. “How are Penny and Amelia?” He asks conversationally.

For a moment, the older man’s looks soften, his cocky grin faltering. “Good, good,” He nods. “Amelia sent you a letter to thank you for the postcards. Did you get it?”

“I’m not sure; it might have gotten lost in the mail,” Bradley replies vaguely. It’s probably somewhere in the packet of unread mail piling up in Bradley’s footlocker. Writing letters has been a chore because he cannot talk about what he wants to. The censor would not allow it, so putting pen to paper and pretending that everything is just okay is something Bradley rarely can summon the energy for.

He feels guilty. He knows this makes him a terrible friend, and he cannot explain why he can’t just write a short message home.

Mav just nods but doesn’t reply. An uneasy silence falls between the two men. They haven’t seen each other in a good two years, since before Bradley went on detachment to the UK. For a while, Bradley thought it would do them good — the distance would soften the sharp edges of their fraught relationship a bit more. Maybe he put too much stock in it.

“So,” Bradley starts, tone forcefully light. “What brings you here, Mav?”

“Mass mobilization,” Mav shrugs in response. “You know that something big is afoot.”

“I meant here,” Bradley’s voice is a little bit sharper as he gestures around him vaguely. He ignores the jab of guilt in his gut. “In this empty pub.” 

“Oh, yes-” Mav pulls an envelope from this heavy woolen navy coat. “You are getting recalled to the US Navy Fleet.”

Bradley reaches out and plucks the envelope from Mav’s outstretched hand. He scans the letter's contents — he’s due to report at Navy command for the European theater in five days. There’s nothing odd about the order in the larger scheme of things.

“Why are you the one delivering it?” Bradley looks at Mav, eyes tight. Is he getting picked up like a small child?

Mav’s eyes widen for a split second, before his easy grin returns. “Wouldn’t want to get this lost in the mail,” 

Another moment of silence.

“And I have shore leave, so I thought…” Mav trails off, face suddenly serious. He looks at Bradley intently, who meets his gaze almost defiantly. “I wanted to check in on you. See you are doing okay.” Mav adds levelly. Bradley sighs.

“I’m fine,” He replies softly. Even to his own ears, it sounds like a lie.

“So I thought…” Mav starts again.

“It’s funny,” Bradley cuts in, unable to stop himself. The burden of guilt is weighing him down — leaving you behind, failing his friends and family, forgetting — so he lashes out. From guilt. From shame. From pain. He wants to pretend it makes him feel better. “It’s really funny how you always tell me not to think, and yet that’s all you seem to do.” 

Mav stares at him, face neutral, unimpressed. The lack of reaction is making Bradley angrier. “So you thought — you thought what? That you know better? That you know what I need?”

“Calm down, lieutenant,” Mav simply replies, suddenly and simply pulling rank, effectively ending the conversation. Knuckles white, Bradley grits his teeth. Deep breaths. 

Mav gets up, dusting himself off, not a tremor of anger in his movement. He is the picture of calm, not sparing him a single look. Bradley stands up automatically, as he would for any ranking officer.

“Something is in the works,” Mav simply says. “Something big — bigger than we’ve ever seen.”

Finally, he meets Bradley’s eye again. Mav’s expression betrays little, but his eyes are full of hurt. “I th- I had hoped we could make amends,”

Before it’s too late.

Bradley nods — the guilt now like a stone around his neck. No one knows what is happening, only that ship upon ship of American armed forces is being unloaded and stationed in England. There are whispers of an attack on a scale never seen before. A landing. A suicide mission.

“I trust no one in the air more than you, Mav,” Bradley finally admits, the last of the frustration finally ebbing away. Why does he keep getting so angry? “It’ll be an honor to fly with you again.”

Mav cracks a smile — a genuine one. “Thank you, Bradley, and welcome back to the fleet.”

Bradley chuckles, but inside, he knows he’s not ready. Forgiveness is more difficult than a few words. 

But does it really matter?

In the end, when he will inevitably fly to his death, the very fate Mav tried to shield him from — will it matter?

“How long are you staying, Mav?” He asks instead, grabbing his coat. “Enough time for a drink or two?”

***

It’s dark in the small, crowded room. You sit on the floor, packed in like sardines. The bare bulb that had been burning in a harsh yellow light earlier spluttered before softly popping out of life. The noises from the outside are disorientating — you hear screaming and yelling, doors slamming and shots. You have your arms around a girl younger than you, softly stroking your fingers over her hairline as she cries into your shoulder. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the whine of Stukas as they fly towards the capital. You think.

The thing is, you haven’t been allowed to leave the factory for over a week now. After the news broke that Berlin had fallen and the Führer was dead, all the guards, the young boys with rifles too big for them, went into a blind panic. They locked the gates, screaming orders, pointing their surely loaded guns at the sacred factory workers. 

Since then, you’ve been sleeping on the hard concrete floor as the next shift picked up. You suppose you should be happy it’s May, so the floor is not so cold anymore.

The winter of 1944 into 1945 had been the harshest you’ve seen in years: it was bitingly cold, rations were lower than they’ve ever been, and there was no bread, milk, or flour. Soup was more water than anything else, more potato peel than vegetable. Even if you still had extra ration books, they wouldn’t do you any good — there simply wasn’t anything to trade them for. Gas and coal became a rarity, turning the city into an unforgiving ice-cold hellscape. You had never been so cold for so long in your life. 

The ugly blue coveralls were increasingly ill-fitting, hanging off your frame awkwardly.

It shouldn’t have brought you joy, but as production was being pushed into overdrive, supervisors were forced to join the line, leaving behind their clipboards and clean clothes. More shifts were added, the factory now roaring day and night — sometimes shifts were scheduled in such quick succession there was no time to go home. You would huddle up with the other girls in the corner of the factory on the cold floor (because god forbid you’d use the now-empty offices), so exhausted you couldn’t even hear the noises of the line anymore.

The guards were getting rotated out quickly, replaced by seemingly younger and younger boys — some almost dwarfed by the rifle on their back; their too-large uniforms make it look like they're playing dress-up. 

In the end, this also meant that since winter, all regulations were out the door — no more clipboards, no more testing before the trucks as they joined the motor pool, ready to be distributed over the rapidly approaching front. It made sabotage a lot easier: the majority of trucks that rolled off the line in your factory were faulty in one way or another. Knowing looks were exchanged: nuts and bolts were not fully tightened, hoses were not fully screwed in, and contacts were not fully connected. 

Everyone is doing their own part — their own small resistance. There was no discussion; there was no structure or organization. Just a hope that every little bit helps bring the war to an earlier end as the Allies and Soviets are approaching.

You hear gunshots now — the wave of terror that moves through the room is almost physical, as everyone recoils as one. You tighten your arms around the girl as she chokes out a sob.

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetie,” You console her softly despite wanting to cry yourself. You’ve been cut off from the world, and there’s no guessing what has been happening since the fall of Berlin. Are the Allies here? 

Naively, your heart feels a little bit lighter at the thought. Far from any sea or ocean, Bradley wouldn’t be there, but — and you hate yourself for hoping it so fiercely — maybe you could ask someone to contact him? Tell you where to send a letter. If only to find out that he is still alive. To let him know you are still alive. 

That you are waiting.

In the dark room, shaking from fear, the small fantasy brings you comfort. 

More shots ring out — you hear shouting, but you cannot make out what language through the thick concrete walls of the factory. When the heavy door suddenly rattles violently, like someone is trying to force it open, the room suddenly erupts in a flurry of chaotic and panicked movements; the air is pierced by crying and screaming. Everyone is scrambling up, trying to get away from the door. In the crush, you fall back, awkwardly wedged between bodies—the girl you had been holding before has disappeared in the darkness. The door rattles again; it sounds like someone is trying to break it down. 

More screaming, the mass of people moves back even more. It’s getting hard to breathe and the uncomfortable angle of your body—upper body leaned back, feet barely touching the ground—makes it hard to push back. It’s getting hot.

The door explodes open—the last oxygen is pushed from your lungs—light streams into the room. You aren’t sure if the spots in your vision are from the sudden blinding brightness or it’s your consciousness slipping. Just when you think you’ll lose grasp, eyes fluttering closed, the bodies disperse. Stumbling forward, you follow the flow of the crowd out the door. All the noise seems far away as you try to catch your breath. 

A tall figure is motioning sternly at the door opening, commanding everyone to come out. You do your best to keep pace with the rest, coughing dryly, trying to keep yourself from tripping over your own feet. 

Hurrying out the door, tearing up from the bright May sunshine stinging your eyes, you’re stopped dead in your tracks by someone calling out your name.

“Anya? - Anya!”

You haven’t heard that voice in so long, for a moment, you are confused. You should know who that is. Turning toward the voice, eyes still struggling to focus — your breath stocks mid-cough.

“Emil!” You choke out. It’s been almost two years now since you last saw him. Blinking, you stare at him — he’s dressed in his pre-war military uniform, looking more clean-cut than you have ever seen him, two rifles slung over his back. It’s making you acutely aware you are standing there in dirty coveralls and messy hair after sleeping on the floor for the past week.

He pulls you into a hug, clapping his hand a little too hard on your shoulder, rattling your skeleton.

“I’m so glad you made it,” He admits.

“I’m glad to see you well,” You reply with a smile. “What’s the occasion?” You motion to his uniform as you pull away, awkwardly straightening your coveralls as if that would hide the grease stains.

Emil smiles at you — and it’s probably the most genuine smile you’ve ever seen on him. “We’re liberating the city.” 

“I want to fight too.” The words are out of your mouth before you fully realize the implication — but you are determined. 

“I didn’t expect anything less from you,” Emil laughs, not in an unfriendly way, but in the way a big brother humors his younger sibling. “And I could use your help right away.”

A dizzying amount has happened since the fall of Berlin, since you’ve been locked away in the factory — the Allies under Patton are crossing the border into Bohemia, while the Soviets have punched through the eastern defensive line at the Dukla pass. The Wehrmacht and SS are retreating from the oncoming fronts on both sides — which is, unfortunately, driving them straight into the valley of central Bohemia and straight into Prague.

“We will not allow them to have their last stand here,” Emil concludes as you follow him through the motor pool. You nod fiercely. If the Nazis are allowed to build a final stronghold here, the Allies and Soviets will not hesitate to raze the entire city to the ground if it will end the war. 

“But first, we need trucks,” He states, looking around pensively. “Unfortunately, the guards were probably warned of the government army mutiny in the city, and they’ve gotten rid of all the keys.”

“You need mechanics first,” You cut him off. “Most of these trucks were sabotaged in one way or another.” You add sheepishly. Emil shakes his head, laughing.

“Again, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you in a factory where they had the misfortune of putting you to work.”

“How many do you need?” You get straight to business. “I can put together teams to check the trucks and-”

“And how will we start them, Anya?” 

“Lucky for you,” You frown, trying not to sound arrogant as you pull the cabin door of the truck open. “I’m quite the expert on ignition systems now.” 

Clambering in, you waste no time ramming the heel of your boot repeatedly into the metal plating under the steering wheel. The ongoing shortages of almost everything meant that the overall quality of factory parts had decreased. The screws are weak — you’ve turned so many of them just but simply trying to affix the plating, you know that a few well-placed kicks will shake them right out of their holes. 

Emil has climbed up the steps and is looking at you skeptically. But you are right; at the fourth kick, the metal plate practically pops out of place. Prying it away with your fingers, the small screws scatter over the cabin floor. Now for the best part. Reaching into the hollow under the steering wheel, you gently tug at the contact cables. One comes out so easily; you know it would have probably disconnected at the first large bump in the road. The other one needs a little bit more cajoling before it releases from the ignition.

Triumphantly, you show the two cables to Emil, stepping on the clutch as you twist the exposed copper ends together. The truck roars to life. 

“So, how many did you need?” You reiterate lightly. Emil claps you on your back as he laughs again. You cough uncomfortably. Spending several years traveling in partisan groups has robbed Emil of some of his gentler habits.

You have a renewed energy as you pull out your toolbox and direct the women who decided to stay, check over any trucks in the motor pool and ready them for rollout. You work until your fingers bleed — but it doesn’t matter. Liberation is close, and you're determined to speed up the process in any way you can. 

It’s late afternoon as the last of the trucks rolls out from the motor pool. Emil climbs into the cabin; you are hot on his heels.

“What’s next?” You ask almost breathlessly, so wired in anticipation you can barely feel the pain in your hands and the tiredness prickling behind your eyes. Emil smiles down at you from the passenger seat, as you balance on the bottom step of the truck cabin. “Go home, Anya,” He tells you, in that same borderline patronizing voice that a big brother would use for their annoying sibling.  

“I want to help,” You defend yourself. Haven’t you proven again and again that you are capable enough? Why are you being sent home like some small child? “I can help.”

“Go home, eat, and rest up,” Emil re-iterates, undisturbed by your acerbic tone. The truck rumbles impatiently. “When you are ready, come find me.”

You deflate a little. “Find you where?” “Do you remember where old Vineyard Street is?”

“Of course I do!” You bite out, almost offended. It’s one of the main streets on the eastern side of town, leading from the river valley over the large hill and ending somewhere on the far outskirts of the metro area. It was renamed to Schweiner Street at the start of the occupation, like so many streets, but you never forgot.

“Then I’ll see you there!” He grins, hand on the door, slowly pulling it close. You jump back onto the ground. 

“Wait!” You call out over the roaring engine sound. “Where on Vinyard Street?”

The longest fucking street in the city, half of it steeply uphill.

“You’ll know it when you see it!” 

Fuck. As the trucks roll away, the energy leaves you, too. Dragging your heavy feet, you finally start getting ready to get home.

You’ll know when you see it? Fucking riddles are the last thing you need now.

***

It’s pitch dark when you finally reach the bottom of Vineyard Street. A warm shower, hot gruel, and fitful sleep strangely make for the best few hours you’ve had in weeks. Dressed in fresh clothes, hands buried deep in the pockets of your increasingly threadbare green wool coat, you keep your gaze down. 

It’s chilly for a night in early May when the sun takes all the warmth with it as soon as it goes down. But you can smell the blooms in the air, and the first lilacs are dotting the streets in happy colors. There are no stars in the sky; only an occasional flicker of the moon peeks out between the heavy clouds rolling by. 

It’s eerily quiet. The streets lights are off, and most buildings are dark. The whole city looks like this. As a precaution, you have been moving through side streets, keeping out of sight from patrols. Small groups of people are moving through the dark — you can’t tell if they are friend or foe, so you’re not staying around to find out.

There is a strange buzz in the air. It has you on edge.

Before leaving home, you emptied the old cardboard box you had wedged deep behind the heavy wooden armoire in your bedroom. It’s where you kept everything you never wanted anyone to find: the old fake identities, your gun, and Bradley’s identification bracelet. The cold metal of the gun presses uncomfortably against the small of your back. 

Ironically, what feels even stranger is the foreign weight of Bradley’s bracelet on your wrist. You’ve never worn it before — it was always tucked in your pocket or twisted around your fingers. It feels odd as it’s a bit big on you, almost sagging down your hand. But more than anything, it feels right. There’s a reason you still have it; there’s a reason you put it on tonight. If anything, it makes you feel less alone as you make your way through the darkness, preparing for the battle ahead. The road ahead of you goes up at a steep angle. From your vantage point at the bottom of the hill, the street disappears into the darkness before you. It’s eerie, like you are looking at a ghost town. Not a single light is on as far as you can see, the buildings flanking the road looming.

You’ll know it when you see it.

As you trudge up the street, you can’t help but feel hesitant. See what? What are you on the lookout for? What if you miss it?

You hear the faint echo of voices. It stops you dead in your tracks, heart beating frantically. Hands sweaty, you can fumble open your coat, reaching back for the gun tucked in your waistband. Back flat against the wall, you edge up the street. 

You can’t see over the top of the road, where it flattens out for about a block before it the way pitches up at a severe angle again. But the flicker of lights, reflected in the dark windows around you, catches your eye. Someone or something is just over the edge.

Holding your breath, afraid to make the smallest sound, you shuffle up the sidewalk. The light becomes brighter, growing from small sparks reflected in the dark windows, to a soft flickering glow cast on the walls. You hear the echo of whispers. It’s hard to pinpoint where they are coming from, the sound strangely, hauntingly, bouncing down the barren street. Craning your neck, trying to peer up, catch a glimpse of some movement at the top of the road. The closer you get, the more you expect to see over the bend, see where the voices and lights are coming from.

But there is just darkness. If it weren’t for the surrounding buildings, you’d be sure the way up was simply vanishing in never-ending darkness. Your hands are shaking, fingers gripping the gun tightly. The more you try to calm yourself down, the harder the tremors become. The strange sense of impending terror has been creeping up on you with every step, slowly completely devouring you, until your breath is stocking in your throat, your chest is tight, and your legs feel like they are filled with jello.

You can’t stop the small whimper escaping your lips. You have to keep going. Standing on an unlit street, by yourself, with a gun in your hand in the middle of the night, is bound to get you into trouble. You have to trust that you will find Emil.

Willing your legs forward, almost tripping as your ankle gives out as you put weight on it, but it doesn’t deter you. If anything, it makes you angry enough to keep going. 

It’s only another minute before you reach the top of the road, and it’s like a bubble pops and you’re stepping into a completely different world.

The cobblestone street is dug up, the stones built high in three-line deep barricades — cars, trams, and furniture are haphazardly piled between the cobblestones. The whispers are clear now, yet as unintelligible as before — there is no one source of light, just flashes of lanterns between the barricades.

You are stunned. For sure, there is no way you could have missed that, but of all the things you were expecting to find — this, whatever this is, wasn’t it. Even after years of living under occupation, bombings, and soldiers marching down the street, Bradley; you feel wholly unprepared for walking into, well, a battlefield.

Aimlessly standing before the first barricade, eyes wide, you only belatedly notice you are starting down the barrel of a rifle perched just over the top of the pile of stones. 

Shit.

“I - I,” The words barely make it out of your mouth between the shaky breaths. You put your hands up more by instinct than by rational purpose. Bradley’s bracelet is heavy on your wrist.

“Get down!” A voice hisses from behind the barricade. You practically fall to the ground, your knees buckling. Breaking your ungraceful movement downward with your hands, the gun you have been holding all this time clatters loudly against the stones. A few moments of silence pass before a hand, holding a burning cigarette between the fingers as the only source of light, beacons you with a simple wave.

“Stay low!” The voice hisses again. You scramble, clumsily cramming the gun in your coat pocket, before crawling on hands and knees to a lower spot in the barricade. Just when you start crawling over, someone grabs you by the arm and pulls you over forcefully. You yelp as you vault over the pile of rocks, landing on your elbow.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t make it, Anya,” Emil grins at you, a lit cigarette loosely hanging from his lips. His uniform still looks crisp but has a vague whiff of mothballs. Rubbing your elbow, you sit up, frowning. 

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” You deadpan, trying to save some of your dignity. Looking around, there are a lot more people than you anticipated. Now that you are inside the barricade, small groups of people are crouched down, huddled together. You realize that the flickering ghostly lights you have seen are matches lighting cigarettes. 

Keeping low, you follow Emil to the far end of the barricade.

“Did you sleep before you came here?” He asks, shrugging the rifle off his shoulder and sitting down, leaning against the smooth wooden surface of a dinner table jammed into the barricade as structural support.

“A couple of hours,” You reply, still glancing around, trying to understand what is happening around you.

“Good,” Emil yawns as he hands you the rifle before making himself comfortable. “You’re on night watch.”

Hesitantly, you reach for the rifle. You notice Emil’s eyes flash towards your wrist as you grab it from him. A little bit too fast, you pull the rifle from his hands, covertly trying to pull the sleeve of your coat further over your wrist before he can ask.

You’ve done nothing wrong. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s your business and yours alone, you think tersely. So why are you so afraid of getting questioned?

Mercifully, Emil has already pulled his cap over his eyes. 

Before you manage to settle, trying to find a comfortable spot while leaning into the high barricade, rifle aimed over the top, you hear soft snoring. 

Peering into the darkness over the river valley, distressingly few lights spread throughout the city; these are the last moments of peace and quiet you will know for a long time. Before the sun comes up, someone comes to relieve you from the watch. Emil is still fast asleep. Handing the rifle on, you huddle beside Emil, burrowing in your coat. 

You don’t feel tired at all, you think. You are wired with anticipation. This is it. This is the last stand.

Freedom or death.

Your body catches up before your brain does — you don’t know how long you have been asleep. It could have been a catnap or hours. Whatever it is, it wasn’t enough. Your eyes feel so heavy. So much so it’s a struggle to open them. You sigh tiredly. Around you, voices are chattering — you can’t really hear what they are saying, just the shape of words and sounds that reach your ears. 

When you realize that you won’t fall asleep again, your brain finally starts up, and you become much more aware of your surroundings. There’s something heavy on your head, pulled over your eyes. Lazily shrugging it off, you blink heavily against the sun, still bleary-eyed.

“Anya, are you awake?” Emil materializes next to you, crouched down. He deftly picks up his cover from your lap, where it fell, neatly setting it on his head again. Did he put that on your head to shield your eyes from the morning sun? 

As aloof as Emil always has been, awkward in friendly gestures, he is kind.

However, following Emil as a shadow is Jan. He’s hard to miss, but you didn’t notice him last night. You look at him pointedly, daring him to say something. He meets your gaze shortly before huffing and turning away. Emil doesn’t notice, or isn’t interested in noticing, as he unfolds a map in front of you.

The battle is beginning. 

***

You are running. The ground is shaking under your feet; you’ve never felt something like it. Things you are pretty sure shouldn't move, like whole buildings, are quaking. The sound of the artillery shells tearing through stone and flesh is deafening, but somehow, your heavy breathing is louder than anything else in your head.

As a shell hits so close, you almost skid down the stairs you’re running up, as it turns the whole world into jello for a moment—the paper map of the city in your pocket crinkles as your hip collides with the wall. Between the explosions and screams, it’s such a mundane sound it sticks out. You clutch onto the railing for dear life. 

Is it possible to be so scared you just stop being scared?

You are not sure if you’re feeling anything right now.

All you can think about is that you need to get to the roof. High up on the hill, you and several others were sent sprinting up the road, looking for an even higher vantage point to see where the guns are. You hesitate to really think why some doors to buildings are open: the windows smashed, the facades charred. The silence, the complete lack of human sound in the buildings, is far more chilling than the hellfire raining down on you.

It’s quiet now.

You wait for almost half a minute, frozen on the stairs you almost slipped down, hands still around the railing so tightly your knuckles have turned white. The explosions don’t return. 

They may be recalculating their trajectory, picking new targets.

You scramble up, not even bothering to dust yourself off. Part of you wants to start running again to get to the top of the building as fast as possible. But your gut tells you to tiptoe, not betray your position.

Trust your gut.

It has gotten you this far.

Threading lightly in your heavy boots, holding your breath intermittently as you make your way up the next two flights of stairs. Outside, it’s still quiet; you can even hear the birds twitter in the trees again — it’s completely surreal.

But then you hear it. At first, so softly, you think you must be imagining it. There is no one here. But it sounds like a voice. Not like someone in conversation but someone dictating — flat inflection, clipped tones. 

You tiptoe up the next flight of stairs. On the landing, you see one apartment door open. Someone is here — no one should be here. This is dangerous. Should you be scared? But try as you might, you can’t really recall the feeling: the icy grip on your heart, the knot in your stomach. Is it because you haven’t felt anything but fear in the past few days? Is it just part of you now?

You pull out your gun with a calmness you hardly thought you could possess in a moment like this. Carefully, you click the safety off. The soft click echoes through the hall, but the voice drones on undeterred.

Creeping past the entry door, the house you enter is in disarray. Whoever lived here fled — afraid of the Nazis feeling from the east, afraid of the Soviets following them or the Allies closing the pincer from the west. Who knows. 

People spent the war in many ways. Someone was always going to lose. Those who chose to support the Nazi regime are already being rounded up—those who flee run west. The Americans are kinder captors than the Russians, they say.

A small twinge in your soul. Will the Allies beat the Red Army to Bohemia? Could it be that…

You bury the thought as you move deeper into the apartment. 

Now is not the time for dreaming.

You hold the gun pointed at the ground — grip firm, not frantic. Breathing steady, not panicked. 

The voice becomes louder. The door between you and the voice is slightly ajar, muffling the sound. It’s definitely a man’s voice. And he’s speaking… German?

You falter for a moment, coming to a standstill in the hallway. 

What are you about to walk in on? A scout? A spy? A group left behind?

Holding your breath for a moment, you close your eyes. Focus. 

You can only hear one voice — that much you are sure about. But as you listen, that is not what stands out. It’s that low buzz, the crackle of static. It’s a sound so etched into your mind you are almost surprised you didn’t hear it earlier.

You’re only hearing one voice because whoever is in there is relaying something through radio in German.

With the tip of your boot, you gently push the door open. The hinges whine softly. You slink through the opening.

It looks like a bomb went off in the sitting room. The floor is covered in books and broken glass. The windows are wide open, the curtains billowing into the room.  And there, by the window, crouched between the chaos, is a figure dictating coordinates he is reading from a map.

Suddenly, it all makes sense, but you also don’t understand anything about what you see.

Glass breaks under your boot.

Jan turns around, eyes wide. Within a fraction of a second, his face turns red, like a kid that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

That moment might have been less than a second; it might have been ten. You don’t know. You can’t feel. You can’t think. 

You just raise your arm, pointing your gun at his head. 

Not a single tremor in your aim. Not a hitch in your breathing. You squeeze the trigger.

The recoil is the only thing you feel. Jan slumps against the wall, the radio still buzzing. Blood gushes from this head, quickly pooling around his lifeless body. 

Methodically, like it’s just your physical form going through the motions, you simply brush past the body, turning off the radio and wrenching the Nazi map Jan had been holding. 

Every barricade on the hill is marked on it. Jan had been calling in the positions of the uprising strongholds to the artillery battery on the other bank. 

Your blood should run cold. You should be angry. One of your own.

Instead, you tear off the tricolor resistance armband off Jan’s arm. He’s not one of you. He will not be remembered as one of you. 

When you return to the barricade Emil is commanding, he’s waiting for you already. Wordlessly, you hand him Jan’s map and armband. Emil doesn’t say anything — he just looks at you. At first, you think it’s with pity.  When he claps his hand on your shoulder a little too forcefully, somewhat awkwardly, you realize it isn’t pity in his eyes. It’s sympathy.

Someone hands you tea in a chipped enamel mug. Sitting down on an upturned apple crate, the enamel too hot against your fingers, you catch sight of Bradley’s bracelet on your wrist. In just a few days, the weight has become so familiar, such a constant, you almost forgot it’s there.

Your stomach twists. It’s the first thing you’ve really felt in hours. Bradley was the first person you ever pointed a gun at. It’s very vivid in your mind how much your hands shook, how breathing in the icy mountain weather hurt your lungs, and how the terror coursed through every fiber of your body.

You felt so much, you felt so deeply then.

It’s strange. Alien. You know it happened to you but in a different lifetime. It’s like you’re fragmented. The you who was a student wasn’t the you who met Bradley. The you who said goodbye to Bradley wasn’t the you who sabotaged trucks. The you that has killed… you’re not even sure if there’s anything left of you, really.

In the hours and days to follow, you barely get the time to ponder the changes in yourself when the world is rapidly changing around you. A world born from flames and blood. The artillery batteries pound resistance positions and soon get support from the air. The high whine of Stukas, in broad daylight, rain bullets and incendiary bombs down on the city. The plumes of smoke obscure the sky. The smell of fire, burning houses, fabric… bodies, permeates.

When a breeze picks up, you think, you hope you can still smell lilacs. Just to assure yourself that the putrid smell of burnt rubber, scorched flesh, and hair has not settled in your nose permanently. 

“Why aren’t the Allies coming to help?” A young man, his old uniform jacket dirty, sleeves slightly too short, peers out of the broken cellar window into the street as a sortie passes low overhead. Emil, after days of fighting, is not looking as crisp anymore — streaks of dirt cover his face, his uniform dusty, tired look in his eyes. “After all we’ve done -” The young man turns angrily. “Where is the RAF?”

You don’t bother looking up; instead, you inspect your dirty fingertips and broken nails. Idly, you wonder if your hands will ever be clean again. Mindlessly, you tug on your coat sleeve — the seam is fraying — gently brushing your calloused fingertips across Bradley’s nameplate. Every ridge and divot of his embossed name and the insignia are a comfort, a constant. Every time you remember to feel the weight on your wrist, your heart skips a beat —  it’s still there, it’s still real. It’s your final tether to him. Your final tether to you.

“The weather over the channel still hasn’t cleared up,” Emil finally replies, voice monotone. 

“And the Americans are stopped at the demarcation line in the west,” You add, closing your eyes and leaning your head back against the bare cellar wall. When you first heard that Patton’s army crossed the border and liberated the city of Pilsen, you were so sure it was only hours until they’d make it into Prague. 

That was two days ago. 

“And we are stuck here, in hellfire, no air support, and cut off from supply lines by an entire Army Group and the SS,” The young man spits. “We are left to die while the Red Army takes its sweet time — they skipped liberating us to get to Berlin first, and now we’re the last defense for every Nazi in Europe!”

“To fight is to die, soldier,” Emil intones mildly, in that same bored tone as he plays with his lighter. “You knew that, and yet you picked up a gun.”

Silence falls in the cellar. Outside, the explosions rumble, sending tremors through the ground. You are not scared of dying. If you ever were, then you can’t even really remember anymore. Fear, anger, happiness, you know what they are, you know you’ve felt them, but now it’s like a thick fog has taken its place. All you feel is kind of nauseous, tired, and the chill from the wall behind you.

Before you know it, you are back on your feet, clambering into a truck, tearing down the hill toward Resistance HQ in the old town. Someone dumps a glug of clear alcohol over your hands, in a vain attempt to clean them. You wince as you desperately wipe down your hands with a rag, the alcohol penetrating every crack and cut in your skin. There is no running water anymore. This will have to do.

The uprising is only a few days old, but the horrors you’ve witnessed are more than you have seen in the years of occupation. The carcasses of burned-out residential buildings barely stop smoking before a new salvo of artillery lands. Bodies — fighters, civilians, enemies, limbs — litter the street. Fireballs light up the night sky so brightly it almost looks like daytime in a terrifying, incredible display. The smell is unbelievable. 

 A jumped-up schoolgirl playing at war. 

Maybe there was more truth in that than you’d like to admit.

However, you don’t have time to dwell on it as the truck finally comes to a violent halt. In the first few seconds, you barely recognize where you are. It’s like walking into a wasteland that was once the old town. You used to walk down this street every day, from the tram to class. The town hall, which was used as the HQ for the uprising, is… no there anymore. The air is thick with smoke and dust. The ground is strangely hot, and everything is cast in a strange orange glow from the surrounding fires. 

Pulling a rag from your pocket, you tie it around your face. It does little against the smell, but it at least stops some dust and smoke from choking you completely. After that, you move on autopilot. 

Save whom can be saved. 

Note who didn’t make it. 

Get out before the Luftwaffe returns.

Your heart is beating a mile a minute, adrenaline coursing through your veins. But you aren’t scared, focusing only on your task: pushing away rubble, helping victims up, trying to stop the bleeding on a too-deep leg wound, grunting in exertion as you push the stretcher with the man above your head so he can get pulled into the back to the truck—a flash.

You blink, disorientated. Colorful spots fill your vision.

Turning, you try to find the source of it in the chaos and the smoke. More flashes. Finally, your sight refocuses — someone is taking pictures. Through all the noise, you hear it clear as day.

“Let’s go; we need to get out of here.”

It’s an American. 

Your feet start walking before your brain catches up. The man is walking quickly to another truck with a Red Cross. The Red Cross is here? Your breathing is rapid now. You need to talk to them. You have no idea what you will tell the photographer, but you need to speak to him. 

You pick up your pace. The Red Cross photographer is disappearing quickly through the smoke.

“Wait!” You yell out, pulling the rag from your face. He is already climbing into the truck cabin. “Hey! Wait!” You yell louder, more desperately. 

He looks over his shoulder, straight at you. It looks like the Red Cross photographer waits for you to catch up for a moment, but then he slams the truck door shut. You break out into a sprint, almost reaching the truck before it tears away.

“Fuck you!” You scream, tears suddenly stinging in your eyes. Breathing heavily, you stay behind, seething, on the torn-up street, watching the Red Cross truck disappear in the mess of the medieval maze of the old town.

The desperate anger is the first thing you have felt in days. It’s overwhelming. Suffocating.

Distracting.

It’s only when someone almost knocks you over as they run past you in a mad dash, it’s like you wake up from the wash of madness that had you rooted in place.

A high-pitched whistle pierces the air, closing in on you at frighting speed.

You run, scrambling over the broken pieces of stone, slipping over pools of blood.

Don’t look back.

The truck with the wounded is behind you.

Don’t look back.

You need to get out of here, find any place to hide.

Don’t look back.

It must be a mere second before impact now; the whistle of the bomb is so loud your eardrums scream along with it. 

In a fatal moment, you turn your head.

A sea of flames melts the truck from sight. The pressure wave, so hot your mouth is drier than cotton on the first breath, is powerful it lifts your feet from the ground and carries you up like a feather in the wind.

“I’m flying,” Is all your brain manages to conjure up in the split second, almost with a sense of wonder and joy, before your body is flung against a wall. Crashing to the ground, you lose consciousness as fire rains down on you.

note | good news: war is almost over. bad news: everything else

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[fizzigigsimmer]

WIP tag game

Rules: you will be given a word. share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that start with each letter of that word.

The word that @robthegoodfellow tagged me in is... Sleep. I tell you right now, this was surprisingly difficult. You would have thought that I knew in advance and did everything in my power not to start sentences with e's or l's. 😀 But we got there.

Unamed Harringrove Ballet Au

Six-year-old Billy Hargrove watches his father’s beat up truck turn out of their driveway and disappear down the street with an exuberant grin. He had thought his dad would never leave – even though Neil was supposed to have a shift at the factory that morning...

Limited or not, Billy is serious about practice. So serious that he’s still at it two hours later, shuffling his feet to the beat in tandem with the two dancing figures on screen – jumping up with his leg twisted behind his body as he turns and lands. Awkwardly. He sucks in an aggravated breath through his teeth as he wobbles, arms flailing like fire hoses. It’s not anywhere as cool or as coordinated as Baryshnikov...

To B With Love

“Everyone push on the count of three.” Jane urged, biting back a giggle and Will nodded. 

“Quick! Before he’s turned into johnny cakes. One-two-three!” 

The three of them dug their toes into the ground and heaved with all of their might to role the pregnant ewe back onto her feet, just in time for Dustin to come running into their cluster for cover. Big Blue, the lead ram (who was at least shoulder high and had four horns atop its head) knocked into one of the fleeing ewes; thankfully seeming to lose interest in chasing Dustin as the animal climbed back onto his feet...

Even Mr. Clarke, who had encouraged their interest in understanding natural miracles and had loaned them many scientific publications, had just stared at Dustin perplexed when he had tried to explain his theory. But Mr. Clarke hadn’t told Dustin he was being a goose either, or accused him of having too much imagination. Instead, he’d given them a book called Jane Eyre to read because he thought they’d like it. 

“It deals quite a bit with ghosts, and the oftentimes quite human explanations for them.” He’d said with a wink and cheery smile. Max quite liked Mr. Clarke, and the book was turning out to be really good too. Far better than any of the short stories and sermons Ms. Klupp had them reading for class....

While You Were Sleeping

“Pardon me. Sorry.” Steve’s alpha had said politely, like some rich guy in a rom-com with like six degrees, through perfectly white teeth and plump gorgeous lips. To make matters worse, his eyes were blue, and for the first time in his life Steve understood all that shit in the novels about gazes holding hidden depths and secret longings. It was easy in an instant to imagine that the gorgeous stranger he’d just bumped into was as lost in the world as he was, without meaning or purpose. One that he’d obviously find in Steve’s bed, when they fucked the ever living shit out of each other. 

At least, that’s how it would have gone in one of Robin’s books.

Thanks for the tag lovely! I am 1000% sure you have all already been tagged but maybe tag me on your post so I can read your snippits. But no pressure... The word is Book! @dragonflylady77 @adelacreations @a-redharlequin @bigdumbbambieyes @ihni, @chrisbitchtree @medusapelagia @intothedysphoria