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glendylucast · 4 months ago

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Call of Duty WWII OC : Clifford "Brick" Wildblood

Born in 1919, Clifford enlisted at the age of 23 after leaving behind his coal mining family business. Stoic and not one for small talk, hence he earned the nickname "Brick" during basic training. He served with the U.S. Army’s 1st Infantry Division before being captured by the Germans and sent to a concentration camp, where he crossed paths with Robert Zussman—his squadmate and arguably his least favorite person in the entire division. Their time together in hell changed everything he ever believe.

GENERAL

Name : Clifford Arden Wildblood

Alias : Brick

Gender : Male

Birthday : October 2nd

Place of birth : Bloomington, Illinois, US

Nationality : US - British

Spoken language(s) : English

Sexuality : Bisexual

Occupation : Mechanic on coal mining (pre WWII), enlisted soldier (WWII), Blacksmith on Chicago (after WWII)

Rank : Sergeant (beginning) , Staff Sergeant (at the end)

PHYSICAL TRAITS

Eye color : Light Brown

Hair color : Black, but his hair started turning grey early due to the immense stress and malnourished during his time in the concentration camp

Height : 6’0�� / 185 cm

Build : Lean (WWII era), Muscular (After WWII)

Blood type : O+

Fan Cast/Face Claim : -

PERSONALITY

Myers-Briggs Type: INTJ-T

Enneagram: 2w1

Positive Traits

Formidable Soldier and Natural Born Leader: Wildblood was a great soldier and formidable fighter in 1st Infantry. Albeit showing no interest at first, Wildblood was also a natural born leader. He had his ways to make people following his order due to his managerial experiences and trainings in mining business.

Keen eye, sharp and observant: Wildblood's judgmental nature gave him natural instinct for reading situations, noticing details and tactical advantages others miss even in chaotic situation. His order was clear and sharp, ensuring the team knew exactly what to do even under fire or difficult situation.

Sharpshooter: Hunting hobbies with his father and grandfather sharpened Wildblood’s shooting skill. This helped him excel at training camp.

Mechanical and Explosive Expertise: Wildblood’s time working in his grandfather’s coal mine in Illinois gave him an extensive understanding of machinery and explosives. His experience as a blacksmith also enhanced these practical skills, which now serve him well in the battlefield.

Negative Traits

Direct and Blunt: Wildblood dislike small talk and keeping distance with his squad. He prefers a straightforward, no-nonsense approach with those around him. While his straightforward style is often efficient, it can come across as harsh to more sensitive comrades.

Overly Independent: Though Wildblood is a reliable team player and leader, he has a fierce independent nature and often prefers to rely on himself. This can sometimes cause him to push others away.

Emotionally Distant: Raised by a father who emphasized masculinity and stoic behavior, Wildblood struggles to express or talk about emotions. For him, showing vulnerability is a sign of weakness, making it difficult to open up or show affection to others.

BACKSTORY

Early Life

Born on October 2, 1921, in Bloomington, Illinois, USA. His father was originally from England, while his mother was from Bloomington, Illinois. When he was eight, their family moved to England where he spent most of his childhood.

He had a typical childhood in a loving family in London, England, that frequently traveled to the US, which left him with a British accent that slips out (especially when he's upset). He has a younger sister-Ciara Godwyn Wildblood, that born five years after him, and younger brother-Charles Ernest Wildblood, that born seven years after him

Later, he spent the rest of his high school years in Illinois after his father inherited the family’s coal mining business. They moved back to US.

His father groomed him to become the next owner of the mining business, so beside the basics works, he also learns leadership and business managerial. But over time, he shown no interest in being an upper management and more fascinating with the operational and how things work. Understand his son passions, he let Wildblood learned everything he wants on the operational, and instead pushed his younger sisters and brothers to pursuit higher education so they could hold the responsibility instead.

Wildblood usually helped there after school and eventually works there to help as a mechanics instead of going to college.

When the war sparked, his national senses called him to served.

His family strongly opposed his decision to enlist in the military. Initially, he stayed home, but at 23, he ran away and enlisted anyway, going so far as to forge his father’s signature with the help of his sister.

Yet his father eventually found out. Furious, he tried to drag his son back home, but Wildblood’s determination to serve ultimately shook him. He was never prouder, but as his father he was just deeply afraid of losing his son.

WWII Campaign

Beginning of Campaign

Wildblood graduated from the camp and promoted as Sergeant. In the camp, he befriended with Sgt. Benedict Baileys, his childhood and high school friend, who become his closest pal.

After surviving Normandy and Operation Cobra, he and Baileys served with Second Platoon under Lt. Will Chester. Unfortunately, Lt Chester got injured on his legs few weeks later and have to be sent to medical for a while, leaving him and Baileys temporary in charges. Colonel Davis impressed with Wildblood performances thus promoted him as Staff Sergeant.

Some Privates called him "a loner" because he always keeps a distance with everyone, and his leadership style was direct and blunt. At first people find it hard to likes him, but overtime they knew that beneath his stoic and cold exterior, he was actually an incredibly caring and dependable figure. Besides, him and Baileys complimentary to each other because Sgt. Baileys very sociable and close to the men.

His priority action was always how to executes an operation without causality from his team. It was impossible, but most of the time, he was able to minimize the numbers of dead and wounded soldiers.

Albeit from different platoon, he was one of the rare few who Lt. Joseph Turner and Tech. Sgt. William Pierson like and respect, because of his no-nonsense style.

(More campaign story will be updated)

Wildblood and Zussman

Little Trivia but Wildblood was born because I need someone to keep an eye on Zussman. I don't want him to be Daniels' homewrecker because on my latest revisit playthrough I really like Daniels and Hazel.

Initially, Wildblood never like Zussman, but he always kept a quiet eye on him throughout the campaign. He couldn’t stand Zussman’s troublemaking nature, answering at Lieutenant, or antagonizing Pierson, someone Wildblood deeply respected.

Fate brought them closer when both were captured and imprisoned in a concentration camp, where they watched comrades die at the hands of the Germans. Together, they did whatever was necessary to survive, clinging to each other to maintain their sanity and avoid feeling alone.

They were eventually separated when the Germans transferred prisoners to different camps, moving them constantly to evade the advancing Allied forces. Daniels’ squad found the camp that had detained Wildblood, and it was Wildblood who gave them the critical direction to locate Zussman. Wildblood was rescued by the U.S. Army, malnourished, with broken ribs and a limp, but he survived.

Weeks later, Daniels’ squad finally located and saved Zussman. When Wildblood heard the good news, he couldn’t hold back his tears.

After World War II end, few hours after Daniels said his farewells to Zussman, Wildblood visited him and insisted that he wouldn’t return home until Zussman was fully recovered. He refusing to leave Zussman’s side and promised never to leave him alone again.

Aftermath

A few weeks later, after Zussman convinced him that he was healthy enough to return to Chicago, they both going home to US. They separated ways as Wildblood moved back to Bloomington. For a year, the two exchanged letters.

After hearing that Zussman was no longer with Susie and was single for a while. Wildblood decided to move to Chicago to be closer to Zussman, working there as a blacksmith on local workshop.

They both become close and then, closer...

1940s was a hard time for being "different", you know

After three years in a secret relationship and saving enough money, Wildblood and Zussman decided to travel the world together. Their journey began with a visit to Daniels’ family in Texas.

They never told anyone about their relationship, maintaining a casual front whenever they were around others. However, Zussman’s best friend, Daniels, could easily tell that there was more between them than just friendship.

Still, Daniels chose to keep their secret to himself, letting the world figure it out on its own—if it ever did.

Thus, from Texas, Wildblood and Zussman set off to explore the country, then the world, travelling side by side.

Yes they're bestfiend

TRIVIA

He prefers a buzzcut because I hate drawing complex hairstyles, lol.

His Surname originally Wyldeblode, another variation of the name "Wildblood", but on the second thought I think the literal "Wildblood" sounds cooler, so I chose that.

His permanent early grey hair inspired by Guts (obviously) and Motaz Azaiza, journalist from Gaza, Palestine (massive respect, that talks about his hair greying already before he even reach 25yo still haunts me.)

He's an excellent violinist because he was obsessed with Sherlock Holmes's back in high school and learned violin because of that.

In high school, he also actively played football (not American Football) as a goalkeeper and was quite skilled at it.

Both he and his father hated how Americans referred football as "soccer," since they were originally from the UK.

He has sopite syndrome, a condition that makes him easily fall asleep in cars, trains, or any moving vehicle. Because of this, Zussman usually takes the wheel during their travels. (Wildblood never knew this habit of his was neurological disorder.)

One time he slept standing on the moving truck, and the whole platoon talks about this from time to time.

He had a deep fascination with dinosaurs and once considered studying paleontology, but family obligations and WWII derailed that plan. As a result, his apartment is now filled with dinosaur woodcrafts and doodles he made himself on downtime.

Despite having pollen allergies, he has no trouble working with woodcraft.

After WWII, He loves drinking Baileys because it reminded him of his late best friend.

Speaking of last trivia, Wildblood once believed he had schizophrenia after Baileys' death, as he kept seeing him everywhere. But after months in psychotherapy, he discovered he actually had hyperfantasia—the ability to visualize with such intensity that it felt real, it become in the room with him. It turned out Baileys wasn’t haunting him, nor was he losing his mind; Wildblood had subconsciously projected Baileys' to stay with him everywhere because he was lonely, something he didn't want to admit,

This hyperfantasia was also the reason Wildblood could precisely set up explosives and remember complex maps or blueprints during WWII, or sculpt dinosaurs and his squads from memory without references after the war.

Ironically, has a descendant who later joins Vladimir Makarov and works with the Konni Group. This accident happened when Wildblood and Zussman travelling Russia together.

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Will be updated as I draw and write his story!

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glendylucast · 3 months ago

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Daydreams and Nightmares

Comic Version

In Rewind Repeat It by Martin Garrix & Ed Sheeran lyrics

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Every now and then I remember this song never got official released and I am so bitter and mad because this beauty deserved to be out there on every radio, charts and Spotify playlist.

youtube

I have these images of mine about how Zussman and Wildblood become more than just a friend. How Zussman who always talked about girls in campaign changed. I've wrote the stories but never really feel like it.

Then I remember this song, played it and the writer-slash-art block was lifted.

Read the story vision here.

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glendylucast · 2 months ago

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Tales of The Two and The Seven

(Two side poem? I don't know what this one called.)

I can’t find the reference and I don't know what it was called, but I saw a brilliant poem that could be read separately or together few days ago, it was so inspiring so I just "lets make one!"

…turns out it was hard… ...and brain wrecking so forgive me if it is not make sense lol

#call of duty #cod #cod ww2 #cod wwii #robert zussman #zussman #clifford wildblood #cod oc #call of duty ww2 #call of duty world war2 #call of duty world war 2 #wildzuss #glendy lucast #poem #cod oc x canon #cod oc art #call of duty oc #cod ww ii fanart

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glendylucast · 3 months ago

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The Night Belong To Us

Call of Duty WWII Robert Zussman x Clifford Wildblood (My OC), 3197 words Content warning: Depiction of explicit kissing, mention of ending own selves

This story is a continuation of High Fever and was meant to come after two chapters of Wildblood’s backstory. But somehow, I ended up finishing it first…

Worry not you can still follow the story.

Summary: Zussman wake up after the fever and feeling better, but now he had to confront Wildblood after tried to avoiding him for days.

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United Stated, July, 1948

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Read High Fever first!

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Robert Zussman opened his eyes, blinking a few times to adjust his blurry vision. His head still felt heavy and groggy from the fever, but it was much better. The throbbing ache behind his head was gone. His memory was still hazy. He stared at the familiar ceiling and walls. The room was quiet, except for the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. The light came from the lamps and billboards. It was nighttime. He looked at the clock, the witching hour.

Past midnight...

Zussman grunted, this bedroom. He didn't remember what happened.

How did I get here?

He tried to remember. He'd come home last night feeling like absolute hell, his body drenched in sweat and his arms trembling from fever. Food had been impossible—anything he tried to eat that afternoon always came right back up.

"Oatmeal… maybe…" his dry lips muttered. He remembered dragging himself to the kitchen, desperate to make something simple and light before sleep. He’d stood at the stove, waiting as the pot simmered. Suddenly his body swayed, and then… it's all black.

Zussman reached up, touching his temple. His fingers brushed against a damp cloth, its corners cool against his warm skin. Someone had placed it there to lower his fever. Slowly, he sat up, realizing he no longer wore the long sleeves that he used when he was at work. Someone changed his clothes and pants. He frowned, trying to piece together the scattered images in his mind.

The smoke, the coughing… the sound of someone’s voice—gruff and familiar. He’d been so out of it, he couldn’t turn off the stove. And then…

"Brick?" The name escaped his lips as a low whisper, his throat still raw. Was it him? Was it Wildblood? Or was it all in his mind?

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His knees wobbled, and dizziness hit him. He stumbled but caught himself against the wall. Slowly, Zussman walked toward the door, his hands gripping the frame.

As he reached the living room, he found a familiar face.

Clifford "Brick" Wildblood was slouched on the couch in the small living room. His head tilted back against the cushions, his mouth slightly open. A faint snore could be heard from his mouth.

A half-empty glass of water and empty cup with coffee remaining sat on the table next to an ashtray, where the remains of a cigar rested.

Wildblood’s maroon shirt was wrinkled, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a faint trace of exhaustion clung to his face.

Zussman leaned against the doorway. Memories flooded back in fragmented pieces. If Wildblood hadn’t come and hadn’t barged in, the fire could’ve spread. He could’ve burned the room down, or worse.

"Looks like I owe you again, buddy," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

He walked quietly to the drawer near the bed and pulled out a blanket, the fabric soft and worn from years of use. He returned to the living room, slow and careful, not wanting to wake Wildblood. Carefully, he wrapped the blanket over Wildblood’s shoulders, tucking it around him. The man didn’t stir, just shifted slightly. Zussman stood there for a moment longer, felt grateful, then walked back to his room.

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Zussman shifted back to his bed, the springs bouncing softly under his weight. On the nightstand, there was a glass of water, a bowl of soup gone cold, and a small bottle of medicine. Wildblood must’ve prepared it all, anticipating that he’d wake up in the middle of the night. He smirked faintly.

"Up and beyond as usual." Zussman whispered.

It didn't take long before he emptied the bowl and glass. His hand reached the bottle of medicine and took two pills of it. After taking the medicine, he leaned back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling, letting his body sink into the mattress, yet his mind refused to enjoy this comfort place.

His eyes still stared at the ceiling, but he no longer saw the white plaster and neon lamp.

The dark memories came. Fragmented like a piece of puzzles. The hard, frozen ground beneath him when he was locked in the solitary cell back in concentration camp. The cries of men, muffled by exhaustion, hunger and pain. The stink of sweat and damp that never left the air.

Then the fragments grew sharper, and he remembered, the torment, the hunger. The desperate longing for freedom, or maybe even just a way to stop feeling altogether. Nights when he thought the silence would be the end of him. The fright that never truly left.

He thought he was tough and strong, but being stripped away from the control and freedom, he couldn't bare it. Constant feeling of hunger and exhaustion. There was a time when despair had burrowed so deep into his chest that it left no room for hope.

There are many US soldiers trapped in the same hell, at first they were strengthen each other, supporting each other. But over time, they're drift apart, went insane or the luckiest one of all- killed or dead.

Among everyone, there was one that constant, one presences that became his anchor. Always reminds him to never gave in, to never recklessly fighting the guards, to never doing something that will make their miserable situation became worse.

Clifford Wildblood was there to reminds him all that, and to keep his flame on when he thought he couldn’t go on.

Wildblood had been there. A hand on his shoulder, a whispered joke to distract him from the cold, a reminder to keep his sanity at check, a promise that they’d make it out alive together. Wildblood had kept him holding on to reality when everything else seemed to fade away.

They shared everything, even the warmth and embrace.

And then they’d been torn apart.

Zussman still remembered the day he was transferred to another camp. The shouting, the confusion, the forced march. Wildblood’s face had been the last thing he saw before the chaos took over, desperation and fear.

For the first time since the nightmare had begun, Zussman truly felt alone.

Hopeless.

It's a miracle that he survived, that both of them survived.

Now here he was, sitting in his apartment, alive and free, and Wildblood was asleep on his couch. Like nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

Zussman let out a soft, bitter laugh, putting his palm on his eyes. He would love to keep Wildblood close, to keep him right here where he could see him, talk to him, depend on him. But wasn’t that weird? Wasn’t it strange to have Wildblood hanging around while Zussman was out trying to date other girl?

Then it occurs him.

Why was he even trying to date other girl? What was he want from a stranger? Was it because Susie had left him, and he didn’t want to look pathetic?

Was it because he thought its what life supposed to? That finding a girl, settling down, having kids and building some cookie-cutter life was what came next?

Or was it just a distraction? Something to keep his mind busy so he didn’t have to confront the truth that had been sitting in the corner of his thoughts?

"God..." Zussman's finger clawed his own face as he release a heavy groan.

Was it wrong? To feel this way about Wildblood? To entertain these fleeting thoughts that he couldn’t explain? Maybe it was some kind of leftover trauma from the war, some strange bond forged in the fires of shared suffering.

Maybe it was just loneliness.

Or maybe it was something else entirely.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just be normal? Why can't he and Wildblood just became friends, and brother in arms like a normal person?

Is it what Wildblood wanted? Is it what he wanted?

“Zuss? You awake?”

Surprised by a voice on the door, Zussman turned his head toward the doorway. “Yeah,” he croaked, his voice weak but steady enough.

Wildblood stepped inside, his face etched with exhaustion, though his eyes looks relief by seeing Zussman's awake. He pulled a chair over and sat beside the bed, leaning forward.

“How’re you feeling?” Wildblood put his palm on Zussman's forehead.

“Better,” Zussman said, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Still feel like I got hit by a truck, but the fever’s down. Thanks to you.”

Wildblood shrugged, though the corners of his mouth tugged upward slightly. “Don’t mention it.”

“No, seriously,” Zussman said, his tone soft but insistent. “You saved my ass. Again. Even made me something to eat. So… I owe you again”

Wildblood let out a small laugh, “Man, will you stop keeping score? This isn’t competition.”

"Thank God it's not." Zussman chuckled weakly, a dry, raspy sound. “If it was, I’d be losing.”

Wildblood smirked but then pointed at the door with his thumb. “About the door… sorry I broke it. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

“Forget it." Zussman waved a hand dismissively. "The landlord’s need to change it anyway. Even toddler can bust that door open easy.”

They shared a brief chuckled, the tension between them momentarily easing, like a fleeting break in storm clouds.

"So, I... Uh..." Wildblood looked at his finger, "I know this isn't the right time. But, have you consider?"

"It's impossible, Brick." Zussman stared at him, his voice almost like a whisper. "Two men can't build a house together."

"I know, but..." Wildblood sounded hesitant.

"We have a moment, but it was history. I am sorry." Zussman said without a blink, even when he sounds hurt. "I am grateful with what we had. I cherished it every moment."

Then silence, Wildblood didn't say anything, because he knew Zussman haven't finished his sentences.

"But I was move on." Zussman continued. "And you should too. I am sorry."

It was quiet a few moment, before Wildblood opened his mouth "Wow."

"Brick, I..."

"No, it's fine." Wildblood smiled, but his eyes betrayed the expression. "Can't believe my first rejection came from a man."

"Please tell me I am not your first..."

"You wish," Wildblood smirked. "I had a good ol relationship with some pretty girls back in high school."

"Good." Zussman smiled. "Then you'll find another heart to break in no time."

They both chuckled for a brief, then the room went silence.

"I am so grateful for us to survive and alive right now." Zussman broke the silence.

"Yeah." Wildblood replied, his eyes gazing down at his fingers.

"You looked troubled, what happened?" Zussman realized Wildblood's keep looking down.

“Nothing, it's just...” Wildblood said, his tone shifting to something more serious. “What happened? Why didn’t you just call me? You know I’d drop everything to help you.”

Zussman didn't expect that question, but he didn't look away.

“It’s nothing,” Zussman said, his voice low, guarded. “I was just feeling dizzy after work. It was an accident. That’s all.”

“You sure?” Wildblood pressed, leaning forward slightly. “I feel like you’re still hiding something. You can talk to me, you know that.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Zussman replied, his voice still rough but firmer this time. He forced a weak smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s just a stupid fever, Brick. It’s nothing.”

Wildblood didn’t buy it. His jaw tightened, his frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You could’ve died,” He said suddenly, his voice rising slightly, sharp with anger and fear. “You could’ve died in your own damn house because of some stupid fire, Zuss!”

Zussman’s smile vanished, he looked away for a moment before looking back at Wildblood.

“Funny you should say that,” Zussman shot back, his voice low and defensive. “Because few weeks ago, someone tried to overdose himself to death, and to this day, he never tell me why.”

The words hit like a slap. Wildblood froze, his breath catching in his throat as Zussman’s accusation ripped him inside.

None of them talked.

The silence stretched, unbearable and loud. Neither of them moved, neither of them spoke, the air between them charged with tension.

"I... I am sorry." Zussman broke the silence. "That was out of line. I shouldn’t have said that."

Wildblood remained silent.

"I was just so afraid I'd lost you." Zussman continued.

"It's ok. I am understood." Wildblood broke the silences. "If any of this can ease your mind, it's not because of you."

"Brick, don't say that..." Zussman voice softened.

"Get some sleep." Wildblood said as he was raised from the chair. "I'll stay outside until morning in case you need something."

Wildblood movements were slow as if it was heavy. His shoulders sagged slightly, the hurt in his eyes barely covered.

“Brick—” Zussman started, his tone pleading, but Wildblood shook his head, cutting him off.

“It’s okay, Zuss,” Wildblood said, his voice softer now, but strained. He forced a small smile. “Just… sleep. You need it.”

Wildblood turned without another word, heading for the door. He hesitated for a brief moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob as if he wanted to say something else. But then, with a quiet click, he closed the door behind him.

As soon as the door closed, Zussman let out a silent scream, his face twisted in frustration, and rage. Then he drove his fist into the mattress.

Once. Twice.

He shouldn’t have let his emotions take over. He shouldn’t have said those things. It always came back to this—Wildblood pulling away the moment they're talk about himself.

It's been weeks since Wildblood came back from Bloomington, and he hasn't been himself ever since. He shut himself, never want to talk what is in his mind even when he started to open up more to Zussman before.

And the those overdose accident, and sudden confession afterward? Is he mad?

They couldn’t be together. He knew that. It won't work.

But it shouldn't have ended like this, Zussman couldn’t shake the thought that he might lose Wildblood for good.

Back in Paris, Zussman had seen Wildblood break down. If it wasn't for Aiello, Wildblood already put the bullet on his own head.

The idea of Wildblood alone, shutting himself off from the world, terrified him. He wanted to reach out, to tear down whatever wall Wildblood had built around himself.

But Wildblood didn’t want to talk.

He never wanted to talk.

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Wildblood sank into the couch with a heavy sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. His muscles were taut, his jaw clenched He closed his eyes, trying to silence the chaos in his head, but the tension wouldn’t leave.

Wildblood groaned quietly, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. His eyes flooded by he quickly brushed it off, between the rejection and the storm raging in his mind, shutting it down for good was a tempting idea.

He hated this. Hated the way his shame clawed at him, pulling him under every time he thought about opening up. Zussman is probably the only person aside Ciara and his therapist that could make him open up. Even he talked more to Zussman than the two latter.

But he couldn’t tell Zussman the truth. Zussman didn’t deserve that weight, didn’t need to carry that guilt.

Yet the words clawed at his throat, demanding release.

You want to hear it? Fine. I killed her. I killed my mother.

Wildblood screamed the words that he wants to say in his mind. He laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

I killed her with my own hands, Zuss! The only woman I’ve ever truly loved. The woman who raised me, who gave me life. I killed her!

His breath hitched as the memories flooded back—sharp, painful, and vivid. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He had his reasons, but none of them felt like enough.

Wildblood killed more people than he could count in war. Killing Krauts, people who aimed gun at him or strangers in the war had been one thing, but this? This was too much.

Why this was to much? Why was she matter?

And Zussman? Zussman didn’t know what he was asking for. He didn’t understand.

Wildblood didn't want Zussman to judge him, to treat him differently. Zussman already did that ever since he knew Wildblood's feeling for him. He knew Zussman had been avoiding him.

It would give him another reason to push Wildblood away.

Wildblood’s jaw tightened as another thought crept in.

Zussman was right.

Maybe that overdose a few weeks ago hadn’t been an accident. Maybe Wildblood had wanted it to end. Maybe he’d wanted to escape the shame and guilt for good.

And maybe today was the best day after all.

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Zussman lay back on the bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. His anger had dulled to a heavy ache in his chest, the kind that wouldn’t go away no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

He didn’t know what to do. How could he get Wildblood to open up? To talk to him?

He clenched the blanket tightly in his hands, his jaw tense. Wildblood had built walls around himself so high and strong that Zussman couldn’t see a way over or through them. But the cruel irony was that Zussman was guilty of the same thing. He’d built his own walls, fortified his own defenses.

How could he blame Wildblood when he couldn’t even tear down his own barricades?

But maybe, just maybe, the only way to break through Wildblood’s walls was to give him what he wanted. The one thing Zussman was afraid to admit.

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The door creaked open, and Wildblood’s head snapped up, his heart pounding as Zussman appeared in the doorway. Zussman looked disheveled, his steps unsteady, but there was a determined look in his eyes.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Wildblood asked, his voice sharp but tinged with concern.

Zussman didn’t answer. He walked slowly, deliberately, until he was standing directly in front of Wildblood. Without a word, he tossed the blanket Wildblood’d been clutching aside and sank down onto Wildblood’s lap, straddling him.

“The fuck you think you're doing?” Wildblood stammered, his eyes wide as Zussman cupped his face with both hands.

“I want it,” Zussman whispered as his face touched Wildblood's. “And I know you want this too.”

Wildblood froze, something twisting in his heart and his breath hitching, but he must draw a line. Zussman just said he was move on. Why now? Is the fever make him confused?

“I don’t,” Wildblood whispered.

“Fucking liar!” Zussman hissed, “If you don’t trust me enough to tell me anything, fine."

Zussman forces Wildblood to look at him before continue. "But don’t lie to me!"

Wildblood’s felt knot inside his stomach. His mind was screaming to push Zussman away, to stop this before it went further.

But somehow, he couldn’t.

He didn’t want to.

Then before Wildblood could say anything else, Zussman leaned forward and pressed his lips against Wildblood’s in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was forceful, desperate, filled with a raw intensity that neither of them could deny.

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust. It was something raw, something primal—rageful, violent, wild.

Wildblood froze at first, his right hand holding the couch as if to ground himself, while his left hand attempted to press Zussman's face. On the other hand, Zussman persisted. His lips tightened with power, as if he was attempting to consume Wildblood alive. His hands remained steady as he held Wildblood's arms to distract him. Every time Wildblood attempted to speak, his lips would shut down by Zussman's mouth and hands.

But the more Zussman kissed him, the more he gave in. The resistance melted away, replaced by a hunger he didn’t know he’d been holding back.

Only God knew how long he'd been holding back.

It started with one kiss, then another, then another. They lost count.

It wasn’t a kiss of warmth or tenderness. It was a kiss of anger, frustration, and desperation.

If lust supposed to be devastated, probably this is it.

If love supposed to be painful, probably this is it.

Zussman thought he was giving Wildblood what he wanted, but as it happened, he realized something he hadn’t expected.

He wanted it too.

It's all blurred together, becoming more frantic, more passionate. They didn’t know how it started or where it would end.

There was something about the way their body moved—the desperation, the pain, the rage, the history they shared. It was something no one else could understand. No stranger would understand.

Something that belonged only to them.

The invisible chains that shackled them together ever since they escape those hopeless and cursed places.

Normandy, Bastogne, Rhine... and those hell they called labor camps.

Then somewhere between the passion and surrender, they forgot the anger, the hurt or the fear of what might come next.

The future didn’t matter. Morning didn’t matter. The consequences didn’t matter. All that mattered was the hunger between them, the way they could feed each other’s need, even if only for this one night.

For now, the world outside didn’t exist. The only thing that mattered was this moment, themselves.

Tonight, they belonged to each other. Whatever came after would have to wait.

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Loosely inspired by this song:

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I recall what we once were The past still holds your name Loved you to the lines of Leif Now he don't sound the same Loving strangers is a losing game The shape of you my dear with me still lays I'll keep it warm with my embrace and Do I love myself enough to be alone now? And then grow from it and go for it or Am I at the point of no Am I at the point of no Am I at the point of no return? Am I at the point of no Am I at the point of no The point of no return Or do I start again anew? Whats behind I clearly see Ahead of us a mystery Dear forgiveness have your moment And regale us with some peace So go and get yourself some sleep And I'll cover you up If that's what you need now And I will keep my self at bay And do we love ourselves enough to be alone now? And then grow from it and go for it or Are we at the point of no Are we at the point of no The point of no return Are we at the point of no Are we at the point of no The point of no return Or do we start again anew? .... Could it be more Oh I don't know Could we be more Oh I don't know Amistat - Anew

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glendylucast · 3 months ago

Text

Daydreams and Nightmares (ENG ver)

Call of Duty WWII Robert Zussman x Clifford Wildblood (My OC), 2741 words Summary : Robert Zussman was struggling, caught in the chokehold of PTSD and reeling from his breakup with Suzie. He could probably use a helping hand.

Story Version, Short Comic Version Here

Chicago, United States, February 1947

"Fucking winter..."

Robert Zussman adjusted his vision, felt like his headache got worse from the hangover. He couldn't remember he walked home from the Irish pub, but at least he got to his apartment safe.

Thank God it's weekend so he didn't have to work.

Still lying on his bed, he glanced to his side, to the empty side where Suzie used to sleep beside him.

Zussman was in rough shape after his breakup with Suzie. He didn’t talk much about it—never really did—but a big part of it was tied to how much the war had changed him, both physically and mentally.

Physically, he’d come home as little more than skin and bones, scarred and bruised in ways that would never fully heal. Mentally, his mind was haunted with PTSD. He constantly fights the daydreams of being on the battlefields and the nightmares he endured at the hands of the Germans.

Perhaps it was Zussman who hated himself for showing weakness—he had never been the one. Perhaps it was Suzie who couldn't bear with how much Zussman had changed, how different he was from the man who had captivated her with his grin and stories.

In the end, Suzie left the door, never looking back...

... And she left a gaping hole in Zussman's life, making him stranded then adrift, floating in an ocean of darkness.

The man lost without his anchor.

Zussman tried to replace the gaping hole Suzie left with other girls, but none of them stayed long. They left as soon as he started to scream or raise his voice.

He pulled the blanket, wrapping it tighter around his body. He was so done for being weak, and he was tired of being disappointed. He just wanted to close his eyes.

---------

Meanwhile, a few miles away in Bloomington.

Clifford Wildblood stepped out onto the porch of his family home. Morning air blew his face as he walked toward the red mailbox near his family fences. Retrieving the contents, he carried the small stack of letters and a folded newspaper back inside.

This had become part of his morning routine since returning from the war. Each morning, after jog around the neighborhood, he’d check the mail, sift through bills, local circulars, and the occasional postcard. Sitting at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee, he carefully shuffled through the pile.

"Nothing..." He whispered himself, sounded disappointed.

It had been months since he’d received a letter from Zussman.

The two had kept up a steady correspondence after returning from the war, exchanging letters at least twice a month. They wrote about everything—little updates on their lives, stupid jokes, even stories about the old squad. Zussman had always been the great storyteller; he just loved to talk about his squads, especially because they're also still actively exchanging postcards and letters.

Wildblood had come to cherish his letter. He never felt so close to him.

But then suddenly, without warning, the letters stopped.

His mind wandered to the last one he’d received months ago. Zussman had mentioned that he was no longer with Suzie. The words were casual, as though he were shrugging it off, but Wildblood could read between the lines. He knew Zussman had been with her for a year and a half now.

It must be devastating.

The letter was closed with Zussman insisting that Wildblood shouldn’t worry, that he’d bounce back in no time.

“Don’t waste your time and energy on me, Brick,” he’d written. “I’m a catch. I’ll have another girl in no time. Meanwhile, how about you?”

The confidence felt hollow, though. Wildblood could sense it even through the ink.

And lately, Wildblood never felt so restless and uneasy.

"Maybe I'm overthinking it." Wildblood muttered.

Wildblood sighed, setting the letters aside and unfolding the newspaper. He tried to read a few articles before the words blurred as his thoughts circled back to Zussman. The unease crawled in his mind.

If only that jerk had a telephone line in his room. Wildblood cursed in his mind.

Without a second thought, Wildblood pushed back his chair and stood. If Zussman wouldn’t send a letter, maybe it was time to pay him a visit. Wildblood thought his parents wouldn't mind for him to take a small trip for one or two weeks.

After talking to his parents, Wildblood packed his bags and took a bus to Chicago. On the trip, he remembered their brief time together in the medical tent back in France, where he’d seen how Zussman struggled with panic attacks, how he tensed up unexpectedly, and how deeply he hated being alone. Wildblood understood his friend’s pain and knew he wouldn’t want to face it alone.

If there was something Wildblood could do as a friend who had faced the same hell, he would gladly offer his help.

----------

Zussman wasn’t expecting a knock at his door one quiet afternoon—not from someone from his past.

When he opened it, there stood Clifford Wildblood, solid and calm as ever. He wore a baseball hat, a beige scarf, and a few layers on his clothes. For a moment, Zussman could only stare, disbelief flickering across his face. It wasn’t every day that someone from First Platoon showed up unannounced.

“Brick?” Zussman said, blinking as if he didn't believe. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was worried,” Wildblood replied bluntly, his tone as steady as the man himself. "You all right?"

Zussman let out a surprised laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

“Oh my God, buddy! You’re crazy!” He stepped forward and pulled Wildblood into a hug, his grip firm and warm. “Can’t say I’m not glad to see a familiar face.”

He stepped back and motioned for Wildblood to come inside.

“It’s good to see you, but at least tell me if you’re gonna drop by! Bloomington’s a hell of a long way from here!” Zussman talked as he closed the door.

"Not really, it's just a couple hours." Wildblood replied, his eyes glancing around Zussman's room. "I don't know... Maybe if someone didn't stop writing, I will tell him."

Zussman frozen for a moment, his grin faltering.

“I... Yeah… Sorry about that," he muttered, struggling to find words, and kept glancing at his room.

"It's ok, life happens." Wildblood nodded, tried to cheer him up. "I don't mind."

"Sorry." Zussman murmured again, his fingers rubbing at his temple, glancing at his room. “Don’t mind the mess.”

"Still tidier than our camp in Hurtgen," Wildblood grins.

Zussman groaned, his smile return. "God, don't remind me."

Wildblood’s gaze lingered on Zussman for a moment. His green eyes were still sparkling as ever, but he noticed the dark circles under those eyes. The man’s smile was there, but his body betrayed him—hands fidgeting, shoulders tense.

Zussman he knew had always been good at masking his emotions. A man with a poker face, if Wildblood knew one.

But this time, it felt like he wasn’t just hiding his feelings; he was barricading himself in.

Breaking the tension, Wildblood raised the pizza box in his hand like a peace offering. “Brought dinner.”

“Great. I, uh…” Zussman hesitated, his smile nervous but genuine. “I’ll grab us something to drink.”

Thus, they both sat down and caught up on some stories. Wildblood didn’t stay long that day, but he told Zussman that he rented a small apartment just a few blocks from Zussman’s. He was there for a family visit for a few weeks; of course it wasn't entirely a lie. It was a modest place with a personal telephone line in the room, unassuming but close enough that Zussman couldn’t help but notice.

At first, Zussman treated it all lightly, joking about Wildblood playing guardian angel. But deep down, he felt a strange sense of comfort he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t something he’d admit, not even to himself, but the familiar presence eased something restless inside him.

They started hanging out more. It was all casual—meeting for a beer at the local pub, walking around the city, or catching a game on the radio. Wildblood had a way of being there without being overbearing, of offering quiet support without prying. He was just a good listener, always down to do something, and a dependable friend to have around.

And over time, Zussman greatly appreciated it, though he kept his gratitude buried under layers of jokes and banter.

Still, Zussman drew a line, even if only in his mind. Friendship was all he could give. Anything beyond that felt too dangerous, too complicated.

He wasn’t blind—he knew how deeply Wildblood cared for him and the reason why. Wildblood loved him in a way that went beyond friendship. It was there in the way by the way Wildblood looked at him, and he didn't need Wildblood's word on that.

Zussman knew it had always been there, even in the darkest days back in Germany, when they had leaned on each other in ways that had felt more than friendly.

But those days were behind them now, and Zussman couldn’t bring himself to entertain the thought of something more.

Not again. Life had already shown him enough pain, enough loss, to last a lifetime.

Friendship, he told himself firmly. That’s all it can be.

And then there were the practicalities—the cold, hard truths of the world they lived in. A world that didn’t look kindly on men who are different—even he couldn’t quite bring himself to say the word aloud.

How could that kind of thought pass his mind?

For the love of God, life was hard enough as it was. He muttered in his mind.

The thought of adding discrimination or criminal charges to the pile of struggles was enough to make him shudder.

----------

Time passed.

Then, one night, the memories Zussman buried came flooding back, suffocating him. He woke up screaming, feeling swallowed by darkness despite all the lights in his room that he’d left on.

The memories were vivid—too vivid. The sound of distant gunfire, the sharp crack of orders barked in German, the stench of blood and sweat. It was all there, as if he were back in that hellish place.

He gasped for air, his lungs refusing to cooperate. The darkness wrapped around him, and for a moment, it felt like he was drowning.

But then, slowly, painfully, he swam his way back to the surface, his breaths shallow and ragged.

It took every ounce of strength he had to drag himself out of bed. His legs felt heavy as he stumbled down the hall to the payphone in his apartment building.

-------

The phone rang at an unusual hour...

Wildblood answered to hear Zussman’s unsteady voice on the other end. Without hesitation, Wildblood came over.

The knock at Zussman’s door came sooner than he expected. When he opened it, Wildblood stood there. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand explanations.

"They came back, huh..." Wildblood talked, almost to himself. Almost if he already knew the problem.

Wildblood sat down beside him on the worn couch, close but not too close, letting his presence speak louder than words. He didn’t try to fix anything, didn’t offer empty reassurances. He just stayed, grounding beside Zussman.

-----

The minutes stretched into hours. Wildblood stayed through the night, his steady breathing became a quiet anchor in the silence. Zussman followed its rhythm and tried to control his own breathing.

Deep in his heart, Zussman cursed his own weakness. He always want to look tough, strong. Yet the toughness wall inside him crumbled, leaving this hollow and desperate soul trapped in his vessel. He barely could hold the water that almost fell from his eyes.

And it wasn't a good sight. He hated it. This wasn't a side he wanted to show.

So as soon as Zussman felt his heart steady, he mustered some strength to raise.

"I think it's gone now." Zussman whispered, forcing himself to smile.

"Are you sure?" Wildblood didn't believe him.

"I'm fine." Zussman's voice started to sound normal. "Sorry, I maybe overreacted. I just bothered you."

"It's kinda too late for that." Wildblood tried to sound grumpy, but he just tried to make a joke. "For God sakes, you can always ask me for help and don't ever mention it."

"Don't get used to this." Zussman smiled, his voice low and hoarse. "Won't happen again."

"You better." Wildblood raised and stood. "Won't you just continue the meds? It really helps me, you can..."

"Brick, It's all right, really." Zussman cut his sentences. "I'm fine, you can leave."

Wildblood looked like he was thinking of something, but then just muttered, "All right then..."

Both of them then walked towards the door.

Before reaching the door, Wildblood offered a small, reassuring smile. “I’ll come by later today, check on you.”

As the man walked away. Zussman realized that deep down he didn't want Wildblood to leave him. He was the one who was there on his lowest. They already saw each other's breaking point.

Zussman was there to hug the stoic Wildblood when he was screaming in desperation, while Wildblood was there to hold the tough guy Zussman's hand when he was shivering from the thought of die alone.

Why would he feel embarrassed for being vulnerable?

What else do I need to hide from him? Zussman words ringing inside him like a bell.

“Brick…” The words came out hesitant, almost a whisper. "Brick, you don’t have to go."

Zussman's hands reached Wildblood's, stopping him. Wildblood paused, staring Zussman for a moment. Something unspoken passed between them in the quiet room.

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Play this song if you want to, for a mood booster

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So, it's probably nothing But it's been on my mind sometime and I can't let it go I know there's gotta be something That I could say in time, but I can't find the words Keep me, keep me on fire Keep me, keep me on fire Novo Amor - Keep Me

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In that quiet moment, something shifted. Wildblood had always known his feelings for Zussman ran deeper than friendship, but he’d kept them buried, convinced they were one-sided. Being his brother in arms already enough for him.

But now, sitting there in the night until the soft light of dawn crept through the window, hope flickered in his chest.

Maybe, just maybe, he could be more than a friend or brother to Zussman. Perhaps he could be the one to fill the emptiness, to offer warmth and understanding where the world had given cold indifference.

Maybe he could be Zussman’s “rebound girl,” someone to fill the gaping hole and offer him the warmth and understanding he needed.

Maybe he could be the one to hold him through the hard nights, to be there until Zussman found the peace he was searching for.

Or someone new.

Even if Zussman would one day move on, Wildblood was willing to be there until that day came.

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Zermatt, Switzerland, July 1952

"What're you thinking?" Zussman's low voice disrupted his mind.

Startled, Wildblood blinked and turned to face the man beside him. The warm sunlight played across Zussman’s face, highlighting the lines etched by time and hardship.

“Nothing…” Wildblood replied, a smile tugging at his lips.

Zussman’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “You're a terrible liar.”

Wildblood chuckled, "Just... good memories.”

He glanced at the breathtaking view before them—the towering peaks of the Mountain Alps, as the sun shimmered between the clouds.

But it wasn’t the mountains that held his attention, not really.

Who would’ve thought?

It was 1952, and here he was in Switzerland, standing beside the man who held his heart for years: Robert Zussman.

Who would’ve thought that what had started as a desperate bid to help a broken friend would lead to this?

Zussman’s “rebound girl,” as Wildblood had jokingly called himself, had become something far more. The relationship they're hold onto now was the longest they've ever had.

What began as support and comfort in the aftermath of war had grown into something undeniable, something neither of them could let go of.

Wildblood glanced at Zussman again.

The man beside him now had found pieces of himself again, pieces Wildblood had feared might be lost forever. It took a lot of restless days and nights, but now the storm had passed.

Zussman never had a panic attack anymore.

The nightmares had still come by from time to time, but it hadn't bothered him too much. They were there to embrace each other.

Their relationship wasn’t perfect—far from it. They had fought through waves of doubt and fear, wrestling with questions neither of them had answers to. They had learned to navigate a world that still didn’t understand or accept what they shared.

But through it all, they knew they'll survive together.

Wildblood’s feelings for Zussman had always burned steady and true, like embers glowing quietly in the dark. Over time, though, Zussman’s own feelings had caught up, growing in strength until they burned brighter than either of them could have imagined.

It wasn’t just love. It was trust, companionship, and the quiet certainty that with this person, you didn’t have to hide.

Wildblood had fallen first, but it was Zussman who fell harder.

“So.” Zussman broke the silence again, his smirk now a full grin. “Who’s ready for the Alps?”

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glendylucast · 3 months ago

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"Like a force to be reckoned with A mighty ocean or a gentle kiss I will love you with every single thing I have Like a tidal wave, I'll make a mess Or calm waters, if that serves you best I will love you without any strings attached"

----- Sleeping At Last - Two

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Yes, Drawfee references!

For the longest time I've been obsessed with Karina's take on the Painting Redraw, how she turned "Dante & Virgil" into something entirely unique and beautiful just blows my mind.

Naturally, I stole the "your blorbos kissing behind the fountain at night" concept for mine! I always wanted to redraw her piece and now I have the characters and excuses to do it! Lol

Oh... This pic? It's Zussman and Wildblood sneaking away from a fancy dinner invitation in Austria (or somewhere idk) to steal some moment together. (Yes, they're travelling the world together after WW2)

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glendylucast · 3 months ago

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Sneak Peek!

(Probably) for my entry in the COD Fanfic collaboration on Twitter.

Originally, I just wanted to make a few illustrations for my fic, but this might end up as a manhwa-style comic instead lol

I love my blorbosssss

Hopefully I can consistent enough to finish this.

And... yes,,, it's this song.

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#call of duty #cod #cod wwii #cod ww2 #call of duty world war ii #call of duty world war 2 #robert zussman #zussman #clifford wildblood #wildzuss #Youtube #cod oc #call of duty original character #call of duty oc #cod oc x canon #world war 2 #glendy lucast

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glendylucast · 3 months ago

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I never thought seriously about Wildblood faceclaim and just pick actor that I really love but thanks to @t3acupz I think I finally decided 🫠

I didn't mean these to be so parallel, it just happens

Yes, Nick Jonas is Clifford Wildblood now.

...and now I am obligated to make sure their story got a happy ending because I love them and they're deserved all the happiness in the world 😭💕

#glendy rants #call of duty #cod oc #cod oc x canon #robert zussman #clifford wildblood #wildzuss #kingdom 2014 #jay kulina #nate kulina #kingdomtv

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glendylucast · 2 months ago

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Thinking : Pierson got injured and had to be bedridden in medical for a few days, so Turner pick Wildblood to lead ambush mission in Germany along with the Daniels, Zussman, Aiello and Stiles.

Zussman keeps answering Turner's order and that’s when Wildblood realizes Zussman is way more annoying than he initially thought.

But then the building collapses, leaving Wildblood and Zussman separated from the rest of the group. Now they have to figure out a way to survive and regroup together.

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Classic setup, but it could be good. I’m definitely adding this to my writing WIP… even if it probably won’t ever see the light of day lol.

Are they get better after that? No, Zussman think Wildblood is a overglorified sociopath who needs to control everything while Wildblood think Zussman is a reckless daredevil who needs to be sent back to basic training.

But at least thats a first step for them to understand each other.

#glendy rants #cod ocs #cod oc #cod oc x canon #clifford wildblood #robert zussman #wildzuss

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glendylucast · 2 months ago

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First Time In Forever (I)

Call of Duty World War II Robert Zussman x Clifford Wildblood (My OC), 3197 words Content warning: Depiction of explicit kissing & sexual activity

This is the extended version of their moment together in The Night Belong To Us. To understand the story, please read that one first.

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If you prefer reading it on AO3

It wasn’t a kiss born of love or even lust. It was rageful and frantic—wild, violent, primal.

Zussman's lips collided with Wildblood's. it was rough, rushed, and raw, carrying zero softness, no tenderness.

Wildblood could feel the pain on his nose bone for its bump with Zussman's cheek.

Yet the moment their lips touched, something twisted deep in Wildblood's stomach, a knot of aching confusion that spread to his chest. There, in his heart, the ache grown into something familiar and terrifyingly vulnerable.

Like a knife stabbing his lungs, tore it out open and bled out.

"Zussman, stop!" Wildblood protested, his voice strained, but it didn’t carry the conviction of his words.

Wildblood's hands came up to push Zussman’s face away, but before he could, Zussman’s grip found his wrists. With surprising strength, Zussman pinned Wildblood's hands, holding him in place.

Their lips met again—hard, relentless. Every attempt Wildblood made to speak was swallowed whole by Zussman’s unwavering mouth. Wildblood turned his head to the side, trying to escape the onslaught, but Zussman’s lips followed, finding the soft skin of his neck. His lips start sucking his neck, then teeth grazed his skin. A sharp ache sting as those teeth bit down Wildblood's neck, followed by the cold, wet press of Zussman’s tongue soothing the mark.

A soft moan slipped from Wildblood’s lips before he even realized it, a sound that startled and embarrassed himself.

"Get... off!" Wildblood grunted.

Zussman’s touch was chaotic and aggressive, like he was trying to devour him whole, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

Wildblood could have stopped it—he could have used his strength to break free, to push Zussman off, to pin him to the floor. He could've bit back those lips and tore it apart. He could've headbutt Zussman then punched him in the face.

Hell, he could've bitten Zussman's ears and ripped them off from his head if he want to.

But he didn’t.

No—he wouldn’t.

He would never want to hurt Zussman.

“Robert… Stop,” Wildblood said again, his voice a whisper now, almost drowned out by the sound of Zussman’s ragged breaths against his neck.

But deep within, he didn’t want Zussman to stop.

Never.

Not when every nerve in his body was alive.

Not when his heart still beating.

If there's no tomorrow for Wildblood, at least he could have this moment with him one last time.

But ironically, after Wildblood surrender, Zussman instead pulled away, his face flushed, his chest rising and falling as he gasped for breath. His left hand trembled as they loosened their grip on Wildblood’s wrists, and his right hand, which had been holding Wildblood's face, pushed it away.

For a moment, guilt and shame flickered in his green eyes, clouding them like a fog rolling in.

“I’m sorry…” Zussman whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “This is stupid… I’m so sorry.”

As their foreheads met, Wildblood could feel Zussman's heat, his forehead slick from the sweat.

"I don't know what's gotten into me…" Zussman, voice low and filled with regret, pulled his face further from Wildblood. "I'm sorry."

Zussman avoided eye contact.

How could I let my impulsive thoughts win? How could I let myself go this far? Zussman whispered in his heart.

Wildblood stared at him, his own breath still unsteady. He could see the way Zussman’s hands trembling, as if bracing for rejection. But Wildblood wasn’t angry—not in the way Zussman thinks of.

No, what stirred inside him was something far more complicated, yet somewhat simple.

After a few moments that were only filled with their gasping breath, Wildblood's lips parted, trying to form words, but before he could speak, Zussman looked up.

Their eyes met.

Their jade and hazel eyes, they did not lie.

Zussman’s jade eyes brimmed with vulnerability, fear, and longing. He thought he would just do this for Wildblood, maybe one last parting gift before they move on.

But now he didn't want to move on—he wanted to be here, on this moment.

Wildblood’s hazel eyes unravel the truth he’d been trying to deny. He had told Zussman to stop, but his eyes had screamed out loud for him to keep going.

He wanted this, craving for more.

And they could see it, they both starving of each others.

So, this time, their lips met again, but no longer with the same chaotic force as before.

Now, it was passionate, like they were pouring years of bottled-up emotions into each other. Anger, frustration, rage—it's all still there.

But now, affection, longing and tenderness was there to take control. Those emotions melted into one touch.

One body language.

Wildblood couldn’t quite explain it, but something buried within him stirred—a familiar ache, bittersweet and nostalgic, something that'd been missing from Zussman's first touch.

Suddenly memories surfaced on his mind, like bubbles that had been lost within the ocean.

These were the same lips he had kissed back then, back in the labor camp.

It had been five years. Five long, solitary years.

Back in that labor camp, their first kiss had been fleeting, desperate, and stolen moment in the moment of despair. Their lips were dry and cracked, their bodies starved and trembling from exhaustion. They were little more than skin and bones, waiting for the death to pick them up any moment.

Yet, even in that hopeless place, even when they had nothing else, the passion had been there—an ember of life in the darkness, a reminder of something worth clinging to.

And now?

Now it was different. Better.

A thousand times better.

Infinite times better.

Wildblood’s heart raced, pounding against his ribs like a drum. Zussman’s lips were softer now, fuller, tasting of warmth and life. He closed his eyes, letting himself fall into the moment, letting it consume him.

Let it carved its way into his mind and heart.

As they continued, he could feel Zussman’s hands sliding down from his face, and then he touched him beneath his sweater. Zussman's fingers rough yet careful against his skin, igniting sparks wherever they touched. Wildblood's breath hitched at the sensation, and he didn’t resist when Zussman began tugging at the hem, silently asking for permission.

Without doubt, Wildblood lifted his arms, letting Zussman peel the sweater off him in one smooth motion. The cold air grazed his slick skin, but it was quickly warmed by Zussman’s hands as it landed on his chest.

Then naturally, Wildblood's hands reached for the tuck of Zussman’s shirt. Zussman raised his arms, letting Wildblood take the lead, and took off his shirt. He threw it to the floor.

Once, twice, their lips and tongue met again until they lost count.

As their skin met, Zussman could feel Wildblood’s heartbeat, strong but unsteady, drumming against his chest. He wasn’t sure if the rhythm was Wildblood’s or his own—perhaps they had blurred into one.

Meanwhile, Wildblood’s grip tightened around Zussman’s waist, his calloused hands anchoring them both in the moment, as if he was afraid to let go. There was so much he wanted to say—how he had missed Zussman all these years, how he had fought to hold on to the thought of him, how not a single day had passed without Zussman haunting his mind.

But words felt insufficient. Nothing was never enough.

So, he let his action speak for it.

Wildblood's lips shifted, leaving Zussman’s mouth. It began to trail downward to explore the curve of his jaw and the expanse of his neck. Slowly, his kisses became hungrier, marking each inch as though reclaiming something lost.

God knows how long he had been holding himself back, starving for this closeness, craving to hold and whiff the person that held his heart dear.

As his lips kissed Zussman's neck, Wildblood let his nose brush against Zussman’s skin, taking in the scent he had memorized in a another time.

Albeit familiar, his scent was so different now.

The faint musk of tobacco from the smoke he probably had taken at work mingled between his geranium and cedarwood perfume—warm and earthy.

But beneath them, there was something else, something Wildblood couldn’t name but could only feel.

Something alive, something that wrapped around him like a warm blanket in the cold outdoor.

Like being alone in the wilderness, tucked in around the campfire after a glorious one-day adventure.

It was Zussman's scent, unmistakable.

Wildblood’s lips moved to Zussman’s collarbone, his kisses deepening as he allowed himself to take more, to mark Zussman in ways he hadn’t been able to before. This was no longer the frail, starved body he had feel in the labor camp five years ago.

Zussman let out a low, guttural sound as Wildblood’s teeth grazed his neck, a mix of pain and pleasure that sent shivers down his spine. He buried his face in Wildblood’s buzzed hair, inhaling deeply. The scent of Wildblood hadn’t changed much over the years—beneath the salty aroma from the sweat, he smelled the iron, leather, and sandalwood.

But now, the stench of misery and filth from the labor camp was gone. This time, there was only Wildblood. Only them.

And Zussman could clearly feel it as he took another whiff. Wildblood's iron scent, the aroma that's probably never going to leave him and carved forever in Zussman's mind.

He worked around irons almost his whole life; he started to smell like one. Zussman whispered in his mind.

“Hold tight,” Wildblood murmured against Zussman’s skin, his voice rough but steady.

Before Zussman could ask what he meant, Wildblood’s strong arms wrapped tightly around his thighs. With a single, low grunt of effort, Wildblood lifted Zussman and stood. The motion was seamless, and Zussman could only blink in surprise.

He wasn’t light, far from it, but Wildblood carried him as though it was nothing. Zussman’s arms instinctively tightened around Wildblood’s neck, his legs locking around Wildblood’s waist. He let out a breathless laugh, his lips brushing Wildblood’s ear.

“Show off,” Zussman whispered, a teasing edge to his voice, though the giggle that followed gave away his amusement.

Wildblood smirked, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that cocky, devil-may-care grin that Zussman hadn’t seen in years.

Hell, he hasn’t smiled like this in these past few months, Zussman thought.

Without a word, Wildblood adjusted his grip, his arms firmly wrapped around Zussman, and began walking toward the bedroom. He let out a grunt or two along the way, but Zussman's weight didn’t faze him. His body still carried the strength forged back in Europe—hauling boxes of ammunition, supplies, and sometimes even wounded comrades.

These days, that strength was trained naturally in the workshop, lifting heavy tools and working long hours.

As they reached the edge of the bed, Wildblood leaned down, then deliberately released Zussman from his hold. The spring's bouncing beneath his weight.

Zussman let himself sink into the mattress, his chest rising and falling, his breathing unsteady as if he were caught between exhaustion and exhilaration. The faint scent of linen mixed with the warm musk of the room.

His eyes landed on Wildblood's body.

There was something unreadable in his gaze—a mixture of gratitude, longing, and a vulnerability he rarely showed.

“Those burning scars…” Zussman’s voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper.

Wildblood froze, startled, then instinctively brought his left hand to cover the burn mark on his right abdomen. The burn had long since healed, but it permanently tainted his body as those skin would never heal like it used to.

Among all the scars etched across his body, this burn was the most striking. Some stitches and bullet wounds not even came close to it.

Wildblood’s jaw tightened, his muscles tensing as his gaze locked with Zussman’s body.

“You still remember,” Wildblood murmured, his voice raw, the words more statement than question. He hesitated before adding, “But this is nothing compared to what they did to you.”

Zussman knew exactly what Wildblood meant. The labor camp had left its story written in scars on his body—scars carved with cruelty, torture, and inhuman things Nazis could've done to a person.

“I know.” Zussman forced a wide smile, but there was sadness in his eyes, a bitterness he couldn’t hide. “Guess we can say goodbye to ever wearing speedos at the beach, eh?”

Wildblood could hear the attempt at humor, but he knew better. He could feel Zussman’s self-consciousness beneath those words. Without hesitation, Wildblood lowered himself, crawling above Zussman like a spider. His lips finding the scar on his left abdomen—one of many that marred Zussman’s skin.

"That's bullshit," Wildblood whispered, his breath warm against Zussman’s skin. “If anything, these make you look badass.”

Slowly, Wildblood kissed another scar, trailing like marking his territory.

“These tell stories, Robert." Wildblood kissed the scar on Zussman's abdomen, the one that he got on D-Day from a knife stab. "People—hell, even I—look at you and wonder, how are you still alive?"

Zussman grinned, let out a breath, this time tinged with something closer to amusement. "How are we still alive, Brick—"

Wildblood cut his words, "Cliff."

"What?" Zussman stopped, glancing at him.

"You asked me what I want, so I want you to call me "Cliff." Wildblood eyes met him, demanded. "Like you did this afternoon."

"I did?" Zussman looked confused but interested.

"Yeah." Wildblood persisted.

"You got it, Sergeant." Zussman smirked, knowing Wildblood hated to be called by his rank now. "Hey, we're getting somewhere. You talked."

"Fuck off, I can talk, Robert." Wildblood looked annoyed, but his lips then landed on Zussman's scars on his chest. "I'm not mute."

Zussman snorted softly, tilting his head to see the ceiling. "Sometimes I wasn't sure."

Wildblood’s lips brushed against Zussman’s chin, right over the faint, jagged scar just below his mouth—a stitch mark etched before the war. He knew that because sometimes he looked at them back when they were in First Platoon.

How could he never hear the story behind it?

“You’re one tough son of a bitch to kill." Wildblood smiled faintly as their eyes met. "Persistent, like a damn cockroach.”

"Look who's talking." Zussman grinned.

Wildblood pressed a quick but meaningful touch to Zussman’s lips before straightening up and crawling back to the edge of the bed. Then, his hands moved to the waistband of Zussman’s pants, fingers deft and careful.

Zussman arched his back slightly, raising his hips in silent consent, allowing Wildblood to slide the fabric down with ease.

Wildblood tossed Zussman's pant aside, then stood there for a moment, his breath caught in his throat.

The sight of Zussman—exposed and naked without a single strand—made his heart race. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, but he couldn’t look away.

Wildblood moved his hands to his own belt buckle. The metallic clink of the buckle filled the room as he let it loose. He loosened it and let his jeans slide to the floor. His eyes never left Zussman’s. Then, slowly, he tugged his underwear down and let it fall away.

Right now, every fiber of his being screamed to leap onto the bed, to claim the man before him, to drown himself in Zussman’s touch. But something held him back—a sudden, tight, suffocating knot. It wasn’t hesitation—it was fear.

Nervousness. Restlessness.

This was their first time. It was supposed to be perfect, but what if he messed it up?

What if I did something wrong? What if I’m too rough? What if he regrets this?

The image of Zussman passing out from fever earlier that afternoon flashed in his mind, and his chest tightened further.

What if I hurt him?

“Cliff?” Zussman’s voice broke through his spiral. "What's going on?"

"Your fever…" Wildblood’s concern flared, pulling him back to reality.

He reached out, pressing his palm to Zussman’s forehead. It wasn't as bad as this afternoon, but his body temperature was still too high.

“You’re burning up again,” Wildblood said, his voice tinged with worry. “The fever’s coming back. How do you feel?”

Zussman let out a weak chuckle, the corners of his lips curling upward. “I’m hot and smokin’, Cliff. Thanks for noticing.”

“This isn’t funny, Robert,” Wildblood said, frowning. “You’re—”

Before he could finish, Zussman reached up, swatting Wildblood’s hand away. He tugged Wildblood closer, their foreheads pressing together. The heat radiating from Zussman’s skin mirrored Wildblood’s own, their breaths mingling in the space between them.

“You’re burning up too,” Zussman murmured, his voice low, teasing.

“Mine isn’t fever,” Wildblood countered, the faintest blush creeping up his cheek.

“Then neither is mine,” Zussman shot back, a sly grin spreading across his face.

Wildblood couldn’t help but laugh softly, “You're unbelievable.”

"So, stop standing there like an idiot or worrying things." Zussman released his grip. "Come here, Sergeant"

Wildblood still nervous, but Zussman's touch just now gave him the courage he needed.

But those smile, the tone, and the way Zussman called him- Wildblood didn't know if he hated it, or he loved it.

"You're the worst…" Wildblood felt a little bit upset, but he grinned.

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To be continued

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