Rusger Oneshots

Sick

Hello everyone it has been a while!!! :'DD

The fourth oneshot of this series is FINALLY DONE This one has been by far the hardest and most difficult one to write it was stubborn refused to cooperate but I love it nontheless because it's angst nyehehe

Thank you to everyone who has patiently waited, I love you all to the bottom of my heart🥹❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Little update about me if anyone was wondering(You may skip if you wish) I just finished my semester, started an internship, am working myself to the bone! It's not all bad, but I do feel sad not being able to write as well anymore, especially since it's technically my semester break, but I chose to do this internship so I have only myself to blame alas-

I ALSO watched Arcane league of legends and everyday I have to hold back the urge to ramble about how good it is and how it's changing my brain chemistry to people I barely know to not seem insane :DD

How will I ever top the Jayvik scene at the end😭😭 that's peak romance, nothing I write will ever beat that (Creativity isn't a competition it's a journey that we all embark on in different separate ways... but still) Their bond is beyond platonic or romantic their SOULMATES AND OUGHHH DO I LOVE SOULMATES I want to study them in a cage-

I can only pray to the creativity gods to let me finish this series by this year... especially since the ideas I've made for Beloved especially involves a New-Year/ Christmas party celebration so I WISH to finish it on a timely schedule

Again, I'm sorry this took so long!!! I will be explaining a bit more about this oneshot below, but for now, I hope you enjoy reading it!

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Most of his memories from the worst day of his life were repressed, locked deep into the darkest parts of his mind. He'd bring them out for therapy in the past, but in the end, he always found that the safest place for them to exist was at the very depths of his being.

He had come to terms with the reality of it, the events that happened that day. The defeat of the Third Reich. The death of his father. But the emotions, raw and volatile, of a eleven-year-old boy, were still dangerous. Scary. He didn't want to hurt anyone he held dear. 

He hated himself for ever feeling that way, so much hatred and violence, the rage and blind loyalty to a cause he thought he knew. Russia told him he understood, he told him he'd love him no matter what.

Germany believed him, but he didn't think he'd ever fully understand. Because no matter how much he'd tried to push back against those memories, to live his new life unaffected, one thing always managed to slip through the cracks, staining his grown, present self. Fear, a phobia, a fear of closed spaces. 

A reminder of the worst day of his life.

Most days, he could keep it at bay. He could breathe through the fear, picture himself elsewhere. Ask Russia for comfort, if it got bad. He was grown now, had control over himself now.

He still had trouble with actual, caged in situations though. Cars and planes were somehow fine, but taking the elevator, boxed within four steel walls held by cables, made his knees go weak. His office were on the fifth floor of EU headquarters, meaning 10 seconds in a one-way trip. He'd learned to manage that, but he was still used to taking the stairs when it got busy though.

The lack of fresh air, the confines, the feeling of walls closing in around him, squeezing against him, was the source of the fear. It reminded him of that safe, an ugly shade of grey, emptied hastily, his desperate and sole haven from being discovered by British soldiers.