He should have
noticed earlier perhaps but he’s so used to being the centre of
attention (and he’s so keen on it too) it felt like Udet was only
paying him the respect he was due; but then one night, after perhaps
one drink too many the way he stares at him becomes so blatant even Hermann can’t
interpret it as anything else than the moonstruck longing of a
lovesick puppy. And just as it
begins to dawn on him what is going on, Udet finally plucks up the courage to
lean in and press his lips to Hermann’s mouth, only briefly, hardly
more than a dry bashful peck but it makes his intentions abundantly
clear and for a moment Hermann considers this, considers him: the
bright eyes and pert nose and expressive mouth, the line of it more
tempting than he would have thought, or perhaps it’s only that now that he knows what’s on
offer it’s become irresistible and he doesn’t think twice but reaches out to cup
Ernst’s jaw in his hand and pull him forwards into a proper kiss, and
Ernst can’t believe his luck for a second, he stares at Hermann
incredulously but then, once the moment of shock has passed, he opens
his mouth only to eagerly for Hermann’s curious lips and lets himself
be thoroughly kissed. He sighs when Hermann pushes his tongue into
his mouth and slides it along his, wetly, hungrily, and soon he’s
clutching at the lapels of Hermann’s uniform jacket, clutching at him
as if his life depended on it, holding fast, and kisses him back like
a drowning man gasping for air.The
quick, hot, panting catch of their shared breath make the air of the
room thrum around them, it seems as though he merely blinks and Ernst
has already clambered fully onto his lap, his urgent, eager little
hands pawing with clumsy enthusiasm all over him (he pushes his palm
so roughly down Hermann’s chest he catches his finger on the sharp edge
of a medal and yelps in wounded surprise before almost instantly
forgetting the small hurt) as he presses his whole little body so
hungrily into each kiss that they teeter for a moment and then
Hermann finds himself on his back, Ernst staring down on top of him
with wide eyes. He looks a trifle dazed, like a dreamer who finds
himself suddenly awake, but Hermann grins and digs his fingers into
the nape of Ernst’s neck and yanks him back down into the kiss while
his other hand works between the squeeze of their two bodies and with
blind determination into the front of Ernst’s trousers, whose tongue
stills in his mouth as he gasps and when Hermann murmurs for him to,
take
them off, the
gasp stutters into a boyish whimper.Ernst’s nods with such rapid
little bobs of his head it might have been amusing in other
circumstances, now it just makes Hermann’s hips twitch up against the
warm body weighing them down as Ernst fumbles with his trousers and
then, a moment of hesitation and Hermann can see the way his friend
has sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, the shuddering intake of
breath, but he’s no patience to wait and puts his own hands over
Ernst’s and tugs the waistband down around his thighs – Ernst’s
cock springs up against his belly at once, stiff as anything, such a
sweet little thing (and it is
little, just as compact as Ernst himself, short and pink and slender,
his balls in perfect proportion and pulled so tight to his body they
hardly seem to hang at all) that Hermann can’t help running his
tongue over his mouth at the sight, but it’s only when he curses,
fuck,
that’s nice,
that he hears Ernst exhale above him in relief and looks up to see a
wide, bashful smile blooming on Ernst’s face before he’s being
dive bombed with kisses once again.
Otto Skorzeny is the tol bean in this fandom! Prove it!
He’s a clever one, he knows his life is on the line; like treading between sleeping snakes his words and movements are slow, only his eyes dart left and right, batting eyelashes at every interrogator, guard or nurse – strange to see such a huge man act like just a little boy.
When you first put the collar on him he smiled shyly, his lips brushed gently against your hand, planting docile little kisses on the back of it.
Today he’s been a very good boy and he deserves his treat, you call him over with a pat on your leg and he comes crawling to your feet, a beautiful fighting dog, thick with muscles, but so very nervous and there is no reason to be nervous, you have always been kind to him, you pet and stroke him and run your fingernails along his scalp and again you grab him by the hair and pull his face between your thighs and make him taste you.
prideful POWs (brought low)
Hans was a handsome, manly kind of guy, a bit of a Siegfried maybe, tall and strong with pink scars on his chest, speckles like paint drops, and a nose like an eagle’s beak, always held high, glaring down at me with steely eyes when I made him mop piss off the floor or clean out the shit house and it was that haughty look that made me want to fuck him.
I knew if I got him alone he’d be fighting me off and he hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks but he’d still win and then he’d be punished, send to the dark cell or the hot cell or the gallows, but I wouldn’t get to fuck him, so I got myself another friend – a yappy, strong fellow by the name of John – and each of us got a knife and we cornered Hans in his cell and I was straight with him, telling him I wanted to fuck him and such, and that came as quite a shock to him, he stammered that wasn’t what he was and then that it wasn’t what he wanted to be, which sounded like quite a different story to me, but we weren’t patient with him, weren’t waiting for him to come to terms with it, I just told him we’d rape him if he didn’t comply, then I beat him and John beat him too and I put the knife to his throat and to his eyes, and that did the trick, when I ordered him to strip, to turn around, to spread his legs and put his hands on the wall he actually did it.
I greased myself up and told him to grease his own hole, fuck himself a bit since he’d never been penetrated and he did that too, and then I went in very gently and very slowly stretched his tight asshole open, he was a virgin no doubt, he groaned and moaned and wouldn’t stop saying that it hurt, sometimes in one language and then the other, and I had no doubt that it did, the way he was clenching around my dick and I even pulled out a bit, fucked him only with shallow thrusts, I wanted this to be our thing, something I could do to him again, maybe eventually he’d like it too – but this was a joint venture, John wanted his turn and he got it before I finished myself (it’s hard to get off when you’re getting your dick squeezed off), I had to let him have his go and he didn’t hold back, he fucked Hans like some loose hand-me-down and Hans didn’t moan no more, my dear friend got so carried away, I had to tell him to slow down, I didn’t want him to break poor Hans – well, he didn’t break him, just broke him in a bit and made him wet for me; we took turns fucking him to the end of our shift and he was rather tame to me afterwards, once you’ve allowed someone to fuck your ass that’s just kind of what you do, you don’t get to change your mind.
bonding over music
Perhaps you’re the last port in the
storm, it could explain the surreal act of Wünsche
sitting down heavily beside you and resting his head on your shoulder
as though you’re part of the architecture or like he doesn’t
remember the way his lips pulled back from his teeth and his brows
drew together the last time he saw you and he spat a warning before
his friends tugged him away from
your incipient brawl, now his beery breath is huffing hot on your
neck and he pats you on the knee
like he’s banging a drum and starts mumbling with a slurred tongue:“I
can still hear them singing, and the
lad who wrote that, Horst, I think he had…I think, I don’t know,
well no education in music, or maybe he went to university, yes, he
did study somewhere but, I forget, but he was a construction worker, a fucking fighter, he puts bricks and stuff together, used his hands, right, and, and stood on those fucking streets and there, somewhere in some fucking Red cunt’s house, he had a room and he sat
there and composed that song and anyway, my point is….(Wünsche’s
lips are slurring the words against your neck and you wonder if he
has a point or if he’s just been pouring over copies of Der
Angriff as he vibrates on Pervitin and pilfered schnapps)“…Peiper
when you hear it, when you sing it, don’t you think, isn’t it just, isn’t
it just, at the heart of everything, the anthem of our great,
glorious nation, and could you sign your name to Versailles while
listening to it, or any, any other treaty, no matter what, no matter where
we are now, I don’t think you could, I don’t think it’s possible,
and that should really resonate with the motherfuckers who have
robbed, cheated, and abused this great country, we deserve better, we
deserve better…”His
knuckles have gone white where they’re tugging at your collar,
wanting to bring your mouth into consonance into his, begging for the
union of shared breath and touch since you’re sticking to your
silence over his little rant – at last you pluck out a cigarettes
from your case and put it to his lips and he sucks on that as you
press a brief kiss to his temple and let a light spark for him to
draw from.
neither the time nor the place
Göring
has a preference for swiftly turning matters from the theoretical to
the practical and from the imagined to the physical and if Goebbels
desperately attempts to preoccupy himself with thinking of it in such
bloodless terms (it would beGöring’s hand beneath the conference
table, slipping from Goebbels’ knee, up the in-seam of his trousers
and cupping him firmly between the legs as he leans toward him as
though in deep and pensive conversation) he can almost keep his
expression blank; while his hand makes a stiff, damp fist around his
pen and the heat in his lap swells with instant, throbbing urgency
and the quiet voices of the other men in the room seem to recede even
further behind the roar of his own heartbeat.“Naturally
that’s all it takes, even here,”Göring
murmurs and clucks
his tongue softly as he gives one final squeeze and Goebbels feels
lobotomised, unable to focus on the papers before him, on anything
besides his own erection, paying no heed to whatGöring
is scrawling
down until the note is slid in front of him and Hermann raps upon it
with his knuckle; Goebbels feels the fat beads of wetness welling at
the tip of his cock, threatening to spill past his foreskin as he
sits, jaw clamped, letting the instructions printed there sink in –
excuse yourself to the bathroom and take care of that, you filthy
little beast, quickly – and don’t think of
neglecting to lick it all up once you’re done.Five
minutes later he has his wrist in his mouth and his sweat-slick hand
moving in a blur up and down his jutting red cock as he sits on the
latrine, eyes screwed shut as if he could hide from the utter
indignity of his frantic tugging, a flush prickling his skin from head
to foot, his toes making the cotton of his socks squeak as they curl
in his shoes, knowing what it makes him that he did not refuse this
and worse, how that knowledge pulls the shuddering knot of arousal
so deep and ferocious in his belly it hardly takes a minute for him
to spill in violent spurts over his shaking, salted palm, helpless against the need to wallow in his own shame and imagining all eyes on
him as he returns, somehow knowing – though hardly a head is
raised when he enters, onlyGöring
smirks and moves the water
bottle aside when he reaches for it, sniffing the air a little before
telling him, well done, so that Goebbels spends the rest of
the meeting with his hand pressed ‘thoughtfully’ over his mouth.
Kurt Meyer pegging!!!! (Maybe he holds a little educational speech for the lads about the pleasures of taking it up the arse)
The young lad’s heart beats a little faster when his commander’s drunken stagger leads him to that very campfire that the lad is sitting at all alone and he can’t believe his luck when Kurt smiles like a cheshire cat and sits down next to the lad, so close that they are rubbing thighs when Kurt stretches himself and spreads his legs with the satisfied groan of an old man after a long day of work (the lad’s heart makes another jump), and even closer then when he puts an arm around the lad’s neck and pulls him in as if they were not strangers but long-time comrades. “Boy,” he says, “you look like a virgin and that’s a shame,” the boy becomes as red as a tomato, “Listen to this old man, when all of this is over and you’re back home and you find yourself a nice young lady, before you marry the sweet thing you make sure she knows how to treat you right – some girls, nice as they may seem, some girls only think of themselves, but men have needs too, it’s not always about making her feel good, sometimes you just gotta – I see you don’t follow, what I’m talking about is this,” he pats the lad on the rump, “Yes, that’s right, I mean taking it up the arse – nice arse by the way, has anyone ever told you that?” The lad hastily shakes his head as if he was warding off more than just that question and he feels the need to protest something or if he doesn’t have the balls to do so with the goddamn Panzermeyer himself breathing three different flavours of booze on his forehead (he most definitely does not have the balls) at least he needs to find some excuse to escape his commander’s well-meant advice, but Kurt interrupts him before the lad can embarrass himself: “I tell you there is nothing wrong, nothing at all, with a good wife making sweet love to her man and love comes in so many forms, like when I’m wearing her lingerie and she’s ramming my guts til I’m pissing spunk, that’s a real man’s kind of pleasure.”
his body was a playground for the nazi elite
He preferred cold bathroom tiles to the soft comfort of a bedroom, the smell of piss in his nose and water soaking his breeches, or to be entirely naked and on all fours like a pig wallowing in filth. He could think himself as merely a thing to be used by better men than he was and there was no shame in that, suffering ennobles. Yet he hid his face in his hands and bit his palms, because he couldn’t help but whimper like just a thing should not.
Feet kink with Himmler
Jochen came to enjoy their private time in the office, when he sat in Himmler’s chair and Himmler himself was kneeling at his feet, kneeling not like in prayer but like a small animal with the limbs drawn to his body, running his stubby little fingers over his adjutant’s feet, following the veins with his fingertips as if admiring the lifelike details of a marble statue, and smiling up at him with the desperately submissive smile of a wandering salesman begging for alms. If Jochen allowed it he placed wet kisses on his feet and on his toes and he pressed his tongue between them humming with delight at the salty taste of sweat. He was a nasty little worm of a man and he liked hearing that from Jochen’s mouth, his eyes then became just a bit more bug like behind the glasses as he eagerly agreed, calling himself pathetic and vile and calling Jochen such a good boy while hoping the good boy would spit on him or worse.
Himmler being sickened by the reality of his genocide
On the first visit to the camp they gift Himmler flowers and paintings the little ones have made for him, delivered by a shy little girl with long black braids; when he pats her on the head he thinks he hears his adjutant scoff and maybe that has egged him on, maybe he really wanted to see the inner workings of his creation or maybe he did just get lost by pure chance. It is a bit of a surprise how few walls and fences stand between that sunny path with the little girl and bleak, stinking misery, the sight of the prisoners that hits him like a wall, the disgust welling in his stomach forcing him to his knees throwing up half digested coffee and cake. His adjutant drags him up by the elbow and there is no expression on his face when Himmler turns to him head shaking, mumbling apologetically that it was not how he meant it to be, but when he hands Himmler a handkerchief and wordlessly turns away there is undoubtedly a sneering smile on his lips.
Anything with von Stauffenberg pls
Alcohol made him hopelessly romantic like he used to be when he was young and wrote poems about death in the margins of his notebooks and the old man, the poet, called him a knight and a hero with words like honey, dripping into the deepest pool of his soul, and no amount of growing up could ever sift it clean. The poet had instilled in him other urges too, urges that he usually knew well to keep to himself, and it wasn’t hard now that the war provided ample discomfort to keep him entertained, but that French wine, it was too much for his weak heart, wine like that could only make you soppy and servile. And the way Rommel looked at him, with such horrible stern kindness, he couldn’t keep himself from kneeling, finger kissing, tears welling, begging with his eyes and with his tongue, more dog than knight when he licked the desert’s dust off the man’s fingers, whispering Erwin and please until Rommel reluctantly gave him what he wanted.
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