“My client was
only following orders,” the lawyer says next to him while he’s
trying to stare into the void between the judges, not thinking of
faces and faces and countless faces and bodies and bodies and
countless bodies but just keeping his mind blank: he was only
following orders.There are enough
fairy tales floating around that people are only too happy to believe
– if I hadn’t done it, they’d killed me too, is one of the most
useful, because the alternative (that no one had to force them to do
it, that it is simply what people do for ideology and a pay-check,
that people can so easily become butchers of their own kind) is too
terrible to accept, isn’t it?The thing is, his lawyer told him he
hasn’t be too nervous about the matter anyway, regardless of those
excuses, there’s no legal precedent for genocide and murder, murder
has to be proven, motive and all, for a particular case, and who can
testify to anything he did to this or that person when all witnesses
have been turned to ashes and dust?
Tag: fic
Waking up slightly hungover
Jochen woke up with a headache and a sore throat, feeling sore too, worn out and sticky like waking up from a feverish night, clothing torn from his body in a sick frenzy that he could not recall, but it came to him slowly, first behind closed eyes: vague shapes, moments and words, the voice of a trickster, good boy, a tickle down his spine, rough hands, hate, his pungent lust and how much of a good boy he had wanted to be. When he opened his eyes he found himself stark naked, wedged between Meyer and Wünsche. He managed to crawl out of their arms without waking them up and stumbled to the bathroom where he threw up in the sink; it didn’t erase the memory of what he had let them do to him but it burned pleasantly.
playing so rough with your toy you break it
They dragged the girl out from under a half-collapsed table in a place that had once been a kitchen with good china and expensive silverware and was now bombed into a pile of rubble cooped up by the toothlike remains of its walls. She had lain still and played dead, quiet like a fawn, and they had only found her because a nice auntie had pointed them to where she was hiding in exchange for her own skin. They thought the little thing was a boy at first, as she was dressed in a tattered boy’s uniform, with dirt in her face and her long braids hidden under a military type cap, but when they ripped the clothing off her body she cried like a girl and they took her like a woman, each man tearing her a little more until their little toy broke and they threw it away where they had found it.
someone is having cake (and it’s not Göring for a change)
Walter images he’s back in the cosy little cafe he was sitting in that morning, watch ticking at his wrist, taking time away as he waits for his contact to arrive and dwindling hope they’ll bring something tasty enough to feed to Heydrich – the kind of intelligence that would light a fire under his superior and lead to a late night at the office rather than this; drinks and dancing girls and Heydrich’s displeasure as the clock hand moves past midnight and it’s just the two of them left alone.
They had a cabinet full of cakes and pastries in that cafe, pretty, delicious looking things and if he tries his best he can occupy up his mind with a craving for that: the sugar rush, the double hit of sweet and fat, his mouth filled with the sticky cloy of treacle soaked sponge, soft palate syruped, thick coating the back of his throat – a pleasant way to be stuffed, he could have ordered the lot, his mouth’s not been this full since –
“Fuck, Schellenberg, you’re greedier than a whore,” Heydrich huffs above him. “Keep still…your tongue, let me feel….yes….now give me your throat…”
Werner Mölders/Erich Hartmann — because Vati and Bubi are perfect for each other :3
An expert hand, mapping a purposeful route, leaves Hartmann’s face (polka dot scarf stuffed between his teeth, it’s a kindness so that Mölders won’t have to tell him to hush over and over, patient but firm) and the traces of tears around his eyes sprung from staring so wide and unblinking and intent with a fierce resolve to be a good boy, for his chest, stroking and pinching, twisting until his nipples are stiff for licking, for a wet, hot tongue that nearly distracts him from the two hands that have reached his hips and are holding him there, the feel of their fingers so knowing, raising the ghosts of old bruises deep beneath his skin.
Mölders touch inspects the landing sites of more recent bruise too, the dents and dark patches from some knock about or another, his face serious and the kisses he presses there almost chaste before his tongue runs out again, pleased reward for a proud verdict like the way he rifles his hand through Hartmann’s hair and smiles down at him and calls him something rather miraculous.
His tongue pushes against the knot of fabric in his mouth, impossible to stopper up the muffled groan of Vati as heat drives up him, lifts his hips from the bed and lays him open.
daemon AU
Everyone busies themselves with stirring their coffee and steadfastly avoiding the slightest glance toward the corner of the room where Ursula (Hermann’s dæmon: a plump, sleek-furred raccoon with a magisterial, entitled strut to her pawsteps that more than match Göring
himself) has given one final, determined wriggle of her rear end before pouncing on the fluttering form of Goebbels’ dæmon Aello, clasping the tiny sparrow between her clever, greedy hands.
Someone coughs and tries to draw the conversation onto some boisterous subject that will make it easier for them all to politely ignore how Goebbels’ stream of chatter has clattered to a sudden halt; to pretend that they don’t see the flush of pink painted across his face or notice the smug, lazy smile that’s spread across
Göring’s and certainly they’re all too preoccupied to pick up on the subtle sound of a soft raccoon tongue lapping away at a bundle of paralysed feathers.
No one dares to challenge Göring‘s behaviour in his own kingdom and afterwards, if it is mentioned at all, it will be with a vague air and an appeal to eccentricity and a shared unspoken agreement there was no choked off whimper from the little doctor when Ursula had clambered into Hermann’s lap, allowed him pluck the trembling sparrow from her jaws and enclose it in his heavy fist.
biting
Röhm’s favourite
pub is an aggressive punch to Hermann’s senses and perhaps it’s that,
the dark buzz murmuring through the bittersweet air, black tables
sticky with a varnish of stale beer and shoulder jostling against
shoulder, that his nose is attuned at once to the story Ernst is
telling him, while Goebbels is at the bar grinning from ear to ear
and patting the entourage of SA lads surrounding him on the back –(a story that
unwinds as thus: Goebbels ambling up, all pensive frown and
exaggerated concern, informing Röhm very solemnly he has it on good
authority that Röhrbein is a homosexual – a
fact he seems eager to make clear is complete news to him and well
what would he know
about that sort of thing anyway)–
Röhm’s knowing smirk as he watches Goebbels too and Hermann’s
nostrils flare as a dozen scraps of whispered rumour settle into
place and the view of little Joseph beaming there, such obvious
prey amongst a pack of predators, ignites a fire in his belly; easily
sparked from the cocktail of drugs coursing through his system and
months of stoking glances at a dainty neck and elegant wrists.Naturally
Goebbels tries to protest when he corners him in the bathroom,
latching the door behind him (though a significant glance at a good,
loyal boy standing outside is enough to guarantee no disturbances)
but Hermann has no doubt now to what degree the whore has been
spreading his legs and tells Goebbels just as much as he throws him
down on the tiled floor and fights him out of his trousers; pushes
into him, deep, in a single brutal stroke, leans down to use his
mouth on the stretch of neck being offered up to him, thrusting as he
does it, working up to a swift rhythm, fucking him with such bruising
force that Goebbels’ slight body slides a hand’s span on the tiled
floor each time he slams into him.Snapped
buttons from Goebbels’ collar rattle on the floor, Hermann rips his
shirt to the side to bite again, harder, one animal holding another
in place
– Goebbels’ spare sounds of pain echo off the walls but the way his
body arches seems to be making a present of itself and Hermann’s
hunger to press his teeth into his flesh is more immediate even than
the need to keep squeezing his cock into the exquisitely tight clench
of his arse, so he stays there buried to the hilt, savaging him while
Goebbels’ hands clutch at his lapels and he trembles and keens like
something brought down in the forest.
exhaustion
After three days sustained only by coffee, chocolate and pervitin my dear Standartenführer collapsed right where he was standing, one moment in conversation about strategy with a younger officer, the next his body just dropped like a marionette with its strings cut and his pretty face slapped on the frozen ground and it split his lip open, which I very much blamed on me and my poor reflexes as I was so close that I had nearly caught him mid fall but only nearly. With the assistance of that officer I carried him to the nearest abandoned house, where we laid him down on some straw and I alone watched over him like a keen guard dog remembering all the times he had patted me on the head just like one. And like a good pet I kept restraint for a good hour but when he awoke from his deathlike sleep to one less deep, shaken by dreams and murmurs and occasional moments of clarity, where he called out to me with a husky voice dripping with need, and when he twisted on his bedding like a diseased harlot and tried to tear off his uniform as if the warmth it provided was a great burden for his weak flesh, I could not hold myself back any longer, so finally, greedily, I gave his emaciated body some release, which he thanked me for with fluttering eyelids and soft sighs.
sharing body warmth
It was cold outside, not Moscow cold, or Siberia cold but Aachen cold, which was still cold enough when you slept out at night and had only the clothing on your body (a Landser uniform, worn and probably died in before, the holes fixed again, the whole assemble still too big for his teenage body, shoes reappropriated from the corpse of an American found by the side of the road and earmuffs from his mother stuffed under his cap because it too was too big anyway). When he was lucky they found not just a hole in the ground, a crater or a trench, but an abandoned home or at least a barn – no fire of course, so they had only each other for warmth. Each man or not quite man picked himself a mate for the night to share a blanket with and that wasn’t all that bad, not the worst of the war, more like a sliver of home found in the close embrace and sometimes, he didn’t mind, also in hot breath on his neck and fumbling hands.
Göring’s unnaturally huge and meaty cock.
You came through the corridors of
Carinhall as the moonlight struck silver on a cluttered succession of
gilt frames, the last a painting of Andromeda chained to her rock on
the coast (oils describing the thick, twisting body of a sea serpent
rising out of the foam, it’s neck corded, glistening, bent toward
her) and you think this bed may as well be a shoreline; you cannot
move from beneath Göring’s piercing regard, the bulk of him casting
a vast shadow over your naked bodystronger than any sort of chain, the rumours echoing in your mind and leading your breathless, apprehensive gaze to fix on the knot
holding his robe togetherHe unveils himself and apprehension
shifts to panic, awe, a tremble zippering down your spine to the
insides of your thighs as he shifts them apart with ease and rears up
between them – his cock jutting up utterly, unnaturally massive;
that broad, broad head peeking from pink folds of foreskin and
gleaming wetly for you, the shaft bulging even wider below it, so
thick you hear yourself whimper at the thought of what it could do to
you…what it will do to you
as you lie crushed helplessly under his heavy flesh.You
want to be the willing sacrifice and worship him, follow the slide of
his fist up his erection (even his own fingers unable to meet all
the way to the tip), the hot throbbing ridge of the vein along the
underside, your lips parting without thought at the sight of clear
fluid glassing his head – but he would prefer a slow, implacable
impalement of your quivering body, pushing inside you inch after inch
as your thighs grow clammy with a sweat and shake from bearing such
appalling pressure, until you’re at full stretch and the pain is
devouring your from within, eating up until it clamps down on your
throat and you can only silently mouth please over
and over.
Bunker Archives 