From a plane’s perspective MG nests look like anthills and trenches like paths trodden by wandering prey. When you cradle his body in your arms he moans and whispers your name as if you were his sweetheart back home. You feel warm between your legs and wet from that dark red soup of his bile and blood.
Tag: ficathon fill
Holy Communion
“It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t cry, I want you to do this, I do, I’m of no use anymore anyway, no, no, don’t cry, please don’t cry,” said the officer in the low voice one used to calm a scared pet and he grabbed the kneeling boy’s trembling hands and he pulled him closer so the boy had to bend over like a praying man until the tip of the officer’s bayonet that the boy held with both hands touched the narrow slit of throat between the officer’s jawline and the place where his iron cross rested on black cloth. “This is my body, which is for you; do this in memory of me”, he said and smiled and he raised his body from his resting place to embrace the boy. The blade went through his skin and into his jugular and he still smiled when the boys cut the flesh off his bones and filled their stomachs with his bread and his wine.
*silently chanting* Mengele, Mengele, Mengele. More of Mengele getting dominated, please I would die for it!!
Perhaps you thought
I would wear high heels to step on your face – dig the heel deep
into your cheek, put enough weight on it so I’d do
considerable damage, but I’m feeling merciful today. My heavy boots
are pressing down on you much more leniently, they won’t take
an eye out or pierce skin, in the worst case they may split your lip
or crush your nasal bone but nothing worse than that. And you do
deserve it, don’t you, you whimpering pathetic piece of shit, you
know it and you like it too, just look at how you’re panting, how greedy you stick out
your tongue to lap at the dead animal skin of my shoe.
Criminal.
“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?
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.
Bunker Archives 