A quick and dirty bit of Bruno/Hermann smut set during the high flying days of the Great War

It’s dark and Hermann can’t see anyway since rolling over in his sleep he’s managed to make a rather good blindfold of his pillow. His lashes scratch against the linen as he blinks awake to a cool, firm line of pressure pressing against the nape of his neck and a familiar weight straddling his back, knees cleverly settled past his hips.

“Bruno?” Pillow muffling the name.

He tosses his head to the side with some effort. Straining, he can just about make out what Bruno is holding against his neck; the end of the blackthorn Geschwaderstock protruding from one of his fists. Behind that, out of focus and half stuffed between the bed and the wall, the balding teddy bear he’s kept since their days flying tandem in the Albatros is watching the scene from button eyes.

“Keep still!” Bruno’s voice is a hiss, the words delivered through his teeth.

His right cheek pressed to the bed, he listens to the sound of Bruno’s breath as he leans in close over him – the buttons of his uniform aligning with the vertebrae of his spine.

“I saw the state of your machine today, it’s more hole than plane,” Bruno says. “You should have a care.”

There’s a promise in the reprimand that makes Hermann’s cock twitch. He thinks of telling Bruno how magnificent it had been, coming down hard with his engine shot to pieces. At the moment of impact his eyes had been open, body braced, he had taken it perfectly – no change in his colour, no trembling limbs or voice. The memory of it swells his pride and that’s not all.  

“They won’t keep this one off my tally that’s all I have to say.”

“How far over the line were you?” Bruno draws the stick down his back.

“I’m not hanging around to take pot-shots at supply trucks.”

He says it with a grin wide enough to pierce the gloom. The stick stops suddenly at the small of his back and  Bruno raps it across his shoulder blades. Hermann tries not to squirm, despite the fact that the mattress is making a worse ache of his cock which pushes stiffly at the unyielding surface.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t land him breathing,” Bruno says. “I heard your last pet Tommy was shipped off last week.”

There’s no humour in the cool, colourless tone of Bruno’s voice. He had not appreciated Hermann’s bedside manner with the English Captain.

“I don’t want a pet, I want a fucking medal.”

What he gets instead is a knee nudging at the inside of his thigh and the rough feel of Bruno’s trousers sending a shiver through him as his legs are splayed apart. The neat sound of spitting and the self-assured rub of Bruno’s thumb down the cleft of his arse.

He growls at the first feel of Bruno’s cock, its head smooth and hot between his cheeks. Hands grip his hips, the embrace bitingly tight. The pressure is precise, and painful. He hears the fierce sound of Bruno’s breathing, underscoring the struggle. Then a groan of pure pleasure from the pair of them as Bruno slides in, packing him with heat and hardness.

“Take more care,” says Bruno into his ear, hips pressed flat against him. “They’re expensive machines you realize.”

Hermann laughs a breathless laugh and pushes back and pulls away and fucks himself on Bruno’s cock and almost laughs again when Bruno curses him for being shameless, sucking at the inside of his own mouth, sinking his teeth there until he tastes blood.