Tag: joseph goebbels

Brunch

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[This is another version of this scene, which was based on a previous unfinished version of the fic you’re looking at right now. Both of which were based on an older unavailable fic. The starting premise is basically that the Görings invited Goebbels to spend Christmas Eve with them, he was thoroughly seduced and Bruno Loerzer arrived in the morning to join in the fun. Hence the perhaps otherwise confusing title.This fic is not so much fun for Goebbels as terribly cruel, so please avoid if you know that’s not for you.]

Goebbels
is rinsing their breakfast dishes in the kitchen sink at Carin’s
behest, his mind unfamiliarly
becalmed as he watches water pour into the body of the porcelain cup
in his hand. He has to keep rolling the sleeves of Göring’s robe
back up around his elbows every few minutes to stop the cuffs from
falling past his fingertips and into the stream; far too loose on him
to stay put for long, his forearms are already uncomfortably damp.
The action is mechanical and he’s so transfixed by the action of the
clear water spilling continuously over the lip of the
teacup as it overflows that the reflection of movement in the kitchen
window, a sudden shadow in the periphery  of his vision, startles him
enough to jump.

Bruno
Loerzer standing in the doorway, filling it up rather, arms folded
across his broad chest. Goebbels exhales audibly, his heart pit pattering
away. Is Loerzer smiling? His eyes are hard but there’s a faint
crease at the corner of his mouth.

“Is
there-”

Loerzer
cuts him off. “Come with me.”

Goebbels
places the cup carefully down into the basin and lays his palms on
the edge of the counter, leaning his weight against it, hesitating.
He wipes his wet hands across the front of the gown, shivers
slightly, turns off the tap and then dries his hands again.  Behind
him, Loerzer snaps his fingers twice and then whistles sharply as
though calling a dog.

Limping
half a step behind Loerzer, he follows him out of the kitchen and
down the hall, expecting to be led back to Hermann and Carin but
Loerzer doesn’t slow as he passes the room. Goebbels falters,
touching the door frame, his thumbnail digging into the soft wood as
he stares at Carin and Hermann nestled on the couch like two turtle
doves. Leafing through a photo album, Carin is smiling fondly down at
the book shared between their laps while Herman seems more
preoccupied with his regard of her.

There’s
a brisk yank on the collar of his gown.

“Don’t
dawdle,” Bruno snaps.

Hermann’s
gaze flicks over to them for a moment and Goebbels opens his mouth,
brow furrowed with a question he isn’t sure how to articulate,
stricken with the horror of his words failing him even as the
opportunity vanishes in a blink and Hermann’s attention has already
passed back to Carin and Loerzer is tugging him bodily away from the
doorway with enough careless force that he catches his foot on his
calf and almost stumbles to the floor.

The
bedroom Loerzer frog marches him into is not the master suite he’s so
recently become familiar with. It’s comparatively plain, neat and
decorated with the impersonal neutrality of a room intended for
guests. The winter sun is pushing through the weave of the curtains,
spaces where the light outside creeps in. Goebbels feels a chill run
through him and rubs the toe of his good foot against the back of his
heel. The austerity of Loerzer’s expression is no comfort. Reality is
pressing in uncomfortably from all quarters.

“Take
that off,” Loerzer says, nodding at the robe.

Goebbels
wraps his arms tight around himself, cringing from a wan sensation of
disgust, wishing he were properly dressed. Alone here, without
Hermann or Carin, he feels snapped out of some temporary madness,
left floundering in his bare feet with his uncooperative tongue and
the suddenly appalling thought of what Loerzer has brought him to
this bed for.

He
casts about his mind for something; a delay, a retort, a weapon.

“Göring
told me about how you both…” Goebbels pauses meaningfully.
“During the war.”

“Hermann
telling war stories?” Loerzer replies, his gaze not shifting from
where it’s fixed stonily on the belt of the robe still tied fast
around Goebbels’ middle. “Is that something to remark upon?”

“I
think it was quite remarkable.”

He
barbs his intonation like a threat, but he can’t disarm the looming
truth that it is all far too late for such tactics. He looks at
Loerzer’s hands, large and broad knuckled, what fists they would
make! The idea sends a fierce prickle of adrenaline through him,
familiar thistles under his skin like the heady flush from creating
the nascent instigation for some bloody, joyous street bawl; except
that here he is not the conductor.

“I’m
sure he was very colourful,” Loerzer says. “Get undressed.”

“The
two of you, against your machine.”

“Is
that what he told you?”

The
amusement in Loerzer’s voice engenders a worm of uncertainty to begin
nibbling at him. It must have shown on his face because Loerzer gives
a scoffing huff, shaking his head. Goebbels glowers, mouth a long,
straight line turned down deep at each corner.

“It’s
the truth,” he reaffirms. “I know a lie when I hear one.”

The
only thing to do in the face of doubt is to assert your position with
even greater confidence than if you were sure, he thinks. He manages
not to shrink backwards as Loerzer steps closer, filling his chest
with a deep gulp of air as if it will help root him to the spot.

“Do
you have a point you’re trying to make, boy?” Loerzer squints down
at him.

The
epithet slithers down Goebbels’ spine and before he can answer
Loerzer has a handful of his hair twisted around his fingers, yanking
him upward, yelping, onto his toes.

“Have
you been flattering yourself that any similarity exists here?”
Loerzer continues.

There’s
barely a hint of real curiosity in the question. He brings his face
in very close to Goebbels’ own, craning his neck down considerably,
but it’s not the sort of dashing inclination that leads to kissing
(the way Goebbels likes to picture his own self when he leans in
toward a seated little beauty) and the glint in his eyes has less to
do with interest in an answer than with the hard shine on the point
of a sabre.

Goebbels
doesn’t think he can hold that gaze for long, the question itself has
brought a rash of pink embarrassment to the back of his neck and his
ears worse than the burn of Loerzer tugging at his scalp. He resents
it, enough to be brazen.

“Are
you married, Loerzer?”

Too
sweetly innocent to be anything but an accusation.  

Loerzer’s
expression doesn’t change, just one slow blink and then – pain
explodes in a thunderclap along the left side of Goebbels’ face, like
a blunt skewer thrust past his eardrum, piercing down through the
nerves in his jaw, the sting against his cheek is a distant
accompaniment. He’s still reeling from the blow, trying to draw a
breath, as Loerzer drags him by forward by his hair and shoves him
over the bed.

“Where
did those good manners of yours go?” Loerzer sighs. “I could have
told him…”

Talking
to himself as Goebbels wheezes, doubly winded by the edge of the
mattress hitting his stomach and the dull agony still ringing in his
ear. He chokes on his breath as Loerzer hooks his fingers under the
belt of the robe and hauls him over the rest of the way, the knot of
fabric digging into his belly and falling half undone as he scrambles
to get his knees up over the side of the bed.

His
legs are getting caught in the robe, hands sinking into the soft,
white duvet and the mattress shifts and dips beneath him as Loerzer
clambers on behind; he feels like he’s struggling through quick sand,
the clamp of Loerzer’s hand fastening around his neck and holding him
down before he can even try and break free.

“How
many men have you had up here, hmmm?” Loerzer asks, his other hand
groping between Goebbels’ legs, thumb poking at his asshole. “Speak
up.”

He
screws the thick digit inside, compassionate as a butcher inspecting
meat and Goebbels hiccups in distress.

“What?
I don’t-”

Loerzer
rams the wedge of his thumb and forefinger hard against against his
perineum, his blunt thumbnail digging inside him like a pincer.

“You
don’t know?” he asks with scorn.

“No!”
Goebbels gasps. “No, it’s… Göring is the only one who’s
ever…he’s the only one.”

Loerzer
sighs as though he doesn’t believe it for a second yet cares too
little for the exact truth to bother dragging it out of him. Goebbels
winces at the sound of it, panting for breath, blood rushing to the
surface of his skin followed by a flush of cold sweat; perspiration
beading on the small of his back and between his thighs, his buttocks
and the place Loerzer’s thumb is too easily twisting back and forth
inside him. He fights the urge to clench against the moist, squirming
sensation.

“Stop,
I’m not…this is all-”

Loerzer
pops his thumb out, ignoring his reedy protestations and slaps the
top of his thigh.

“Up
on your knees,” he says.

A
mistake, Goebbels thinks dizzily, all limp and useless words not
worth a breath. Loerzer growls so low he feels it buzzing in the base
of his spine as he braces himself on his palms and tries to push
himself up.

“Just
your knees,” Loerzer barks.

Goebbels
drops his quivering arms back to the bed. The sheets slip and ruck up
around his shins as he struggles to get his knees underneath him with
his face still pressed firm against the mattress. The pressure of
Loerzer’s hand on the back of his neck is painfully tight as it pins
him there like a snare. Goebbels fights the compulsion to fight or
flee, a panicked creature ready to thrash itself into suffocation.
Loerzer could wring his neck if he wanted to; he won’t, of course
he won’t, but
just the sense of it lies feverish inside his mind as he manoeuvrers
himself into the obscene position.

“Stay,” Loerzer orders,
squeezing his neck in a final warning before he takes his hand away.

The outsized dressing gown has
fallen back down over Goebbels legs. Loerzer lifts the hem and tosses
it over his back, barring his backside and covering his face. The
weak light from the windows blankets out, the thick fluff of the
dressing gown tickling his nose as his humid breath washes back at
him. A stark contrast to the cool air on his exposed genitals, his
most private places in mortifying spotlight; his limp little cock,
his asshole still sensitive from Loerzer’s fingers, throbbing in a
way that feels so disgustingly blatant.

He doesn’t try to move the gown
off his face. He can hear the muffled sound of fabric shifting
against fabric, imagines Loerzer’s fingers pushing his trouser
buttons through their buttonholes, prepares to feel them spreading
and prying inside him next.

They don’t. Loerzer’s hands fasten
around the tops of his thighs, pulling them further apart, holding
him in a steady iron grip that stops him from bolting even as his
hips lurch at the feel of the solid, hot press of Loerzer’s erection
against his hole. He blinks furiously in alarm that Loerzer might try
to open him up with just the wide head of his cock, a blunt, abrupt
stretch, his body unprepared and tense and dry apart from the sheen
of nervous sweat that’s gathered down the cleft of his ass.

“Wait, wait!” he sputters out
and for a moment it seems as though Loerzer is listening, shifting
back, the threatening heat removed and Goebbels exhales and wrestles
with his stuttering tongue. “Wait, please, I just need-”

Loerzer rams his hips forward and
buries himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.

Pain explodes like a flare.
Goebbels howls as the tight little knot of asshole is wrenched wide
open. Unreal, unbearable, a molten metal stab deep into his guts that
burns and bruises all at once. His hole spasms, clamping down, trying
to close back up, his muscles convulsing around Loerzer’s cock in
aching involuntarily waves.

The air is still knocked out of
him, not enough time to gasp, as Loerzer pulls out completely then
punches every last inch back inside just as hard and just as fast,
ripping his clenched hole open again, forcing through the friction
with a grunt of effort.

“Stop! Stop! Wait!” Desperate,
breathless cries like a drowning man bobbing up for air. “No!”

Only now can he realize the care
that Göring had taken with him when they fucked, there had been pain
at first but this? This is something else entirely. Loerzer’s not a
match for Göring’s size but right now he feels doubly so, impossibly
long, ungodly thick, the way he’s boring him out. He snorts like a
bull with each jack-hammer thrust, pulling Goebbels’ hips back to
meet him, shoving into him at an awful angle that feels like it’s
pounding his insides black.

Goebbels tries to push himself up
onto his elbows, pawing at the bedspread, but Loerzer cuffs him so
hard on the crown of his head that he collapses in a sprawl, the back
of his throat stinging with bile. Loerzer’s heavy paw follows, the
heel of his palm grinding into Goebbels’ cheek as he throws his
weight into the jerk of his hips; if it were a wooden floor beneath
his head and not a mattress Goebbels is sure his skull would crack.

“Please,”
he begs, weak and slurred from the press of the hand on his face.

Loerzer forces his fingers into
Goebbels’ groaning mouth, stuffing a wad of the dressing gown inside.
The fluff that had been tickling his nose is shoved over his tongue,
stopping up his pleas, making him gag and drool as Loerzer batters
the resistance of his body; fucking him until he’s lax and broken,
his sore hole gaping open every time Loerzer’s cock pulls out with a
filthy, sucking sound. Goebbels doesn’t struggle either, just moaning
softly as his saliva soaks into the the gag of material in his mouth.

The
hollow sense of shame at being used like this balloons up inside him
until he can’t contain it, tears pricking at his eyes. He gives a
muffled sob, no catharsis as the tears roll hot and tacky down his
cheeks, no change in the mechanical pistoning of Loerzer’s dick at
the strangled sound. He’s horribly aware how his own cock is hanging
plump between his legs; the indignity of the half soft, swollen ache
of it, no real erection, just blood plumping up the genitals of some
lowly animal in heat. Worse, really, there’s nothing natural about
this.

Loerzer
doesn’t seem to mind that he’s fucking into a rag doll, hefting up
Goebbels’ dead weight in an inflexible vice, excavating bruises into
bruises at his hipbones. He sobs again as Loerzer’s cock punishes
him, wrung out, biting hard at the wedge of fabric in his mouth but
unable to fence back the pitiful whine that cracks high in the back
of his throat and Loerzer’s laughter peals blackly above him.

“You
do like it don’t you,” he says.

Another
hot flush fares beneath his skin, deepens the ache behind his ears
and the itchy blotch of his cheeks. He can’t get enough breath,
panting in the dark as his tears dry to tight salt streaks. There’s
air on his naked, shivering thighs, keeping him acutely aware of the
ungainly arrangement of his limbs, but not under the stifling
swaddling of the robe where he gasps and chokes and struggles
internally against the crushing pressure of his degradation. The
scent of Hermann’s cologne impregnating the robe swells thick in the
warm damp, leeching into his saliva, acerbically floral in his
gullet.

He
retches as Loerzer’s cock stabs into him hard, a fast, pistoning
flurry of jabs at some tender red part of him until the pain of it
wrenches his body back into desperate resistance. Wet wool squeals
between his teeth, he dips his back in an even more severe arch to
ease the awful angle, exchanging one ache for another; the slap of
Bruno’s pelvis sending jolts up his spine, his ass pushed higher in
the air as if he’s making an invitation. Loerzer laughs again and
Goebbels flinches, clenching down tight against the still burning
stretch of the fat dick inside him.

“That’s
it.” Loerzer sounds strained. “You know what you want. A damn
eager hole. That’s all you are.”

Small
grunts between each word, his sweat on the back of Goebbels’ thighs,
second-hand clammy heat like something from a sickbed. His palm
presses down on Goebbels’ face, harder than before, as if he’s
forgotten there’s even a person underneath the gown and he’s just
bracing himself against the sheets.  

The
pressure of  Loerzer’s hand compounds the way his temples are
pounding, the way he can’t get enough air into his lungs, the
atmosphere around him too hot and tar thick to be able to pull into
his body. An awful flash from his childhood when he was tripped into
the mud and someone’s foot on the back of his head had held his face
down there, his breath bubbling out into the dirt, laughter as he
scrabbled against them and the shameful weakness of his body.

It’s
more than the physical, these pressure points of vulnerability.
Loerzer’s pushing the worst, most craven emotions through him too.
Harder to excuse.

Loerzer
jams his hips forward, holding Goebbels tight in place as he finally
climaxes. The heat of his spunk filling him, three hard spurts. The
feeling makes him flinch and struggle weakly, involuntarily milking
Loerzer’s cock for all it has to give as Loerzer groans in
satisfaction, breathing rough and ragged through his nose. As soon as
he’s done he shoves Goebbels away letting him topple onto one side, a
quivering little pile.

The
bed shifts beneath him. Swallowing, Goebbels slowly creeps his hand
to his head and pulls the wet wedge of Hermann’s dressing gown out
from his mouth, then away from his face. Fresh air rushes over him
and he takes a greedy gulp, chin and mouth all pink and wet and raw.
Not as raw as between his legs. With tentative fingers, not caring if
Loerzer is watching him or not, he reaches down and gently touches
himself there, then draws his hand back quickly with a hiss of pain.

It
hurts so terribly and he feels so swollen and slick that his eyes
actually widen in astonishment when he raises his fingertips to his
face and sees there is no blood, just the glistening mess of what
Loerzer had pumped into him.

He
hears Loerzer chuckle.

“Sloppy
little tramp,” he says, seizing Goebbels’ wrist and forcing his
fingers to swipe over his mouth. “Still hungry? Come here.”

Goebbels
grits his teeth and turns his cheek but Loerzer’s strength is
superior and what little battle remains in him is a fractured,
foregone conclusion. Loerzer wrenches him up to face his sticky cock,
semen still oozing slightly from the tip, just softening.

“Go
on,” Loerzer says.

Goebbels
tries not to look at anything apart from the bare bedroom wall to the
side. For a moment he can almost imagine seeing some projection of
himself there, refusing, pushing Loerzer away.

He
isn’t opening his mouth to protest as he lowers his head. His tongue
frozen with a paralysed sickness just a breadth away from Loerzer’s
cock, his abdomen stone taught with the effort it takes to push past
that feeling and lap at the thing in front of him without the
contents of his stomach rising up too.

“Maybe
Hermann wasn’t all wrong,” Loerzer says, sighing with pleasure.
“Even the whores one pays aren’t always willing to do everything.
It comes naturally to you doesn’t it?”

Goebbels’
eyes dart up, mouth humiliatingly stretched full of dirty cock. He’d
felt like some mere object for Loerzer’s use but now he wonders if
there’s not some personal dislike in all this too. He can only catch
a flash of the sneer on Loerzer’s face before his eyes are tearing up
as two strong hands grab the back of his skull and force his lips to
mash against the sweaty mat of Loerzer’s pubic hair.

Loerzer
pats him brusquely on the cheek when he seems happy enough with his
efforts. He takes the time to dry his cock off in Goebbels’ hair
before he climbs off the bed, rearranging his trousers while Goebbels
scrubs his tongue against the roof of his mouth, swallowing over and
over to try and staunch the tide of nausea shivering up from his
guts.

When
Loerzer leaves the room he doesn’t command Goebbels to follow. He
doesn’t even turn to look at him.

Goebbels
sits very still for a while and then lets out a shuddering
exhalation. He surveys the minor agitation of the sheets, traces his
fingers over the little eddies and currents left over that (apart
from the wreckage of his body) are the only signs of what just
happened here.

There’s
a burst of laughter from the other room. Wincing, he slips his toes
onto the floor and pulls the dressing gown into as good a shape as he
can make of it on his frame. When he stands, the hem dangles
uncomfortable wet kisses against the backs of his legs. He sits back
down again.

He
isn’t sure how long he has been sitting there, one hand clasped
around his wrist, stroking back and forth with placid
lack of purpose while he studies the small imperfections of the wall
paint, when Carin enters.  

“Carin!”
he exclaims, along with an awkward flurry of movement as he pats down
his hair, wipes his hand against his mouth, sensing himself turning
crimson.

“Darling,”
she says as she crosses the room. “What are you doing just sitting
here on your own?”

“I…”

She
lowers herself gracefully to sit beside him and he shakes his head in
distress, torn between the urge to lean into the white floral scent
of her and the urge to scurry away like some dark thing exposed
suddenly to sunlight.

“What
is it, Joseph?” she asks. “Was Bruno that rough?”

The
back of her finger strokes down the side of his face, he can feel her
gaze on him acutely but he can’t bring himself to meet it.

“I
think I should be leaving,” he says quietly. “My clothes…do you
know where they went?”

“Oh!
You’re upset!”

She’s
touching him so gently that it’s setting all the fine hairs on his
skin on end; an almost tickling sensation, but in the strangest way,
painful too.

“Carin,”
he says, hearing the urgency rising in the timbre of his voice.
“Really this whole thing was a mistake, I need-”

“Shhhh.”

She
presses her finger briefly to his lips as she hushes him and then
brings her arm around him, drawing him in close to the perfect
softness of her body, her hands slim and elegant yet brooking no
argument.

“Hermann
and I understand what you need,” she says.

She
sounds so sure, a soothing, irresistible sense of absolute authority
that makes Goebbels’ heart ache and his body unwind toward her, his
tense little shoulders dropping until another peal of laughter from
down the hall makes them tighten right back up again. She hushes him
once more as he flinches at the sound, stroking him until he’s pliant
enough to allow himself to be prised from the bed and led back to the
family room.

The
conversation becomes more clear as they walk down the hall, Carin
taking small steps, graciously accounting for his ginger pace. He can
hear Loerzer’s deep voice as they approach the doorway.

“…where
they’d call it ‘failure to thrive’, better off culling the little
runts, what is this bizarre affection you-”

Silence snaps into
place as they enter hand in hand.

“Christ,
he looks shell shocked,” Hermann says after a moment, whistling as
he casts an eye over him before turning to raise his eyebrow at
Loerzer. “Hardly seems like you had a disappointing time there,
Bruno.”

He’s
relaxing in a deep chair opposite Loerzer, leaving the sofa empty for
Carin and Goebbels to settle down in together where she can continue
her careful handling. Goebbels has an itch in the back of his throat,
a barely contained entreaty for her to stop running her fingers
through his hair, knowing what Loerzer has only just been using it
for, but he craves the comfort of it too much and the thought of
admitting it is too deeply humiliating to put into words either.

“I
never said I was disappointed, Hermann. You pestered me for an
opinion and I told you; he’s adequate for purpose. More than that is
a different matter, he’s not my sort.”

Loerzer’s
beating time on the side table as he speaks, cigarette between his
fingers. It’s as close to his face as Goebbels feels like looking. He
would like that cigarette very badly at this moment.

“Oh?”
Hermann sounds gleeful. “What’s your sort then?”

“You
know very well.”

“Hermann,”
Carin interrupts, fond exasperation paired with a hint of warning.

Goebbels
can’t help but look up then. The way that Hermann and Loerzer are
staring at each other is some silent conversation he is completely
excluded from. A chilly sense of his unimportance passes without
effort through the huge fluffy gown, his flesh, his lungs.

But
then Hermann turns his smile upon him and, oh, there’s the
burn of the spotlight.

“You
were only his second though, Bruno, isn’t there something in that?”

Loerzer
makes the same snorting noise of derision he had when Goebbels had
professed it to be so.

“And
you actually believe that?” he asks Hermann.

“Why
shouldn’t I?”

“Rather,
you actually believe his ability to be sincere at all?”

Hermann
hasn’t taken his eyes off of Goebbels during any of this exchange,
still smiling inscrutably, small adjustments in the curl of his lip
or the creases at the corner of his eyes. Goebbels stares back at
him, watches as he shrugs a little, inclines his head to the side a
fraction.

“I
understand you enjoy the notion of such virginity,” Loerzer
says with a drawn out sigh. “So it must be true, naturally.”

“I’m
a romantic,” Hermann says, smile broadening into a grin, showing of
all those teeth.

“Romance?
This is about conquest,” Loerzer objects.

“Exactly
the same thing!” Hermann exclaims, finally tearing his inquisitor’s
regard away from Goebbels to shoot Loerzer a look of mock amazement
that he should have to point out such an obvious fact to him.

Carin
laughs delicately and turns Goebbels’ face to meet her own. Calm
eyes, beatifically serene he would have described at first. She sits
there, so close to him and something shifts. Not quite in her
expression he thinks, unsettled, but in his own apprehension of it.
Shades of other women’s faces, real and imagined, he’s laid upon her
own like an imperceptibly fine veil, stirred for the briefest moment
by a breath.

“Our
little doctor is being so unusually quiet, but you agree don’t you,
Joseph,” she says. “About conquest.”

“Romance,”
Hermann adds.

Of
course they are a perfect pair, he thinks as he glances between them;
his eyes widening and Carin’s nails sketching away on his suddenly
goose-pimpled flesh, a murmur of appreciation hissing gently through
her teeth.

“You
will tell us all
about your feelings about what it was like with Bruno too, won’t you,
Joseph?” Carin says.

His
voice is hoarse by the time he can manage to find the words.

“If
you insist.” A painful whisper, head turned into his angelic
captor’s embrace.

The
other three laugh as if it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard all
morning.

Easy

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It’s easy money, Goebbels’ friend had told him with a leer, giving him a quick elbow in the ribs to compliment it, what are you so worried about, you do like girls don’t you?

Then a fast little bob of his head nodding up and down while he thought, yes, but…and that ‘yes, but’ must have showed on his face because his friend rolled his eyes and then left him alone in the university dormitory.

Now he’s standing at the door of the woman he’s been told will pay good money just to look at a pretty youth. Well, perhaps his friend never told him she wanted ‘pretty’, he was told she had certain…tastes, and he would suit them perfectly, that’s all. Mustering up the courage to knock on the door makes him feel mildly dizzy with apprehension but it’s better than begging his father for more funds.  

A servant opens the door, takes one look at him and tells him to wait in the room to the left. Goebbels crosses his arms and tries not to vibrate his good foot on the spot. The house reminds him of a church, the smell of it at least, what he imagines is the scent of old wood. Maybe all these places just use the same furniture polish and it’s as simple as that.

The nervous sweat has spread up from his palms to the back of his neck by the time she enters the room. He glances at her face once and then down to the floor. She could be your mother, some insidious internal voice croons to him.

“Are you worried, dear?”

She’s standing right in front of him now. Her hand touches his cheek, it’s very dry, hot.

“Your friend told you didn’t he?  Just… show me,” she says. “Let me touch you. That’s all. You won’t have to do anything.”

Goebbels stares harder at the floor, yes, of course he was told, why should hearing it now make him want to flee from this place at once? And she’s just a woman, just some old, sad, lonely woman, he can come back to campus crowing about how he earned a pretty penny at her expense.

He thinks that but his mouth feels parched, incapable of his speech and a cold chill has spread from where her fingers have touched him and still he can’t bring his eyes up from the ground.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “Just let me see your body. Touch you.”

Goebbels stands and fixes his gaze on the far wall, where there’s a clock. It almost seems as though it’s standing still. He feels hollow, adrift from himself, raw and empty inside.  His fingers struggle with the buttons on his shirt. The lady(he realises just now he doesn’t know her name) doesn’t make a comment but seems to find his fumbling all part of the exquisite enjoyment she’s wringing out of this moment.

He lays his shirt down gently. Then his trousers. He’s standing in his underthings and he knows they are expected to be discarded too and in the middle of this room where the daylight is streaming in, the high ceilings, the wooden floor tacky underneath his feet, he hooks his fingers into his drawers and-

“Wait a minute.”

The lady steps closer, kneels, reaching her fingers to his malformed leg, the tracery of damage that’s as much a part of his body as he wish it weren’t, that soft touch reminding him of how faint those memories are of when he was young and perfect and whole.

Her fingers are damp as she presses them to the twisted limb . Goebbels’ stomach begins to writhe with bile; he locks it down, resolutely.

“Take the rest off,” she says.

He does. He tries to lift his chin up, proud, cocksure, but instead his arms are shivering with the need to cover himself up.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see the woman is no longer smiling. She circles Goebbels on soft feet, touching him with clammy hands.

His jaw is clenched so tight it’s cracking. His fists furl at his sides. Her hands hover at his nipples then slip down to his hips, cradling his pelvis, feeling out its bones. He’s too thin, he knows that. He wonders if that’s what she likes and the thought fills him with equal pride and disgust. When her hands move between his thighs, he can’t keep still. His knees buckle, and he staggers as the room sucks darkly at him.

“Careful…” She breathes the word into the back of his neck, barely able to contain her excitement at the effect her touch is having on him.

He reaches for the edge of the table in front of him and steadies himself, taking shallow breaths until his pulse slows..

It’s just a body. Goebbels has already taught himself that. All those nights looking at himself with disgust and willing the fact that this was attached to him away. He can put himself higher than that, he doesn’t need to be connected to it. No amount of touching can touch him. Not now. And especially not this. A quick grope by a middle-aged dowager? It’s nothing.

He repeats it like a mantra as her hand closes over his erection and the filthiness of the whole thing worms under his skin, tears falling silently down his face as he braces himself and images himself begging her to stop but he doesn’t even have the courage for that.

Boating

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Magda wears dark glasses when they’re out on the boat so Lida only has the uniformly placid set of her smile to guess her mood by. Although it seems to Lida there should, unfortunately, be nothing very difficult about guessing that mood, everything about this trip has felt like a queasy sort of dream without logic and her stomach has been tightly coiled with nerves all day – even as she reclines; the picture of relaxation and leisure under a sun glaring highlights on the bright metal railings of the ship and on Magda’s hair, each flash of light slipping and shifting in time to the lazy bobbing of the waves.

Magda’s maternal softness and sweet familiarity of address are mirages that come and go. Thank heaven none of the children are here at least, no pointed, jealous dandling of little girls on laps, just the strangeness of Magda talking to her as though she were a child, or a simple little sister. Worse than when she talks of their duty to Joseph as though they were fellows. Equals even. That first time when Magda had clasped their hands together and spoken of how things ought to go on between the three of them all, Lida had thought she might weep for the both of them until she understood the sheer, vindictive venom behind it all.

How could there be fellowship in their suffering when her distress is Magda’s only consolation in all this? Though not to forget the torture of Joseph, who (when they are together alone) in turns rails against his wife and shies away from mentioning her at all, or makes black, oblique remarks with self-conscious glances and sighs, or smiles and says that things will be altogether perfect and very, very soon, the last often stated so beautifully that Lida can almost believe it.

Joseph, at the other end of the boat, is sunning himself like a lizard and watching the two of them with one eye always until Magda, all needlelike languor, instructs Lida to go fetch her a drink and then laughs as though it were a joke. A frigid little moment that causes him to put his fingers to his temple and says he must go lie down inside for just a moment or the heat is going to give him a migraine. He touches Lida’s shoulder briefly as he passes. She would like to go with him but it’s impossible.

“You’re no different you realize?” Magda says, only a murmur and Lida thinks about pretending she didn’t hear it.

“I’m sorry?”

“Than the others.” Magda slides her glasses down her nose an inch, gazes at her coolly. Her silver-grey dress compliments the look in her eyes.

Lida shakes her head. It comes off more like a shudder. The tightness in her belly spreads to her chest, a horrid, hot weight of shame. The denial is anaemic, though she believes it with all her heart (Joseph does love her, that’s the misery of it all) it only has to be bloodless since all her blood has rushed to her cheeks. It’s the thought of the gossip that humiliates her, the actual, almost tangible murmur of Berlin. She digs her thumbnail into the palm of her hand and turns back to face Magda since even in the ugliness of this scene she can find a streak of pride in meeting her stare forthrightly and cling to that. There’s gossip about Magda too isn’t there after all?

They’re both trapped sharing this stage. The wind skims the lake, touches them both with a fine mist of water. It does nothing for the heat in her face. Magda is beautiful. She holds her gaze steadily, composed; and though Lida has watched her stumbling tipsy, noticed  her carefully folding her hands and gazing forward slow-blinking back tears, heard her voice shrill and troubled, coming in tinny on the other end of a telephone receiver covered furtively by Joseph’s palm; still she feels no pity – she knows this woman could destroy her and never has she felt it more acutely than she does right now.

“You’re an expensive whore,” Magda says, as though they’re discussing a novel or a play – calm and almost as though she is testing to see if the opinion will float.

Lida keeps her mouth shut but tips her chin up, a little defiance despite knowing what her best interests are. But then her career has taught her a great deal about charm, its value and its currency and it’s already clear that charm will cut no ice here. Magda’s eyes drift to the diamond brooch pinned to her shirt. Without thinking Lida finds hers gaze flicking to the rings on Magda’s fingers. When she realizes what she’s doing she looks back up hastily.

“I can fetch you a drink if you would like,” she says, and tries not to look at Magda’s hands again, which seem keen to give off the impression that she’s never fetched her own drink in her life, though she’s no princess and they both know that.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Magda says.

Lida peers toward the shadowy interior of the little vessel and hopes she can imagine to life the shape of Joseph moving behind the glass, coming to return to them.  

“Liduschka.”

The voice is so close she almost shrieks. Magda sits down beside her.

She leans away on instinct, as one would step back from some dreadful sight and the dreadful sight is her own stricken face distorted in the reflection of Magda’s dark glasses. She would scramble to her feet but Magda’s hand is wrapped firmly around her wrist.

“I know exactly what he thinks he sees in you,” Magda says.

They’re on a level but she still manages to say it looking down her nose. The grip at her wrist is unwaveringly proprietorial. Lida feels her heart hammer in her chest and wonders dizzily if Magda can feel it too. Magda traces the line of her cheekbone, fingers warm and smelling faintly of talcum – a polished fingernail presses slightly at the delicate skin just beneath her eye.

“I just want to make it clear where we all stand.”

Magda’s smile is not broad or snarled, it’s dainty even; neat white teeth and a subdued, fashionable colour painted in tidy lines around her lips and absolutely savage at the basest  level as she takes her hand from her cheek and drives it between Lida’s legs. The heel of a thumb grinds her underwear hard against her, the setting of one of her rings, the facet of some stone, etches a cold, sharp line at the very top of her inner thigh.

“Don’t-”

She tries to pull Magda’s hand away but those elegant fingers twist into a curl of her pubic hair and tug at it painfully.

“It’s clear isn’t it?”

“Yes!” Lida gasps.

Magda’s fingernails pry past the gusset of her underwear and up into the folds of her sex, pinching and probing at her carelessly until she finds what she is searching for and crushes that most sensitive part of her between two merciless fingers. The pain so sharp and sudden and acute that Lida’s  still choking on the breath to squeal before Magda removes her hand as quickly as she began.

“Now you can get me that drink.” Magda looks at her hand with disgust. “And a wash cloth. Oh and try not to disturb my husband either, thank you, Lida.”

the power of yes

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“Get on the floor, next to the bed, on your knees,” Göring instructs Goebbels, and he quickly scrambles down to the cold, hard wood.

(Once, as they sat side by side, Göring’s slow regard of him slanting more predatory by degrees, he had asked, do you miss Confession, Goebbels? Turning his rings on his fat fingers. You must, I’ve heard that sort of…upbringing is impossible to completely scrub out.)

“Lower,” Göring says, maintaining an aura of the beneficent and, a queasy yet unavoidable lurch in Goebbels’ stomach, the paternal even while he grips the back of his head and pushes him lower beneath him, trapping him against the bed, smiling at the tremble in Goebbels’ shoulders

(Your lot must have some more grandiose term for it though? The amusement in Göring’s voice had Goebbels turn his scowl toward the window, wanting to deny him the satisfaction, wanting to bite back at the implication of ‘your lot’, to tear apart the utter audacity of Hermann Göring of all people to scoff at grandiosity. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, quietly, the Sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation.)

This isn’t a ritual or an unburdening of sins. Those aren’t the things he misses. He looks up at Göring’s cock, the bed frame is a dull ache at the back of his skull. Göring smears his erection around his cheeks, lips, forehead, and back again and again. The hot, wet tip of his prick slides against the side of his nose and presses against his eyelid, leaving a sticky stripe of precome in its wake. The oily salt-tang of it fills his nostrils. A tiny retch hiccups at the back of his throat.  

“I am going to fuck that pretty little face,” Göring says, then pulls Goebbels’ head back, so he can look up into his eyes as he positions his cock in front of his mouth.

(All the words spilled out of him in the end, escaped while he wasn’t watching. Göring pressed a thumb against his mouth to stop him but he continued until the outpouring became a trickle, stuttered in-between desperate flicks of his tongue and the suckling of his lips around Göring’s fingers until finally there were only two words left.)

“Yes, please,” he says in a soft little tone, widens his mouth and sticks out his tongue.  

Scene From a Birthday Party

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Hermann comes down glittering and really it should be ridiculous but that’s not the feeling tying Joseph’s guts into tight little knots. Hermann is strutting; effortless, enormous and graceful and commanding, all eyes on him and Joseph’s as well naturally – his stomach turns queasily at the knowledge he’s just part of this crowd, caught in this eddy too, unable to resist though he knows better.

Up close he can see a peacock swipe of colour across Hermann’s eyelids. He’s powdered and rouged and draped in some chimeric confabulation that’s half Roman emperor and half Renaissance Duke.

“Really, Joseph?” Hermann is smiling but the reproach feels genuine as he looks him up and down in his drab little suit. “I did tell you to wear something appropriate.”

And he does feel out of place amidst this close circle of party goers in masks and feathers and gold. He tries to summon the will to feel disgust at them, at their opulence, even at Hermann’s corpulence which is excess made flesh, writ large, in the most literal way.

What he feels is paltry and ragged. What he feels is the desire for Hermann to pull him in close so his nose is pressed into the soft, fragrant patch of skin behind his ear – the private scent of Hermann’s flesh.

You’re abhorrrent, he wants to say, looking at the way Hermann has painted his lips, the way it matches the nails on those hands that could crush the very life out of him, that have been, in spectral form, pulling the trigger on an ocean of arms vast and ceaselessly moving as the shells of beetles in some gargantuan infestation.

“That could have been my birthday present you realize.” Hermann smiles from ear to ear.  

“What?”

“Really, Joseph,” Hermann repeats, though whether this echo is a question or a statement seems uncertain. He makes a small gesture that has someone immediately scuttering along to hand him a flute of champagne which he presses at once into Goebbels’ hand.

Later, as they sit together on the couch and Joseph toys with his empty glass, rolling the stem between his fingertips and trying to retain his borders, Hermann tells the white-blond boy who comes to refresh his drink to stay and stay must mean kneel since that’s what he does, at Joseph’s feet, irritatingly beautiful – though almost sexless really, like the statues he saw in Greece where the chastity of marble was self evident and all appreciation could be pure.

The boy touches his knee and Joseph swats it away unhappily.

“Let him touch you,” Hermann says.

He strokes the back of Joseph’s head and the lazy, feasting way Hermann’s eyes roam over his body almost make him capitulate. There’s so much certain authority in the way Hermann pets him, as though the warm drag of each firm finger is remaking him as a simple ornament for Hermann to play with and no denial of his could ever change this fact.

“Can’t you call over one of them?” Joseph snaps, flinging a hand in the direction of a gaggle of girls in skirts short enough to flash their garters with every little movement.

“I’m just trying to make you more comfortable,” Hermann says.

“Comfortable with what?”

“Accepting pleasure, without these parochial restrictions of yours.”

Goebbels considers the smug, pitying look on Hermann’s face. The condescension washes over him in a hot wave not unlike arousal. He lifts up his refilled glass as though to make a toast and then, quite definitely ceremoniously, upends it over the boy kneeling in front of him who gasps and sputters and looks to Hermann with wide, lost eyes.

Hermann only laughs and effortlessly pulls Joseph closer to him, ignoring the black little look Joseph knows is scrawled across his face from the tightness in his jaw to the vein at his temples, pulls him in with one strong arm around his waist and  kisses him on the forehead so Goebbels can feel the greasy smear of his lip colour marking him and calls him his dear sparrow and beckons over another tray of champagne.  

Alamut

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It’s not often they have a night alone together. At times they can carve moments out – on Hermann’s train where the door can be locked and stiff and diligent men steadfastly ignore any noises that come from the compartment they’re guarding. 

But when they do, Göring likes to sleep with his arms around Goebbels, his forearm resting against his throat. A claustrophobic feeling – that huge body warm against his back, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other pressing against his windpipe just enough that he feels controlled, knowing that he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

When he wakes early, in the grey before dawn, still half caught in a dream of typewriters, he feels Hermann’s arm tightening around his throat. Another hand starts making slow, soft circles on his belly, growing wider and wider and edging closer to the throbbing urgency between his legs.

He bucks his hips but the forearm against his throat tightens until it’s hard to breathe. He doesn’t care about the lack of oxygen, it would be better to choke himself to death if he could rut against the hand pressed between his thighs. His balls are drawn up close to his body, he’s dripping from the head of his cock.

He leans back and tries to turn his head to kiss Göring but Hermann tightens the grip on his throat again and slaps his cock.

“Stay. Still.”

No gentleness in his voice at all, but the fingers gliding over the wetness leaking from his prick are feather-light. Goebbels whimpers with every breath, and every breath is a struggled gasp as Hermann chokes him.

“Please,” he manages to force out.

“Shut up,” Hermann says.

And pushes all the way inside him without hesitating and despite how those fingers have stretched and felt their way inside him it’s still almost too much.

There is no better feeling than the pain of Hermann’s cock driving into him and the pressure of his grip around his throat and the sense of possession, of being his.

Hermann thrusts into him deep and hard. Now he’s melting and moaning and bucking against him, pushing back on the cock that’s fucking him so beautifully.  The moan that comes from him is a despairing plea.

“Shhhh. Good boy,” Hermann says. “Go back to sleep.”

His forearm tightens just slightly against Goebbels’ throat. Göring’s fingers slide into his foreskin and his knee pushes between his legs, holding him open. There is no part of his body he has control over.

Monday, November, 1938

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“I know what you want,” Göring murmurs the words in a low somnambulant purr that drifts up from the wide chest where Goebbels’ ear is resting and out through his mouth, barely audible.

Goebbels isn’t sure Hermann’s not sleep-talking, honestly, despite the fact that every so often one eye will crack open a touch and consider Goebbels inscrutably for however long it takes for him to reach a satisfactory judgement of what he beholds. Perhaps it’s merely, as Göring had snapped earlier, to check that Goebbels is still tucked next to him on the bed and not off tossing all of Emmy’s good glassware from the windows.

“What do I want?” Goebbels asks, playing with the ridiculous lace adorning the front of Hermann’s nightshirt idly. The jagged edge of a nail he does not remember biting to such a sorry state catches and he pulls it free with a grimace. Hermann pays no attention to either the question or the grumbling little flurry of movement.  

Of course it’s the drugs that have sent Göring off to the land of Lotus-eaters and Goebbels would have his objections at any other moment but he will admit, for now (no warranty for even so much as an hour younger than the present) and only silently to himself (an unscrupulous biographer he trusts on necessary sufferance  and since he is a prophet and not the one to employ prophets) that after the entire lousy uproar of the week. It’s nice.

It’s the first time since the unpleasant business at the air ministry (where naturally Hermann had to throw his weight around and bellow and stab his finger into his palm and all about the economic question for pity’s sake) that each spare space in any room between them  hasn’t felt as though it were packed with thorns.

Goebbels is more careful with the lace this time as he passes his hand across the broad, solid expanse of Hermann’s belly. He does it again and is startled by the sound of his own sigh. Like an out of body experience to witness his own hunger. The weight of Hermann’s body draws him, settles the pricking knowledge of so many whisper cloaked daggers behind his back –   the sheer, unabashed presence of so much Hermann Göring: a bulwark to all of it. He stretches his greedy fingers over the country of Hermann’s body and then brings them back to himself.

(His own whispers asserting even now as he rubs Hermann’s stomach in relief and adoration that of course it had been him, Goebbels, who had been the more gracious in admitting perhaps there had been some calculations that had not occurred to him. Or a complete lack of calculation at all as Hermann may have, possibly, most emphatically, put it.)

“You don’t understand what I want,” Goebbels whispers. Partly to Göring.

He can feel the smile in Göring’s fingertips when a heavy hand finally works it’s way into his hair and takes hold.

Hunger

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What do you want? Goebbels asks him, despairingly, a little broken shrill note creeping in to the end of his plea like a hiccup after beginning so earnestly in low, deep tones, the black depths of his eyes, skin luminous pale; porcelain, not marble, he looks as though he might shatter at any moment and how Goering enjoys seeing him like this, exposed by hunger, pleading.

Not defenceless, even crazed by desperation he’s not that. His teeth shine sharp, inhuman, his lips draw back to put them on display. But he can’t just take.

And that’s where Hermann has him.

Those old wives’ tales have such much wisdom to dispense. How vampires can hypnotise, how they can entrance. But they always need an invitation. And as it seems…not just over the threshold, not just into your hearth and home, but to feed as well.

Goebbels is gasping on his knees, his nostrils flaring, pressing his tongue flat to Hermann’s arm and Hermann allows it, allows him to lap over and over again at the soft inner skin of his wrist, over his pulse – this little keening choking sound coming from the back of his throat.

When at last Hermann tells him what he wants (I am the administrator of the Prussian state theatre, your ministry will cease trying to muscle in) he’s barely cognisant of it. He nods feverishly.

He only hears the yes and then he’s feeding.

The blood comes so fast it feels like he’s suffocating on it, this sublime asphyxiation. He’s choking on it at the same time he’s trying to rut against Hermann’s great bulk and when Hermann pulls his wrist away he still juts his hips against the air and his tongue falls out of his mouth and he whimpers.

“Yes, whatever you want,” and he snaps his teeth together.

But it’s seeing Goebbels pant and beg and rut against his leg that makes Hermann imagine what he could do for him. What Goebbels never asked for, but what he can take, Just the gasping cry as he pulls away.

This lovely exotic creature, his fangs showing. There’s a pretty golden collar to put around his neck.

Goebbels is captured by the Russians and brainwashed (1984-style) into becoming a Socialist agitator.

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Empty corridors. White walls. Grey faces. Shaved heads. Hard beds. And always his foot aches and his eyes burn from all the light, day and night, day or night, all the same. Release is only one word away: love. Reject the false prophet, love your new father. Confess, profess and your sins will be absolved and you will be welcomed with open arms and the light won’t be quite so bright and the soup thicker and there will comrades too and you will be allowed to speak to your heart’s desire. If you heart is in the right place.

In the interrogation room the painting of Stalin looks down at Goebbels like a fat cat looking at a little mouse. Goebbels nods and puts his signature on the last page of a thick stack of paper, his confession. It was all his fault, everything, this whole terrible war and every wife left widow, every theatre in flames and every home turned to rubble. His hands are shaking. They make him sign it again with calmer hands. It must look right. And he is glad. All will be forgiven, every word and deed and every aching flaw. 

In the washing room he slips one last time out of the prison overall that’s two sizes too big on him. In comes a wardress roughly the age his wife would have been now. She’s heavyset and wears no makeup. Her face is flat like a Mongol’s, her hair tied back in a strict bun. Her hands are big and brutal. She pays no attention to his shame, the trembling of his hands, or that terrible foot, as she rubs him clean like a kitchen tabletop. He puts on the khaki uniform that she brought him. It doesn’t fit. Neither do the shoes. She smiles. “Follow me, comrade”, she says. Oh, how kind they are. He will make a fine preacher once again. Shed the hate and onward into a brighter, better future. Every war needs soldiers of the tongue.

@reichblr-ficathon

Belated

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October 29 he spent the “saddest birthday of my life.” Not only did Magda give him a “very frosty” birthday greeting that morning; Hitler was also very cool, sending him just a “short, frosty telegram.” He did, however, derive some comfort from Göring’s “extraordinarily kind and comradely telegram.” – Goebbels: A Biography by Peter Longerich

–

There was nothing particularly subtle about the invitation he’d left written between the lines of the telegram. Though in fact Goebbels might have felt fondly towards something more cryptic, a little puzzle for his keen wit, Göring lacked the patience to pen it. More importantly, he suspected Goebbels was just as likely to talk himself into believing there was nothing there at all as he was to ferret out a well hidden signal given the mood he’d been in lately. So Göring chooses words they will both understand.  

Even so, Goebbels arrives so late that Göring had been starting to wonder if he hadn’t made himself clear. Another time he would have dealt him a hard look and sent him trotting straight back through the door, but it is his birthday after all. It’s the end of the day and the light lies like a yellow thread on the floor – Goebbels’ coat is a sort of washed out yellow too, like the cheap smock of an overseer at a factory. No doubt Goebbels would have some barbed reply to such an observation, though perhaps not today. Göring would have said there wasn’t a more wan colour than the colour of that coat but looking at Goebbels’ skin right now that would be a lie.

He takes Goebbels outstretched hand and pats him on the shoulder.

“Happy Birthday,” he says.

Goebbels is attempting to smile politely. It’s a bad effort. The last time they were together he had been coaching Goebbels through a tortured dialogue with his Czech actress. He’d almost broken the cord off the receiver, striding back and forth and flapping his arms as he spoke. The civil distance Goebbels is trying to maintain now is already badly fractured. All it takes is for Göring to slide his fingers upward and touch his fingers to the bare skin of Goebbels’ neck and his throat is bobbing in a swallowed sob.

“It’s a fine joke to call it happy,” he chokes out, baleful, sleep starved eyes staring up at Göring.

An hour later and with a few glasses of brandy for good measure, Goebbels has allowed his tie to be slipped off and the collar of his stiff, starched shirt loosened a button or two. Up close Göring can see the fading blotches of eczema that spring up ‘like a rose garden’ when stress is bearing down on his little doctor.

“I have something for you,” he says.

He hands Goebbels the book all wrapped up in green tissue paper. Goebbels face screws down into suspicious uncertainty as he weighs the parcel in his hand.

“What is it?”

“You could open it and find out.”

Goebbels tears the tissue paper right down the middle and pulls it away in strips from the centre. Once he has it unwrapped he holds it up in front of him, his eyebrows tightening into a deeper frown before suddenly swooping up in disbelief.

“Is this…”

Goebbels flips the book open and reads his own name printed there, shakes his head and then closes the cover and stares.

“How did you do this?”

Göring simply smiles as Goebbels traces the thick embossed leather of the book; the golden script that spells out Michael, the jewels adorning the spine, the gilded edges of the pages. Göring had it made to something like the specifications of a medieval bible, though in his opinion the final effect of the book in Goebbels’ hands is  far finer than anything in his collection since naturally it had benefited from the keen input of his eye.

“I don’t understand,” Goebbels says, weakly, resting the heavy tome in his lap.

“Joseph!” Göring exclaims. “It’s an heirloom!”

“But-”

“Ah, don’t you see? Your words are going to be an important legacy to the world. You will never be forgotten for the vital part you played in the making of our triumphant future. In the future scholars will want to pour over all of your writings. It’s fitting they’re displayed properly.”

Goebbels is eyeing him as though he’s not sure if he’s joking or not.

“Have you read it?”

“I thought you might read it to me,” Göring replies.

“Hermann-”

“Like you read to me when I was…ill.”

Goebbels gaze fixes down hard at that book. His mouth draw tight in the most expressive of ways. Göring thinks it’s almost fantastical that Goebbels manages to lie as well as he does, when each little twitch of his jaw seems to give everything away in moments like these. He can’t hide behind a dull, vacuous mask of stupidity like some, when he is dissembling it must be so much more of an effort.  

“You can’t remember that,” Goebbels says. “I don’t think you even knew what year it was.”

“I thought I had been hallucinating, but Carin told me you’d been there at my bedside.”

There’s that twitch again. One could almost hear the clench of Goebbels’ teeth. Bringing it up has broken an unspoken rule between them but Goebbels has been breaking so many rules himself lately in his desperation over this Baarová crisis – in the way he has been sweating, frightened, feverish, grasping for comfort from him late into the night.

There’s sweat on his brow now. Göring swipes his thumb over it.

“Well, we needed you,” Goebbels says, holding himself so unnaturally statue-still it makes his effort to ignore the touch feel like a bad play. “The movement. I was merely keeping an eye on the situation.”

“Naturally.”

They sit in silence for a while. Goebbels’ is almost white knuckling the book by the time he speaks again, his mouth twisting like he’s chewing on it from the inside.

“I should be leaving,” he says.

If it wasn’t his birthday then perhaps Göring would let him.

“No,” he says.

Goebbels stares at him and his chest swells up with breath. It’s plain to see, skinny as he is. Göring has heard him complain enough, over and over, but now he truly does wonder – how does Magda, how do any of those girls look at him, to make that gaze so ravenous?  

Goebbels is a brittle pole of nerves, inviting as a jar full of hornets right up until the moment he presses their mouths together and then all at once he goes limp beneath the kiss, as if every defence he has has been overwhelmed. He moans in a low vibrato when their tongues touch.

Göring waxes and wanes between kissing Goebbels as hard as he likes and breaking that seal to smile against his mouth at the way Goebbels’ fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, one hand clutching at his collar with the tenacity of a climber ascending the sheer face of a cliff. The more aggressively he drives his tongue into Goebbels’ mouth the more desperately Goebbels clings to him and squirms in his seat, every movement a display of his eagerness to burrow in close.

As soon as he stops, Goebbels’ head turns away fast to one side, hiding against his chest. Göring imagines he can feel the anxious throb of his temple resting there.

“You’re unbearable,” Goebbels mutters, after a moment.

Göring allows his fingers to drift, tickling over the short hairs at the back of Goebbels’ neck, prompting a tight shiver from the little body leaning into him.

“I suppose I won’t be missed at home,” Goebbels says, then snorts. “Well. Magda might want me there so I can witness how thoroughly I’m-”

Göring shushes him and pinches gently at the nape of his neck but Goebbels has cut himself off anyway, one hand cradling his book close and the other groping blindly toward the table for his glass. Göring snaps up his wrist before he can get to it and places it onto his knee without an inch of resistance. He picks up Goebbels’ glass himself and holds it up, there’s a slight smear of brandy resting in the bottom.

If he allows his little doctor to drink much more there’s a better than decent chance it will set him off to ranting about something tiresome enough to wear down Göring’s good nature even if it is his birthday. But Goebbels, like any exotic pet, responds well to certain sorts of handling, certain sorts of physical touch easily undo him completely. He wets two fingers in the brandy and pushes them into Goebbels’ mouth, rubs them over his tongue and his gums, like you would soothe a teething child.

Goebbels’ breath rushes over him, a little panting exhalation. His teeth graze the pads of his fingers but he doesn’t nip and when he pulls his fingers out Goebbels stays staring up at him, mouth parted and lips moist, only the furrow in his brow lending him a faint air of reproach.

It all seems so natural, although it has been a good while since they’ve been alone like this. But why is that? Goebbels’ fault of course, his stubborn refusal to ask for what he needs, his bristling indignant attitude, the trouble he insists on causing for Göring. If only he would behave and understand his place.

He does enjoy the feeling of Goebbels’ pulse jumping when he pulls him close, palm pressed to palm; that drowning way he tries to maintain his indifference while Göring can read every letter of the strain it puts on him.

Goebbels is still looking up at him, his eyes like pitch and senselessly intense. Göring dips his chin and kisses him again, slow and thorough. Goebbels sighs into the meeting of their mouths. His fingers twitch against the buttons of Göring’s shirt and Göring keeps kissing him until his breath has deserted him and he moans again and begins to try and clamber into his lap. Goebbels has always been so greedy for kisses but also so impatient for more, that he can’t ever wait to get his fill of them either. When Göring cups his hand against his groin he’s not surprised to find him hard as a youth, cock straining against his trousers.

They stumble their way into the bedroom, Göring leading, their chests pressed together and Goebbels’ hands threading urgently through Göring’s hair. He strips Goebbels’ down with the same efficiency he’d have field dressed a deer and then pushes him onto the bed where he lies still, all hard angles – bones jutting and the garish spike of his erection, yet soft and passive too, wrists laying on the pillow beside his head, his knees akimbo.

“Oh, oh,” moans Goebbels.

And bites his lip as Göring kneels between his legs and pours the oil generously, half onto his own fingers and half down below Goebbels’ balls and all of it dripping down to stain the sheets between them. Göring presses just one finger inside him and the way it makes Goebbels arch off the mattress is a beautiful thing. He slides that finger in and out, just one, savouring the hot, tight clench of Goebbels’ body and the way it makes Goebbels rock his hips and clutch at the sheets.

He pushes Goebbels’ knees further apart so he can watch as he adds a second finger and forces them apart. Inside, Goebbels is so pink and silken, Göring pours more oil down over his hand and into the little gape he’s made and it shines back at him, begging to be fucked. Goebbels’ body pleading the way he won’t force Goebbels’ mouth to as he lies there, worrying his lower lip, his rib cage flexing so violently he looks as though he’s on the verge of hyperventilating.

Three fingers now and he holds his fingers there, spreading and then contracting, enjoying the way Goebbels’ body fights and then slowly slackens around him and how the fight diminishes and diminishes until his hole is loose around him and Goebbels looks half drunk on it, squirming back against him, lost in his own pleasure.

The room seems to echo with the sound of their own humid breath. Göring has four fingers buried in Goebbels as he strokes the scalding bar of his erection but Goebbels is fidgeting his hips, still begging.

Do you want my cock? Göring thinks, with a smile, but it would an unkindness to ask so he simply pushes the fat head of his erection up against Goebbels’ hole and watches the way Goebbels takes one gasping breath of air and then lies still, lax and making an utter accommodation of his body while trying to bury his face into the pillows.

He pushes gradually inside to the sound of Goebbels’ broken gasps. Goebbels wraps his legs around him as best he can, clutches at him, tosses his head back and makes the sort of guttural, animal sounds that can only mean more and harder and faster and, seeing as it’s his birthday, Göring does his best to oblige.