Max was all facade and nothing but insecurities behind it. He could be charming of course if he knew who he was dealing with and what he was allowed; and sometimes brutal if he did not. Looking down the familiar lens of a camera he could strike an impressive figure. He practised his grin every morning. He fixed his hair in every mirror if no one was looking and he hated when Jochen tousled it with a sly smile. No amount of preparation could get rid of his nagging doubts and in unfamiliar surroundings he often fell back on silence, smiling stupidly and hoping that breeches of a fine material or a pair of shiny boots would be defence enough; and usually they were, when Jochen wasn’t kicking his feet apart and pushing his hand down the back of his trousers. It was always a pleasure for Jochen to see Max’s phony grin freeze and his body stiffen, when he ran his thumb between Max’s buttocks. He preferred to do that to him when Max was drunk, as he often was. The alcohol induced loss of control made for a delicious difference in power. Then the slightest sexual touch made Max bend at the knees to make up for the different in size between them, eagerly presenting himself to be fucked with an arched back and moaning like a versed whore. He became an unintelligible mess as soon a Jochen made him feel his cock – not fucking him just yet, only pressing it between Max’s ass cheeks, rubbing it on his asshole, prodding, teasing, but not giving him what he needed. Max also looked very photogenic when he was sucking on Jochen’s fingers to get them wet and even better when Jochen shoved them into him and the facade crumbled and fell and he just looked so pale and weak and ugly. Eventually the fingering wasn’t for the sake of preparation anymore, Max became well-accustomed to the size of Jochen’s dick, it was however useful to make him beg for his cock, especially if Jochen wasn’t actually feeling like fucking him and could just easily walk off. Jochen occasionally called Max ‘pretty’ and ’a doll’, usually when his dick was inside of him all the way and he was spreading Max’s fat ass to get in just a little deeper, never too often to make the insult lose its weight. It was a good way to get Max’s ass to tighten, so Jochen could to be done quicker, when there were knocks on the door or steps around the corner of a hallway. Once Jochen had been transferred to the Eastern front he did miss Max a little. He wouldn’t have done that sort of thing to any of his comrades, who were good, honest men like him. So he was rather happy to find that even in the Russian tundra he managed to run into Max now and then and as it turned out war hadn’t affected Max’s most useful traits a bit.

(an addendum to this)

It’s like he expelled a part of his own soul. It always is like that after the orgasm. First comes the rush and the height and then he opens his eyes and he’s standing at the edge of an abyss and he sees himself all flesh and urges, a subhuman beast slumped over its prey. It’s worse this time. Wünsche’s fingers dig into Peiper’s hips as he drives that wretched feeling out of his body one deliberate breath at a time. It’s difficult. Peiper is lean and bony, distinctly male, but he does feel wet and hot around his cock and he looks broken and it’s good to think about it that way, in terms of victory and defeat rather than want. He did not want Peiper, never did, never wanted to fuck him, just hurt him and this was simply the appropriate hurt for someone like him.

When Wünsche moves to pull out of the lifeless body under him it sounds so filthy and wet that he stops and a smile splits his face. He just cannot resist driving his dick into Peiper’s wrecked hole again. Peiper twitches from bottom to top. His eyelids flutter and he bites his thin lips so hard they turn white but he’s not lifeless anymore and that’s just extra encouragement. With quick, hard strokes Wünsche fucks the come out of him, thick and pink with blood. “You fucking filthy thing,” he says, not because he means it, but because he wants Peiper to hear it and just then Peiper whimpers in the back of his throat and it sounds so good Wünsche wants to fuck him again, turn him over and force Peiper to look him in the eyes, force him to say what it feels like to have a cock up his ass like the little bitch he was.

But no, not this time. It’s not want, it’s definitely not. Wünsche pulls the beast away from Peiper and stumbles out of the room. He doesn’t look back at the small, curled up thing. It’s easier that way.

Peiper just does not like Wünsche and his toothy grin. It makes his skin crawl.

Peiper could never do Wünsche’s act, the grandiose behavior, the boisterousness, the natural chumminess. He has to force himself to put on a face. He hates speaking to groups of men, all of them hungry to find a flaw, all of them distant and unpredictable and he can’t look at all of them at the same time to see which way they are turning.

Hordes are a nuisance to him. Wünsche however loves them, because the mind of the horde, unlike any individual mind, is very limited and effectively too stupid to see behind his jovial mannerisms. Men are drawn to Wünsche like moths to the flame or more precisely, Peiper thinks, flies to feces.

Peiper’s distaste for Wünsche is even more increased by his physique, which is so unlike his own. It’s not just Wünsche’s height. He is built like a bull. Standing next to him his presence is overwhelming. And he certainly takes advantage of it. He likes to get uncomfortably close, disregarding all personal boundaries which aren’t dictated by rank. He loves breathing down men’s necks. He is very generous with his touch too. Finger crushing handshakes, a pat on the back hard enough to make the unprepared stumble. All in good fun of course, except he dictates that it is fun and everyone else has to swallow it.

The one thing Peiper doesn’t realize about Wünsche is that he has the destructive curiosity of a child dropping the family china to see in how many pieces it would shatter. And Peiper made for fine china, the finest really Wünsche had ever seen. If it wasn’t for Peiper’s resistance to Wünsche’s charms, he would be only half as good to break.

With a little alcohol greasing his tongue Wünsche begins to try his best to scratch Peiper’s armor, tear down his unmerited arrogance and tease him out of that annoying uptightness. He is rude and boisterous, invades Peiper’s private space whenever the chance arises, in short uses all the mannerism of social warfare between men but to no avail. Peiper has a sardonic reply or arrogant look for every thinly veiled insult. When he isn’t staving off Wünsche’s attacks he sits stiffly in his chair, nipping on his drink. He disregards Wünsche completely and is silent except occasionally he laughs at the rough jokes of the other adjutants and bodyguards. It only serves to make Wünsche more determined to get to him. The task becomes easier with each person leaving the Great Room, hurrying to follow their bosses like the obedient lapdogs they were, until eventually Berghof is silent and Wünsche is all alone with Peiper. It is then that he finds Peiper’s weak spot: “So I heard the little bunny gave birth. Is that yours then or Himmler’s or one of her other bucks’?”

Peiper’s anger is reflected on his face much the same way Wünsche had thought it would be. His jaw is clenched, his brows drawn together and his lips a tight line. “Don’t speak about her like that,” he says and his voice wavers. What a relief to finally break through. Now Wünsche is in his element. Demonstratively slowly he gets up out of his chair and he is pleased to see Peiper doing the same. They stand toe to toe.

When Wünsche looks down at Peiper, it’s such an exaggerated movement, he seems not half a head taller but two. “What are you going to do about it?” He bares his teeth to the grin that is his greatest asset. The comeback is cheap, predictable but effective nonetheless.

Peiper strikes Wünsche in the face with the back of his hand. It’s not a strong blow, more gesture than assault, but it comes as a surprise and it’s not a gesture Wünsche is willing to take. His grin distorts to a snarl. He jumps at Peiper with the graceful violence of a lion, sending them both the ground. Adrenaline flushes over them like cold water. They wrestle on the ground, a black pile of wool and polished leather. Wünsche is too big, too strong and too angry to make the fight last longer than a couple of seconds. He flips Peiper on his stomach and straddles him. Peiper struggles still, his hips twitching between Wünsche’s thighs, his hands looking for something to hold on or attack but Wünsche is too heavy, it’s like holding down a child to him. He grabs Peiper by the arms and presses his weight on his back. It pushes the air out of Peiper’s lungs. The iron cross digs into his skin and suddenly the adrenaline is gone and he feels dull and empty and painfully aware of the weakness of his own body. The way Wünsche’s hands wrap so easily around his arm, thick fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic and leaving bruises on the skin underneath when he moves against their grasp. He remembers noticing the thick veins on them earlier. Something to make you stop for a second, deliberating the anatomy of man.

The adrenaline still tickles in Wünsche’s fingertips and Peiper looks good with his cheek pressed to the ground, glaring at Wünsche as if his gaze could somehow shame or, even more laughable, stop Wünsche by power of his will alone.

By now most women would just have whimpered or cried their eyes out until their faces were all puffed up and red. He could fuck a girl like that if he bend her over something hard or pressed her face into something soft so he wouldn’t have to see her ugly face. Wünsche enjoyed the feeling of them around his cock and the cries he could fuck out of them, but in the end it was just a forgettable distraction. Like a deep drag on a cigarette or a shot of bitter schnapps. A brief high that was over as quickly as it came. It had left him feeling disgusted at first and then eventually just empty, unfulfilled but always craving the next high.

But this is much better. Peiper has strong eyes, clear and bright and unwavering. That kind he needed to see filled with tears. Those silent tears which don’t drag the entire body down into a whimper, but just get trapped between the eyelashes and urge him on, taunting him to do worse so they would finally overflow. The anger that had itched in Wünsche’s arms wanders, spreads throughout his body, warm and seedy, trickles down into his lap where it settles and makes his cock feel heavy with lust.

Recognizing the change Peiper’s eyes widen subtly. Disgust mixes into his defiance.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” Wünsche snarls, presses his hand on Peiper’s face and rubs it on the floor, grating Peiper’s cheekbone against it like a rough caress.

Peiper closes his eyes, trying to shut out the humiliation and that greedy look in Wünsche’s eyes. The dark red of his eyelids amplifies every sensory input and now he can hear Wünsche’s heavy breathing and smell him, a mix of cigarettes, aftershave and dubbin. He remembers that dubbin smell, mixed with wet clothing and chlorine. He remembers the pale electric light, the cold tiles, the laughter and the hands. How little he had changed in all those years. Small Jochen with the sun dyed hair and the body too weak to fight back but just soft enough to tempt his comrades.

Wünsche is angry again, angry not because of the disgust in Peiper’s eyes but because of a deep-rooted dislike of everything Peiper stood for. The fake class, the useless touch of intellectualism, the arrogance over his so called decency. He doesn’t feel it in his head or his arms. The hate sits in his loins and he needs to make Peiper feel it too.

Wünsche fumbles for his belt buckle. Peiper squirms again and whispers for him to come to his senses, but Wünsche has never been more keenly aware of what he wanted. He closes his fingers around Peiper’s throat and squeezes until the words stop and turn to gasps for air. He lets go and the small body under him is slack and compliant, sprawled out for him to take. He pulls Peiper’s pants down, frees his own throbbing cock and presses the thick tip of it between Peiper’s buttocks. He wants to torture him, make him beg for mercy or better still, beg for his dick, but the urge to just fuck him raw is stronger. He forces his cock into him, squeezing past the resisting muscle and Peiper groans once, deep and pained, and then he only trembles as Wünsche pushes deeper into him, inch by inch like a blade parting flesh. Peiper is so tight around his cock he can’t last long. He fucks him quick and hard and before he is done spilling his last drop into Peiper Wünsche already feels disgusted and empty.