Skorzeny
sees the contempt in Kaltenbrunner’s face as Schellenberg reaches
tentative fingers the trace the curve of his scar as clear and bright
as a signal flare, though Walter is either blind or dazzled by the
stories he is murmuring about the song of two blades meeting and the
hot, piercing flash of your skin splitting open, a wash of blood to
grin through and the whispered adulation of brotherly hands on
bandages.Even
when Ernst unsheathes his dagger and turns the edge against Walter’s
cheek and offers to give him a mark to be proud of himself – and
Otto knows that what Ernst no doubt dreams of doing is pulling their
little comrade onto his tiptoes by the hair and forcing the blade past his teeth, to cut away his easy way with words and knack for
politesse – Walter simply smiles until Otto puts his hand on
Ernst’s sleeve and shakes his head: you know that
isn’t how it works.But then there
are no rules about the weapons of their teeth and Walter bears up
very bravely once they have stripped him down and set about him until the taste of blood lies thick in both their mouths.
Tag: walter schellenberg
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…”
Reinhard “punishes” Schellenberg for disobeying his orders. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
The reason for the punishment was incidental, what mattered was Heydrich’s foot on Schellenberg’s back, the heel of the boot just about fit between his shoulder blades, the weight of it – of him – was enough to vanish all hope of getting away and worse he pressed the air out Schellenberg’s lungs silencing the onslaught of hectic excuses and apologies (a misunderstanding, he had not meant to, never). He liked it of course, to be hit and thrown and bruised and used, it made him giddy with excitement, like he was to star in a thrilling movie where the hero, preferably a spy, always gets to have a rough time before eventually saving the day and wasn’t Heydrich the best beloved adversary he could wish for? Unfortunately he was to be the only damsel in distress at the end of this punishment, the bulk of it consisted of Heydrich kicking the few soft parts on Schellenberg’s slight body, working himself up in such a frenzy that he eventually jumped on the surrendered body as if he needed to wrestle with it still and while covering Schellenberg’s eyes and their terrified expression with one big hand he raped his little subordinate so uncouthly that Schellenberg even began to struggle and kick a bit, but to no avail.
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