biting

aus-der-traum:

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.