He’s tapping his cigarette box on the flat, metal table, he’s counting out one, two, three and with each tap he looks at
Max Wünsche‘s face and he knows the smile on his own face (it’s his face that’s pleading, not Max’s, his face that is blushing, bashful, that can barely meet Max’s eyes) is ingratiating and Max isn’t looking at him either, he knows the best he can hope for is that Max will look at the cigarette between his fingers with desire (never him) and how it makes his hand tremble as he tries to formulate his questions.
At some point they leave them alone together and when that happens he gets down on his knees and rests his face against Max’s thigh and apologises over and over and over, he brings a square of good chocolate out of his pocket and tells him how the Russians will never take him away, don’t worry, says he’s sorry and still Wünsche looks down at him with disdain, with disinterest, with mild amusement.
He knows where Max was when the massacre happened, no one else has worked it out so far, no one has put the time lines together; Max hadn’t meant to give it away either but he had despite himself and how his stomach had lurched when he’d heard Max let the detail slip that gave the game away – but he’ll never tell, all he can do is beg forgiveness for his country winning the war.
daemon AU
The sunlight streams through the lace covering the windows in a
dappled pattern, sending all the cream of the wainscotting and the
blue of the rugs into a washed out haze, dust motes drifting through
the air, all that white and bleached periwinkle
like a photograph left out for years in the sun and they’re both
still as the figures in a photograph too, Carin in her chair and him
on the floor beside it, his legs tucked under himself – those legs
are going dead and the air is thickening to treacle (even those specs
of dust, in suspended animation now) but Carin’s skin, her wrist,
draped over the arm of the chair, remains so vibrant he cannot tear
his eyes away and his mouth parts slightly as he thinks of pressing
the tip of his tongue to her pulse there, just for one moment.The plush, stocky body of Ragnar, Carin’s
wildcat daemon
reclines on a little patch of floor where the sun is beating in
hardest, in the relative shadows nearby Ursula has her nose to the
floor, snuffling around, creeping slowly around the perimeter with
her tail in the air and her little paws making small incursions,
drawing back, scuffling forward again, all the while Ragnar’s tail
lilts dreamily from side to side and his eyes are half closed in
pleasure from the warmth beating down on his belly.Hermann lets out a little sigh and when Carin’s
eyes meet his he finds he’s clenching his jaw so hard it hurts and it
does hurt,
not the grinding of his teeth but how badly he wants to confess that
the only word he can think to describe her is ‘goddess’, that no one
has ever made him feel this way, amazing that someone could matter more than
him, that if she would only give him one single, intimate touch, he
would be hers, utterly, forever and as he’s staring up at her,
feeling like a small boy, Ursula pounces on Ragnar and is instantly
swatted away by those large, heavy paws, swatted and then pounced on
herself at the same as Carin pushes off one of her shoes and presses
her foot into Hermann’s groin and tells him, stay.
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.
Reichblr Ficathon 