Jochen came to enjoy their private time in the office, when he sat in Himmler’s chair and Himmler himself was kneeling at his feet, kneeling not like in prayer but like a small animal with the limbs drawn to his body, running his stubby little fingers over his adjutant’s feet, following the veins with his fingertips as if admiring the lifelike details of a marble statue, and smiling up at him with the desperately submissive smile of a wandering salesman begging for alms. If Jochen allowed it he placed wet kisses on his feet and on his toes and he pressed his tongue between them humming with delight at the salty taste of sweat. He was a nasty little worm of a man and he liked hearing that from Jochen’s mouth, his eyes then became just a bit more bug like behind the glasses as he eagerly agreed, calling himself pathetic and vile and calling Jochen such a good boy while hoping the good boy would spit on him or worse.
Himmler being sickened by the reality of his genocide
On the first visit to the camp they gift Himmler flowers and paintings the little ones have made for him, delivered by a shy little girl with long black braids; when he pats her on the head he thinks he hears his adjutant scoff and maybe that has egged him on, maybe he really wanted to see the inner workings of his creation or maybe he did just get lost by pure chance. It is a bit of a surprise how few walls and fences stand between that sunny path with the little girl and bleak, stinking misery, the sight of the prisoners that hits him like a wall, the disgust welling in his stomach forcing him to his knees throwing up half digested coffee and cake. His adjutant drags him up by the elbow and there is no expression on his face when Himmler turns to him head shaking, mumbling apologetically that it was not how he meant it to be, but when he hands Himmler a handkerchief and wordlessly turns away there is undoubtedly a sneering smile on his lips.
Flirting and/or cheating?
A song on your lips, fowards, forwards!
Anything with von Stauffenberg pls
Alcohol made him hopelessly romantic like he used to be when he was young and wrote poems about death in the margins of his notebooks and the old man, the poet, called him a knight and a hero with words like honey, dripping into the deepest pool of his soul, and no amount of growing up could ever sift it clean. The poet had instilled in him other urges too, urges that he usually knew well to keep to himself, and it wasn’t hard now that the war provided ample discomfort to keep him entertained, but that French wine, it was too much for his weak heart, wine like that could only make you soppy and servile. And the way Rommel looked at him, with such horrible stern kindness, he couldn’t keep himself from kneeling, finger kissing, tears welling, begging with his eyes and with his tongue, more dog than knight when he licked the desert’s dust off the man’s fingers, whispering Erwin and please until Rommel reluctantly gave him what he wanted.
Just lie back and think of Germany
Tucked under the covers of his own bed late at night, he couldn’t fall asleep and was kept awake by not only the heat, but the thoughts of what tomorrow would bring, the man was scared of what he had to do but he knew it was the right thing even if it failed, but what if it did?
He thought of Nina and their children and wondered if they, the family he helped build and loved with all of his heart, would be okay, but there was more to be done to save them than sending them away, to save them from danger and torture caused by his failure he could either succeed or not do it at all, but the man could not betray his country or his conscience.
Claus started to go into a cold sweat worse than he had already been in the hot night, he eventually shut his eyes and prayed that the plan would work to save both his country and his family, “just lie back and think of Germany” he told himself before he fell asleep for the last time.
tumblr problem
In case we don’t reblog your fill within 24 hours, pls let us know (by ask for example). We’re not ignoring you on purpose. For some reason several reblogs and even mentions haven’t popped up on our activity page…
Just fyi: notifications are still not working 😦
abuse, abuse, more abuse ~
He was seized by the hair and slammed into the mirror; having it shatter to dozens upon dozens of pieces, falling to the floor around their shining boots and the smooth floor with blood droplets laying upon them; smearing due to their scuffling footwear.
Fritz was pushed to his knees- blood dripping from his forehead, cheeks, nose, mouth, arms, and hands, then his knees as they came into contact with the shards of broken glass- as Wilhelm brought the bottle to his head, shouting, “FUCKING HALFWIT RETARD! YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING RIGHT YOU DOG FUCKER!”
The smaller blonde sobbed as the drunk man’s hand forced his head down, his tears dripping from his eyes as he whimpered, not knowing what Wilhelm was going to do to him- for all he knew, this was his end, he would lose his life in a bathroom from his drunken friend- but he knew he could do a lot, especially with his muscles and broken alcohol bottle.
we all know it but no one’s brave enough to say it
beatles fans are worse than kpop fans
I have NEVER had to read abt paul mccartney being a baby cow and mooing softly w tears in his eyes as somebody strokes his baby cow cock bc he doesn’t think he deserves it and that’s that on THAT
that might be the weirdest prompt so far, kudos @soviet-reich *pins a medal to your chest*
Reichblr Ficathon 