Goebbels is humiliated for his physical deformities.

aus-der-traum:

They all look at him, so many rough faces, square, dirty, not pretty, no, but strong, healthy and so very cruel – how did these people do it, did the mothers smother their young when they came out deformed, were the weak allowed to live only so long until eventually they were thrown down a well by their fitter brothers or chased away into the forest to be mauled by bears? 

One of them steps forward, wide face, wide frame and many teeth, he must carry some noteworthy rank that Goebbels can’t recognise (but he does recognise that his wristwatch is of German make), and he kicks the little doctor in the ribs, tells him to get up, first

in Russian for his audience and then – oh, he is a man of intellect – also in impeccable German repeats the lines to the naked bundle cowering at his feet, curled up like a fussy little woman hiding her shame, but it’s not his swollen, black and blue genitals Goebbels is hiding, it’s the foot. 

Get up, good doctor, get up, the man says, we want to hear your lovely voice, tell us one of your German fairy tales please, be so kind, we’ve come such a long way for you, tell us about the thousand year Reich and the superior man – and Goebbels must be hospitable, he tries his best to deliver his last speech with blood dripping from his toothless jaws.

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Necrophilia

hessenfe:

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A dear baby boy; still in the gravel as his torn uniform revealed the gashes from the impact, his destroyed plane not too far away from him, smoke rising from it, rising from the dead pilot’s skin as well, burnt, as well as bloodied, bruised, and stained with piss, dirt, and- of course- some blood.

An unknown pilot stood in front of the corpse, his face hidden under his helmet and behind his goggles, biting his lip, resisting the urge to mount the man, knowing well he’d be chastised if he was caught; as he was out past a citizens curfew, and could possibly be mistaken for one (but most likely not, but he didn’t want to take the risk).

He huffed, giving in to his urges as he pulled off the corpse’s torn and piss soaked trousers, then taking off his own, penetrating the man and gripping onto his shoulders; thrusting and gasping as he looked at the night sky, never thinking he’d find such perfect remains, and it led him to wonder who he was having sex with, so he reached to his face and turned it, leaning at an angle to see, shocked at the fact he found none other than Hans Phillip; his own idol.

tongue-tied

aus-der-traum:

Letting
Hermann do the talking has never been the tricky part of any venture
and Udet just sticks his tongue into the pocket of his cheek and
observes as

Göring introduces him to the man he has been staying
with, a Captain Beaumont
(fortuitous happenstance the British pilot Hermann had
shown such hospitality to after he’d been shot down over their lines
is here now in Munich and doing very well for himself – fortuitous,
Hermann’s word, though offered airily and in the manner of one
who generally expects fate to shine upon him and thus is not
particularly grateful or surprised when it does) who welcomes Ernst
in excellent German and a curiously apologetic smile.

It
takes until his third night enjoying Beaumont’s effusive generosity
that he realises, passing by a door left carelessly ajar: there is
Hermann, one leg hooked over the arm of a chair, his clothes
dishevelled and pulled open to display a gleaming swathe of his chest
– he’s sitting sprawled like it’s a throne, every line of his body
imperious but most of all in the cold curl of his mouth as he stares
down at Beaumont kneeling before him, begging (Ernst can hear it
now, the sheer shock of the sight that had deafened his senses
softening) a litany of desperate pleas falling from

Beaumont’s

lips as his
fingers creep tentatively up Hermann’s leg to where the creases in
his trousers twist across his thigh and the indistinct
shadow of his erection.

The
next morning when Beaumont hands Hermann a wad of banknotes, you
chaps go get yourself a good breakfast, he
must have stared a little too long, for Hermann meets his gaze and
frowns a moment before a dimple appears on either cheek and his
mouth twists as if he’s trying to stop himself from erupting into
laughter – all the way down to the cafe Ernst feels as though with
each breath the questions, comments, accusations, tumbling around in
his chest will finally burst forth but when Hermann arches an eyebrow
at him and enquires, something
on your mind, Ernst, he
merely shakes his head.

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seven sins

josrich-oats:

Helga sat at her solemn table, with her skinny pencils beside her and her sleek white sheet of paper quietly placed in front of her; her tutor had just left an hour ago and her recent lesson on the Seven Sins that all Jews apparently had stuck in her head, and the more she thought about it the more she realized that everyone has at least one of these Sins, and she connected them to the most prominent of people within her uneventful and short-lived life.

Of course her father was just the perfect symbol of lust, waltzing about and finding a new lady every so often, only to leave her that very night to come home and give his daughters a kiss on the forehead before he fell asleep next to his so-called dedicated wife, she thought this as she drew her father with the pink pencil; and Uncle Adolf, their Führer, was no other than pride, so full of himself that he would listen to no one when it came to certain times, and she knew this because of the various tantrums her father let out in his office late at night, his heavy breathing full of frustration as he furrowed his brows and rubbed his temples; she relived each midnight madness as she drew the Führer in her indigo pencil, Himmler, the man her father so deeply despised and every time he mentioned that man’s wretched name his voice was seeping and dripping with hatred, was the epitome of envy, his name laced with lime green as she wrote it out to label him above his childish portrait.

Göring was greed, his pork belly disabling him from even viewing his own feet, nonetheless Helga’s ability to even see his eyes, his hoarding of not just food but money placed him just above gluttony, as his name was written in a golden yellow; Ambassador Ribbentrop was drawn in baby blue as he dozed off as the Sin of sloth, and Fegelein was just perfect for the mango-colored title of gluttony, as he was just as much as glutton for attention as he was for booze and trouble, and Heydrich as wrath, his blazing eyes and merciless, cold heart pairing with his blank face and harsh stare scared Helga from even being around him, his name harshly written in dark red, and she admired her masterpiece, made so beautifully with all her colors and she just couldn’t wait show it to her dear Mama.

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