Do you feel the noose around your neck?

aus-der-traum:

“Do you feel the noose around your neck?” Kurt whispered into Max’s ear when he closed his hands around his neck and lifted him right off his feet. Jochen couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it, Max whole body stretched out, toes extended, just about touching the ground, the muscles of his torso and his legs standing out from the intense effort of it and his fingers twitching, out of his control, the entire machinery of his body on the verge of snapping in some place; it reminded him of the way Max looked when Kurt was buried in him to the hilt. Kurt must have noticed the resemblance too, “do you want to fuck him like that?” he asked and Jochen considered it for a moment when he saw how Max rolled his eyes in protest, but he decided against acting on a whim, he lit himself another cigarette and stubbed the old one out on Max’s chest.

“It hurts knowing that I can never see you again”

aus-der-traum:

She puts her chubby hand up to the thick divider, her tiny palm print enveloped by his own – although enveloped is the wrong word; is the word he yearns for since it implies touch, implies one warm beating pulse able to press upon another for even a moment.

They are not allowed such things.

She doesn’t understand that as she bats her fingers against the glass and stares up at him and does her best to not wail or cry because she knows, daddy will be home soon and if she’s been a good girl he’ll give her an extra lap around the garden on his shoulders. 

Against the ice cold metal of the panzer

aus-der-traum:

aus-der-traum:

They got that one
detail wrong about hell: it wasn’t hot here, it was fucking freezing,
too cold even for snow fall; the only heat in this frozen wasteland
came from artillery fire, and it you did your best to stay away from
that, and, in this particular case, the breath of his comrade, short
and laboured against the back of his neck as he pushed him against
the icy metal hull of their tank and kicked his feet apart. It wasn’t
the first time this happened and it would certainly not be the last,
unless of course his comrade froze his dick off by courtesy of an
extra-cold gust of wind straight from Siberia or was taken out by a
well-aimed shot from a hostile weapon, which were both reasonable
enough things to hope for, out here at the Eastern Front, but Günther
didn’t want to get his hopes up. So far he had not been that lucky,
and his comrade seemed eager to prove himself an embodiment of the
three virtues the Führer had demanded of them, be tough as leather
(who in their right mind would expose his genitals at this
temperature), hard as steel (the quality of his erection left nothing
to be desired) and (thankfully) also fast as a grey hound (in that he
never lasted particularly long), and like all the times before
Günther closed his eyes, thought of his sweetheart back home and
hoped for it to be over soon.

@reichblr-ficathon

A comrade kisses
the frozen blood staining his chin in the half light, crouched near him on a spread
of canvass meant to keep the cold from out their bones amidst a graveyard
cluttered with the stink of oil and rust, stray pieces of machinery
and, what terrifies him most, that gentle touch he knows is a debt
that must be paid back.

You’re so beautiful, Günther
hears it murmured against his still, so still body (please, in his
stillness let him leach away to an architecture of nothing, to the
abandoned guns, to the slaughtered, splintered landscape of dead
trees and frozen arms of fallen men that may as well be branches of
the same)  and he
knows the price he will pay for hearing that confession; predictable
when it is his gentle whisperer who ratchets
his body off the ground by a rough thrust of fingers, shovelling snow
and ice deep into his ass, ignoring his screams and weak thrashing,
grinning at the other men.

Until
he breaks and begs, fuck
me, (any scrap of warmth to sooth the aching, cramp inside him) the
words barely it past his chattering teeth, proving who has been
at fault here all along.