The Führer sat in the enormous armchair, drinking from his small china tea-cup, that looked ridiculously small in his large trembling hand, and Goebbels’ found himself unable to look away from him; how much he tries to appear relaxed, when his stress and fear are clearly showing, how he tries to appear strong and unmoved in such dire times like this; it’s astonishing how the Führer does all of this just to not worry others, which is sad because all of them know that the war is lost and all of this is just a bittersweet end to the Third Reich.

Hitler meets his eyes and Goebbels is too startled to look away in time; their eyes lock and there’s an unspoken understanding between them, but Joseph is unsure how deep does this mutual feeling goes; does Adolf look at him this way just to acknowledge their hopeless situation and the insincerity of this supposedly relaxing afternoon tea, or are his morals already thrown away (since death is near and there’s nothing else to lose) and he recognizes exactly what his Minister feels towards him?

Joseph is bewitched by that wise blue gaze, and he’s just so hopeful and sure that in these last days of their lives his Führer finally realizes the depths of his feelings, and Goebbels’ does not restrain himself; his own trembling hand finds itself on top of the older man’s, his voice a choked-up whisper of “I always have”, as if he’s continuing an unspoken conversation, to which his Führer reacts in bewilderment, quickly yanking his hand out from under the other man’s.

@reichblr-ficathon

Hitler x Reader

cyanide-party:

For the @reichblr-ficathon “Three Sentence” challenge.

Your romantic history is short, almost nonexistent, and he likes this about you, it’s the reason he decides to hunt you down; and he doesn’t even have to bring it up in conversation because the way you fidget and blush and stumble through your silly, innocent responses to his less than innocent advances, it’s clear to him that you’re far from your element, that you’ve never even heard these words before–and that, by this simple math, no man has ever been inside you.

So he’s soft with you, he’s gentle with you, he hides his teeth from you and kisses the back of your hands and the inside of your wrists, and he murmurs into your ear pretty words about your enticing, enviable beauty as you sit beside him, the two of you alone in his den; and you can’t help but lean into him because his breath against your neck is very warm, it makes your skin buzz and tingle in a way you’ve never felt before, ticklish almost, yet oddly addicting; and you want more of it, more of him, so much more.

He welcomes this response, it’s predictable and it’s exactly what he wants; and he becomes a little less soft with you, a little less gentle in his handling of you as he draws you in closer, as he pulls your head back by your hair, as he presses his mouth to your neck; and you remember how you were warned, you were warned the moment they noticed his interest in you, they told you he was a predator; but you allow him to sink his teeth into your neck anyway, to make you gasp, whimper and writhe like the delicate little white lamb that you are.