biting

aus-der-traum:

Skorzeny
sees the contempt in Kaltenbrunner’s face as Schellenberg reaches
tentative fingers the trace the curve of his scar as clear and bright
as a signal flare, though Walter is either blind or dazzled by the
stories he is murmuring about the song of two blades meeting and the
hot, piercing flash of your skin splitting open, a wash of blood to
grin through and the whispered adulation of brotherly hands on
bandages.

Even
when Ernst unsheathes his dagger and turns the edge against Walter’s
cheek and offers to give him a mark to be proud of himself – and
Otto knows that what Ernst no doubt dreams of doing is pulling their
little comrade onto his tiptoes by the hair and forcing the blade past his teeth, to cut away his easy way with words and knack for
politesse – Walter simply smiles until Otto puts his hand on
Ernst’s sleeve and shakes his head: you know that
isn’t how it works.

But then there
are no rules about the weapons of their teeth and Walter bears up
very bravely once they have stripped him down and set about him until the taste of blood lies thick in both their mouths.

biting

aus-der-traum:

Röhm’s favourite
pub is an aggressive punch to Hermann’s senses and perhaps it’s that,
the dark buzz murmuring through the bittersweet air, black tables
sticky with a varnish of stale beer and shoulder jostling against
shoulder, that his nose is attuned at once to the story Ernst is
telling him, while Goebbels is at the bar grinning from ear to ear
and patting the entourage of SA lads surrounding him on the back –

(a story that
unwinds as thus: Goebbels ambling up, all pensive frown and
exaggerated concern, informing Röhm very solemnly he has it on good
authority that Röhrbein is a homosexual – a
fact he seems eager to make clear is complete news to him and well
what would he know
about that sort of thing anyway)

–
Röhm’s knowing smirk as he watches Goebbels too and Hermann’s
nostrils flare as a dozen scraps of whispered rumour settle into
place and the view of little Joseph beaming there, such obvious
prey amongst a pack of predators, ignites a fire in his belly; easily
sparked from the cocktail of drugs coursing through his system and
months of stoking glances at a dainty neck and elegant wrists.

Naturally
Goebbels tries to protest when he corners him in the bathroom,
latching the door behind him (though a significant glance at a good,
loyal boy standing outside is enough to guarantee no disturbances)
but Hermann has no doubt now to what degree the whore has been
spreading his legs and tells Goebbels just as much as he throws him
down on the tiled floor and fights him out of his trousers; pushes
into him, deep, in a single brutal stroke, leans down to use his
mouth on the stretch of neck being offered up to him, thrusting as he
does it, working up to a swift rhythm, fucking him with such bruising
force that Goebbels’ slight body slides a hand’s span on the tiled
floor each time he slams into him.

Snapped
buttons from Goebbels’ collar rattle on the floor, Hermann rips his
shirt to the side to bite again, harder, one animal holding another
in place
– Goebbels’ spare sounds of pain echo off the walls but the way his
body arches seems to be making a present of itself and Hermann’s
hunger to press his teeth into his flesh is more immediate even than
the need to keep squeezing his cock into the exquisitely tight clench
of his arse, so he stays there buried to the hilt, savaging him while
Goebbels’ hands clutch at his lapels and he trembles and keens like
something brought down in the forest.  

daemon AU

aus-der-traum:

Everyone busies themselves with stirring their coffee and steadfastly avoiding the slightest glance toward the corner of the room where Ursula (Hermann’s dæmon: a plump, sleek-furred raccoon with a magisterial, entitled strut to her pawsteps that more than match Göring

himself) has given one final, determined wriggle of her rear end before pouncing on the fluttering form of Goebbels’ dæmon Aello, clasping the tiny sparrow between her clever, greedy hands. 

Someone coughs and tries to draw the conversation onto some boisterous subject that will make it easier for them all to politely ignore how Goebbels’ stream of chatter has clattered to a sudden halt; to pretend that they don’t see the flush of pink painted across his face or notice the smug, lazy smile that’s spread across

Göring’s and certainly they’re all too preoccupied to pick up on the subtle sound of a soft raccoon tongue lapping away at a bundle of paralysed feathers. 

No one dares to challenge Göring‘s behaviour in his own kingdom and afterwards, if it is mentioned at all, it will be with a vague air and an appeal to eccentricity and a shared unspoken agreement there was no choked off whimper from the little doctor when Ursula had clambered into Hermann’s lap, allowed him pluck the trembling sparrow from her jaws and enclose it in his heavy fist.