someone is having cake (and it’s not Göring for a change)

consideratemesserschmitt:

Walter images he’s back in the cosy little cafe he was sitting in that morning, watch ticking at his wrist, taking time away as he waits for his contact to arrive and dwindling hope they’ll bring something tasty enough to feed to Heydrich – the kind of intelligence that would light a fire under his superior and lead to a late night at the office rather than this; drinks and dancing girls and Heydrich’s displeasure as the clock hand moves past midnight and it’s just the two of them left alone.

They had a cabinet full of cakes and pastries in that cafe, pretty, delicious looking things and if he tries his best he can occupy up his mind with a craving for that: the sugar rush, the double hit of sweet and fat, his mouth filled with the sticky cloy of treacle soaked sponge, soft palate syruped, thick coating the back of his throat – a pleasant way to be stuffed, he could have ordered the lot, his mouth’s not been this full since –

“Fuck, Schellenberg, you’re greedier than a whore,” Heydrich huffs above him. “Keep still…your tongue, let me feel….yes….now give me your throat…”

on a collar and leash

rubidus-hepta:

That old
dog collar must hurt you so bad, the leather creases are filled brown by the
abrasive dust they gathered with time, and I see how it tugs harshly at your neck with every
painful breath you take.

You’re on
your hands and knees on that dreadful trench, your usually pristine uniform that
you care about with so much misplaced pride is now soaked with mud retching of
decay, piss and the stale smell of thunder rain gone bad with diseases.

I give a
sharp pull on your leash and you lose your balance, the clayish soil too slippery
for you to grab into as you fall face first in a large puddle and I quickly rub
my boot on the back of your head, see your hair getting ripped by the cold
unforgiving nails of the sole, and I keep it there until the bubbling stops on
the oily surface of that nauseating water.

playing so rough with your toy you break it

aus-der-traum:

They dragged the girl out from under a half-collapsed table in a place that had once been a kitchen with good china and expensive silverware and was now bombed into a pile of rubble cooped up by the toothlike remains of its walls. She had lain still and played dead, quiet like a fawn, and they had only found her because a nice auntie had pointed them to where she was hiding in exchange for her own skin. They thought the little thing was a boy at first, as she was dressed in a tattered boy’s uniform, with dirt in her face and her long braids hidden under a military type cap, but when they ripped the clothing off her body she cried like a girl and they took her like a woman, each man tearing her a little more until their little toy broke and they threw it away where they had found it.

@reichblr-ficathon