Bronze sheen of sweat on his bared chest, and the eyes of boyish innocence, merely a reflection of the sky above, bright, so very bright, glaze of drug mania melting into eyeball whites. He coughs up a bit of blood, wheezing like a cat struggling to get out a hairball. “You’ll be fine”, Peiper says (his hand in Werner’s, kneeling by his side) and Werner smiles with blood speckled lips and grape juice stained teeth and he calls him Jochen under his breath as if the medic wasn’t allowed to hear.
Tag: fill
sudden insatiable lust in the face of impending death
There’s only one house still standing on the village when we arrive, painfully navigating through holes and mounds of cold mud bearing the recent traces of tank treads. The white wall is stained brown with dirt. Many vertical trails of blood have drawn gruesome arrows pointing to a pile of naked corpses. The gleaming ashes surround us, the crackling noise of charred wood and the cortege of odours, from the nauseating smell of flesh to the smoke that weaves itself in our clothes and follows us from village to village. On the wall, in black paint, I see german words that I don’t understand.
We stop there, as night is not so far away. As I smoke with my comrades I hear my officer swearing, and he storms out of the house dragging behind him the tiny frame of a childish soldier.
Dirty blond hair and greyish blue eyes, he stands silent with a vacant look on his face. He looks right and left, slowly, register who he’s surrounded with and starts breathing heavily. I’ve seen shell shocked youth before. He’s a striking picture of it. Was he abandoned by his men?
At some point, a semblance of realization must had dawned upon him as he was hiding in that house, knowing what was to come. He pathetically tried to rip off the insignias from his uniform. The eagle hangs on his chest, the swastika still holding it to the rough fabric. The eagle flaps around as the kid’s breath comes out erratically.
Get rid of him, my officer says. I take the kid by the arm and I walk away.
–
The very image of passivity laid bare under my glare. The little soldier of saintly appearance looks at me through eyes of frosted glass. Sometimes he loses his focus, shakes himself back into consciousness then drifts away again. I lightly slap his cheek until his look locks into mine. There’s no defiance, no honour, no anger in it. Is there still someone behind those tired eyelids?
My knee between his legs and my hands around his neck have him pinned against a tree. I could tie him there, bind his eyes and have our own little duet of improvised execution. I’d say a few platitudes solemnly, take a few steps back, and fire. Perhaps he’d beg a bit, and I would not understand him, nor would I care.
There’s no point on putting any strength or resolve on my hands. I’m not strangling a man fighting for his life, kicking and biting, rolling on the floor with spite. I’m merely putting a kitten to sleep. My gloved fingers interlocked around the thin neck, an embroidering of leather over the perfect peachy white. I take my right glove off and shove it on my pocket, wanting a more personal knackery for this german cattle. I feel his pulse with my thumb, dig my fingers under the jaw on that sweet spot of velvety skin.
I take my time to squeeze, ever so slowly. His breathing becomes painful, I look down on his chest where the eagle still hangs miserably, to his shaking legs and muddy leather boots. My knee rubs between his legs and I hear him whimpering. I look at his face. On the blackened orbits, sunken eyes starting to rekindle, as if by choking him I was breathing back life into his brain. The little drowned soldier rises to the surface as I tighten my grasp, he starts to wriggle around but my grip is too strong for him. He’s red all over his pathetic face, a lovely contrast with his white hands holding my wrists as he weakly fights back. His reddened eyes look for mine as little choked noises come out of his mouth, opening and closing slowly like some pathetic fish out of its pond.
Fillets of drool stretch between his lips and give a morbid gleam to his perfect white teeth, the teeth of a well fed kid, and I’m overcome by a sudden rush of hate. I squeeze harder until I can feel the cartilage rings of his windpipe rolling under the pad of my thumb. I spit on his cheek and it rolls down, joining the stream of snot coming out of his nose as he sobs like a little lamb astray. My hands are covered with the viscous mixture, turning pink where my nails have raked his skin, drawing blood.
His grip on my wrists becomes stiff, and he stares at me, a long and troubling gaze. His eyelashes are dewy with tears, crumbling under their weight, a grotesque infant with sticky eyes.
Under his half closed eyelids I notice a change of expression. Fear has left, and he looks at me as if I was as tall as the sun, as if I towered him immensely. Animal need disguised as ecstasy, he reminds me of those church icons where saints look upward, look towards something I never saw with my own eyes, but that’s what I’ve become for the little soldier.
I let go of his ruined neck and he drops on his knees instantly with a disheartening noise. Slowly, he wipes his face, soiling his entire right sleeve, then the left one to finish the job, focusing on cleaning his eyes. I look at the black uniform covered in white trails, like snail slime, like sperm. It’s disgusting in a way that fills me with a roaring thunder of pride, a cruelty fit to the divine. I crouch down a bit, face to face.
His torn up hat falls off when I nudge his sweaty temple with the frozen maw of my handgun. Rub the weapon, twist the thin hair growing there. I cup his chin with my other hand, a gloved finger resting under his cracked lower lip and I tilt his head up. It gives him an almost comical look, somewhere between pensive and doubtful, when I look at his mouth. He moans, wordlessly begging me. He’s still catching his breath but he does it in a disciplined way, slowly, seductively. His tongue, a red omen of what’s to come, rests on the floor of his mouth as he pants, lust overcoming him on an intense and vulgar way. A few words come out, in a disorganized flurry, and I don’t have to understand them to know what they mean. Kill me, break me, they say.
I let his head go and he slowly tilts it upward as I get up, careful not to break his gaze. My gun is still resting at his temple. I put my hand on the back of his neck, pet him a bit until his eyes lower submissively and he presses against my crotch.
I feel honoured in a way. Never thought I’d get to embody both death and love in a single day.
He shouldn’t enjoy it so much…
He knew it was unbecoming of him to enjoy it so much, that flustered red hot shame that crossed the haughty face of Himmler’s golden boy at the slightest insinuation that perhaps he was the one enjoying their little game too much. Just a prodding comment breathed into his ear as they boarded the train behind their masters. And it was only that, just a game. Like a cat with a cornered mouse, Wünsche relished the moment when the upper hand was seized and his prey was powerless and quivering with nervous energy at his feet. With Peiper looking up at him through his thick eyelashes, knees to the floor of a train compartment cramped with discarded overcoats and briefcases, Wünsche knew that he himself was enjoying that submissively anticipatory stare far too much, the tightness of his trousers was proof enough of that. The heat of the other man’s mouth against his cock and the flurry of desperate fingers at the closures brought a smirk to his lips that bared his teeth like a predator; his little mouse was enjoying their game and wanted more. In a sudden jerking movement, he yanked Peiper’s head back by a fist full of perfectly parted hair, the slighter man flushing at the sound of protest that rolled off his tongue that only made the blond’s smirk grow more feral. Just as suddenly, Wünsche released his hair, smoothing it down gently like one would a child, the smirk ever present as he surveyed the sight before him. “Oh, you are enjoying this aren’t you? Far too much, perhaps…” his voice trailed off as he shoved Peiper away, stepping around him coyly, buttoning and smoothing his uniform back to standard. It’s all a game. And as much as he enjoyed cornering the mouse, he enjoyed the power of leaving him in a heap, and so desperate to please, just that much more.
Bent over a desk
It wasn’t hard for him to press her against the conference table, her petite form overpowered by his hulking stature. He could feel her turn to putty under his nicotine-stained hands, and he could smell her already, her body betraying her horror but also her arousal.
It reminded him of his student days, when the greatest prize was to fuck a girl on the head table in the Kneipe, the one covered with the fraternity’s flag. He had done it many a time, not caring whether the other Burschen walked in on them or not. The floor would be sticky with spilled beer, the taxidermied fox would act as a voyeur from the top of the upright piano, and the sounds of the party would fade into the background as he took his pleasure from yet another pretty but nameless young woman.
His mind returned to the present then as the girl moaned against the mahogany tabletop – from delight or embarrassment he wasn’t sure. The others would be back at any moment, that they both knew, and it only served to make him fuck her harder, wishing he could tear the svelte Helferin’s uniform from her body and eat her bare flesh alive with his eyes.
Her perfect dark jacket was soiled as he came, not wishing to have another child on the way (not when he was already awaiting the arrival of extramarital twins), and she was a pathetic sight to behold as he did up his breeches. Slumped there, her legs shaking, used and sweating and gasping like some sort of animal.
He lit a Chesterfield, turning to enjoy a smoke break in the hall. Let the others come and find such an innocent little stenographer in such a state. “Heaven forbid they come back and see you like this.” he sneered, shutting the door behind him, knowing full well that she would still be there, still clear in her shame, when he and his colleagues returned.
the wound is the place where the light enters you
A flash of light, the snap of a gun. Scalding heat like blades of the sun rips through cloth and punctures your skin. It settles, a ball of pain in your guts, and through the gaps you run out red-hot. Much too bright, the boreal whites, blinding your sight, and your ears drowning with the chiming of bells, their distant little whispers. Your last breath is stuck somewhere between larynx and tongue. And quietly you dissipate into soil.
Gender bent Peiper/Wünsche
It was half past three in the morning when Peiper found Wünsche lying on the bathroom floor, sprawled out and nearly bursting out of her tight little dress. Of course Wünsche had been out again, drinking with the boys. The length of her skirt (or lack thereof) attested to it. It must have barely come down to her knees when she was standing at the bar to order her third drink on some fool’s bill, flashing her thighs while she was dancing with a pretty boy (or two or three), and riding up into her lap when she sat down between them, legs crossed and her head thrown back, drawing every eye with loud laughter and the promise of her flesh. Now she was paying for her lack of discipline, helpless as she was in her pathetic state, half passed out and barely able to open her eyes, but still moaning all the louder when Peiper straddled her and stroked her firm breasts through the velvety fabric of her dress and when Peiper caressed the soft inside of her thighs and pushed her soiled panties aside and slid a finger into her wet cunt. She was loose and sore and reeked of cock. She took four fingers to the knuckles and Peiper fucked her with them until she whimpered like a dog and her legs trembled and she pissed herself. Once more affirmed in her disgust for that woman Peiper left her lying in the puddle of her own urine for someone else to take care of in the morning.
Punishment administered by Kurt Meyer
The first blow comes as a surprise, it wipes the smile off Max’s face leaving only a comical disbelief, childlike, a boy who had his sweets nabbed from sticky fingers. Before Max can beg to know why he deserves to be beaten (he surely must deserve it) Kurt hits him again and again, heavy handed slaps to the face, cold precision that makes his cheeks burn and his ego sting. All too quickly he finds himself crouching at Kurt’s feet, staring up at him with tears in his eyes and snot dripping from his nose, waiting for Kurt to smile again, to laugh and pat him on the head and to tell him that all is forgiven, but no, not yet, he will have to endure a little longer.
Visiting a headstone.
She knelt on the damp, mossy ground, resting her face against the top of the cool granite stone, simple and fitting for a soldier. It was the closest thing she had, this little memorial, for his earthly remains rested far away in foreign soil, in the harsh expanse of the East.
“He looks just like you, Gerd. He smiles like you and he laughs like you, and… every day, it’s like you’re still here somehow.” Bitter tears rolled down her cheeks, the tragedy too much to bear.
“I wish you could have met him.” she whispered sadly, collecting herself momentarily before breaking down again. Had he known, as he lay there dying, that his longed-for son was being born? Had he known that those were the last hours of his life? That he would never see her again, never hold his child, never see Jürgen grow up?
She knew it wasn’t true, but at night when she lay awake and wept softly so as not to wake the boy, she wondered if she was cursed. Was that the price she had to pay: to lose her husband to gain her son?
The only comfort came in the reports that he was stoic and collected to the end – every bit an officer. That was a point of pride, a small consolation. He had died a hero’s death, with a cigarette between his lips and his trademark stubbornness intact, giving orders to his men even as his pulse weakened. He had died with honor, for the Fatherland and for the Volk.
For them.
She loved the scars on his body
This razor-thin trace along his cheekbone, the ridge at his temple, the nick behind his hairline – all evidence of those heady days as a student, flushed with beer and optimism, his whole life ahead of him and his courage written in the blood that splashed across his opponent’s blade.
She kisses them softly, her fingers tracing the jagged wound across his chest, her nails following the path of the surgeon’s scalpel, feeling the beating of his heart, so close to where the shrapnel had pierced his skin. He stirs briefly in his sleep, unaware of the angel watching over him, his battered body weary, at peace only in unconsciousness. The flawed skin spoke of strength and of resilience, of discipline and bravery.
What could be more beautiful in a man?
Symmetry.
The real question on her mind was, for how long had he been thinking about the two of them like this? Days? Weeks? Months? When had the language in his mind moved from “her and him” onto “her with him”? The first time he’d taken her fingers in his own and placed his lips against the back of her hand, had he been imagining what it would feel like to place them against her mouth instead? His eyes had certainly left the possibility behind for her to pick up and take home with her that night. A gift that had seemed to be very intentional.
Or perhaps these ruminations had started the day he began to let those kisses linger against her skin just a second too long to be considered typical, to be considered normal. To be considered appropriate. The day he began to permanently dismantle the already impure innocence of their friendship, slowly and carefully, piece by piece by piece. As piece after piece was kicked away and left to fall between the cracks of the floorboards, forever lost, leaving their innocence without a way to ever be rebuilt.
That had seemed to be very intentional too.
The real question on his mind was, for how long had she been thinking about the two of them like this? Since the moment they met? When had the scene in her mind changed from “him and her” into “him with her”? The first time his knee had accidentally found hers under the surface of the table, had she been imagining what it would feel like to have her knees riding his hips as she lay on her back beneath his body instead? Her eyes had certainly offered up the fantasy for him to feast upon when he’d finally grown too hungry for her that night. An offering that had proven to be downright irresistible.
Or perhaps these ruminations had started the day she began to linger in the shop long after the closing hour. He was used to people turning spellbound under his eyes, but she had apparently found herself equally bewitched by how his lips and his tongue worked together as he talked. How he managed to whittle away the sharp edges of their language, and purr from the back of his throat with the gentle sounds of old romance as he promised “Ich werde morgen Abend zurückkommen.”
That had proven to be downright irresistible too.
But how had his thoughts compared to her own? How had his days compared to her own? Hours and hours of her life consumed by a deep red light and the harsh aroma of chemicals, only to finally emerge from the shadows with a colorless facsimile of their most beloved and their most feared client. The lines were all there, inhumanly precise, the angles of his face clear and unmistakable. Yet the photographs never developed faithfully.
They were not perfect. And to her immense frustration she knew they never, ever would be.
But she was determined to fix that. The world would eventually consider him to be made of more than just the black and the white.
But how had her thoughts compared to his own? How had her nights compared to his own? Hours and hours of his life consumed by a growing collection of little pink slips of paper covered in lines of soft, feminine words he’d already read a hundred times over, likely more. At first, the prurient intimacy he’d quickly developed with these notes was enough. The reveries were fresh and bright, and they were colorful enough to keep his attentions shackled to himself. But then they began to dull. And fade. And he needed them to be rawer, so much rawer, so he recklessly went at them with a knife, cutting and cutting and cutting until there was no more color left to bleed.
Suddenly, they were not enough. And to his immense frustration, he knew they never, ever would be.
But he was determined to fix that. The dimensions and the details of this woman who freely and skillfully manipulated the shape of his desires would eventually be rooted not in opinion, but in irrefutable fact.
Reichblr Ficathon 