Tag: hermann göring

daemon AU

aus-der-traum:

The sunlight streams through the lace covering the windows in a
dappled pattern, sending all the cream of the wainscotting and the
blue of the rugs into a washed out haze, dust motes drifting through
the air, all that white and bleached periwinkle
like a photograph left out for years in the sun and they’re  both
still as the figures in a photograph too, Carin in her chair and him
on the floor beside it, his legs tucked under himself – those legs
are going dead and the air is thickening to treacle (even those specs
of dust, in suspended animation now) but Carin’s skin, her wrist,
draped over the arm of the chair, remains so vibrant he cannot tear
his eyes away and his mouth parts slightly as he thinks of pressing
the tip of his tongue to her pulse there, just for one moment.

The plush, stocky body of Ragnar, Carin’s
wildcat daemon
reclines on a little patch of floor where the sun is beating in
hardest, in the relative shadows nearby Ursula has her nose to the
floor, snuffling around, creeping slowly around the perimeter with
her tail in the air and her little paws making small incursions,
drawing back, scuffling forward again, all the while Ragnar’s tail
lilts dreamily from side to side and his eyes are half closed in
pleasure from the warmth beating down on his belly.

Hermann lets out a little sigh and when Carin’s
eyes meet his he finds he’s clenching his jaw so hard it hurts and it
does hurt,
not the grinding of his teeth but how badly he wants to confess that
the only word he can think to describe her is ‘goddess’, that no one
has ever made him feel this way, amazing that someone could matter more than
him, that if she would only give him one single, intimate touch, he
would be hers, utterly, forever and as he’s staring up at her,
feeling like a small boy, Ursula pounces on Ragnar and is instantly
swatted away by those large, heavy paws, swatted and then pounced on
herself at the same as Carin pushes off one of her shoes and presses
her foot into Hermann’s groin and tells him, stay.

@reichblr-ficathon

an unexpected present

aus-der-traum:

Goebbels
is rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth, pensive, over
and over; behind his knuckles there’s a long, down-turned scowl and in
fact his entire face aches with the intensity with which he’s glaring
at the small (oh but it’s not so small really, is it, how could it
be?) wooden box on the table and eventually he slaps his hands down
on either side and pushes himself up from his seat and makes a
limping circuit of the room, checks the door is locked for the third
time that hour and returns back to his desk and touches the brass clasp
on the box, then the brass face of the rotary phone besides it, the
first number to get through to

Göring,  already half composing the
stunning invective he could unleash upon him, each perfectly pointed
barb and the sharp satisfaction that would shatter in an instant as
soon as the static silence was broken again by Göring’s indulgent
chuckle and what would come after, such a temper, little sparrow,
they’ve had enough ‘interesting conversations’ over the months
for him to know how he’d be left debrided of all his indignation, his
tongue disarmed, red faced and aching.

He
unlatches the box for the third time (boxes, locks, cigarettes chain smoked, all done in sets of threes), flips open the top and touches the…object inside:
how, he wonders, as if

Göring

doesn’t have an unnatural knack
for getting his hands on anything he desires (a slight shiver at
that, phantom pains, the recollection of finger-points of pressure on
his skin) and now this bespoke…marital aid (he shouldn’t have shied
away from a more vulgar term, the euphemism makes him blush harder) a
beautifully carved, deeply burnished wooden replica of Göring’s
erect cock, nestled in a bed of green velvet – he picks it up,
hefts the weight of it in his hand, smooth, heavy as a bludgeon,
closes his fingers around it in a fist and strokes from the base to
the tip and then glances up guiltily, eyes darting around the room as
though he’s afraid that someone might be watching.  

On
the floor and stripped from the waist down (another rattle of the
door handle just in case) he’s got two oiled fingers slowly working
inside of himself, eyes closed and the thought of

Göring’s
conversational tone when he had asked him earlier that week how often
in the day does he think about being put on his belly, spreading his
legs for him, and he’s on his stomach now, cheek rubbing against the
carpet as he tries to find the right angle to push this wooden cock
inside him, panting, frustrated, crawling up onto his hands and
knees, so much pressure, the oil makes his hands slip on the wood and it
won’t fit in and he gives a little sob because he needs it, wants it,
must have it filling him all the way up inside but all there is, is
this bruising pain as he pushes and pushes and nothing gives way and
his fingers slip again and he stops, sweating, cursing, tugs sharply at his
own hair and then grabs the things and sits down on it with all his
weight where with a blinding pulse of pain that completely takes his
breath away, he’s left wide eyed and slack mouthed and and clenching
around the unforgiving, thick shaft of wood stretching him open.

@reichblr-ficathon

first time

aus-der-traum:

Hermann didn’t understand what prompted Bruno to change his mind about the thing (being fucked up the arse), but he wouldn’t argue, no, Bruno knew what he wanted, more importantly: what he wanted Hermann to do, and the mere mention of it, the way the words came over his lips with a frown – “I have decided that you may penetrate me, now” –  like a legally binding obligation, it made the blood rush to his cock.

His riding crop was still on the table when Bruno braced against the edge of it and he was in full uniform, buttoned up to his chin, only the hat he had left at the door, and like a disobedient cadet bracing for a caning he pulled his trousers down just enough to allow Hermann to push his fat cock between the slim thighs (their slimness did not hinder the friction as Hermann could make up for it with the size of his cock), and Hermann wanted fuck him like that first, slow, intimate and gentle – while he collected spit in his mouth to rub on himself for lack of lube, again and again, no amount of it seemingly sufficient to cover his entire length, but Bruno would not settle for less. “you wanted to sodomize me,” he said, “now do it.” 

Bruno’s cock hung flaccid between his legs, he was holding on to the edge of the table, his knuckles turned white, he was trembling and with every fraction of an inch that Hermann managed to squeeze into his arse, he got tenser, tighter, biting his lips harder, sweating cold from the pain of it, and the horror of the feeling, to be so very stretched, his insides incapable of making space for that monster, it felt like a stake was being driven into him and it looked like that too, and Hermann felt so very sorry, he placed kisses on the back of Bruno’s neck but Bruno shook them off, slowly like a dying man would swat flies and through gritted teeth he snarled at Hermann to get on with it and fuck him like he wanted to be fucked himself.

@reichblr-ficathon

First kiss

aus-der-traum:

aus-der-traum:

He should have
noticed earlier perhaps but he’s so used to being the centre of
attention (and he’s so keen on it too) it felt like Udet was only
paying him the respect he was due; but then one night, after perhaps
one drink too many the way he stares at him becomes so blatant even Hermann can’t
interpret it as anything else than the moonstruck longing of a
lovesick puppy. And just as it
begins to dawn on him what is going on, Udet finally plucks up the courage to
lean in and press his lips to Hermann’s mouth, only briefly, hardly
more than a dry bashful peck but it makes his intentions abundantly
clear and for a moment Hermann considers this, considers him: the
bright eyes and pert nose and expressive mouth, the line of it more
tempting than he would have thought, or perhaps it’s only that now that he knows what’s on
offer it’s become irresistible and he doesn’t think twice but reaches out to cup
Ernst’s jaw in his hand and pull him forwards into a proper kiss, and
Ernst can’t believe his luck for a second, he stares at Hermann
incredulously but then, once the moment of shock has passed, he opens
his mouth only to eagerly for Hermann’s curious lips and lets himself
be thoroughly kissed. He sighs when Hermann pushes his tongue into
his mouth and slides it along his, wetly, hungrily, and soon he’s
clutching at the lapels of Hermann’s uniform jacket, clutching at him
as if his life depended on it, holding fast, and kisses him back like
a drowning man gasping for air.

@reichblr-ficathon

The
quick, hot, panting catch of their shared breath make the air of the
room thrum around them, it seems as though he merely blinks and Ernst
has already clambered fully onto his lap, his urgent, eager little
hands pawing with clumsy enthusiasm all over him (he pushes his palm
so roughly down Hermann’s chest he catches his finger on the sharp edge
of a medal and yelps in wounded surprise before almost instantly
forgetting the small hurt) as he presses his whole little body so
hungrily into each kiss that they teeter for a moment and then
Hermann finds himself on his back, Ernst staring down on top of him
with wide eyes. He looks a trifle dazed, like a dreamer who finds
himself suddenly awake, but Hermann grins and digs his fingers into
the nape of Ernst’s neck and yanks him back down into the kiss while
his other hand works between the squeeze of their two bodies and with
blind determination into the front of Ernst’s trousers, whose tongue
stills in his mouth as he gasps and when Hermann murmurs for him to,
take
them off, the
gasp stutters into a boyish whimper.

Ernst’s nods with such rapid
little bobs of his head it might have been amusing in other
circumstances, now it just makes Hermann’s hips twitch up against the
warm body weighing them down as Ernst fumbles with his trousers and
then, a moment of hesitation and Hermann can see the way his friend
has sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, the shuddering intake of
breath, but he’s no patience to wait and puts his own hands over
Ernst’s and tugs the waistband down around his thighs – Ernst’s
cock springs up against his belly at once, stiff as anything, such a
sweet little thing (and it is
little, just as compact as Ernst himself, short and pink and slender,
his balls in perfect proportion and pulled so tight to his body they
hardly seem to hang at all) that Hermann can’t help running his
tongue over his mouth at the sight, but it’s only when he curses,
fuck,
that’s nice,
that he hears Ernst exhale above him in relief and looks up to see a
wide, bashful smile blooming on Ernst’s face before he’s being
dive bombed with kisses once again.

@reichblr-ficathon

neither the time nor the place

aus-der-traum:

Göring

has a preference for swiftly turning matters from the theoretical to
the practical and from the imagined to the physical and if Goebbels
desperately attempts to preoccupy himself with thinking of it in such
bloodless terms (it would be 

Göring’s hand beneath the conference
table, slipping from Goebbels’ knee, up the in-seam of his trousers
and cupping him firmly between the legs as he leans toward him as
though in deep and pensive conversation) he can almost keep his
expression blank; while his hand makes a stiff, damp fist around his
pen and the heat in his lap swells with instant, throbbing urgency
and the quiet voices of the other men in the room seem to recede even
further behind the roar of his own heartbeat.

“Naturally
that’s all it takes, even here,”

Göring

murmurs and clucks
his tongue softly as he gives one final squeeze and Goebbels feels
lobotomised, unable to focus on the papers before him, on anything
besides his own erection, paying no heed to what

Göring

is scrawling
down until the note is slid in front of him and Hermann raps upon it
with his knuckle; Goebbels feels the fat beads of wetness welling at
the tip of his cock, threatening to spill past his foreskin as he
sits, jaw clamped, letting the instructions printed there sink in –
excuse yourself to the bathroom and take care of that, you filthy
little beast, quickly – and don’t think of
neglecting to lick it all up once you’re done.

Five
minutes later he has his wrist in his mouth and his sweat-slick hand
moving in a blur up and down his jutting red cock as he sits on the
latrine, eyes screwed shut as if he could hide from the utter
indignity of his frantic tugging, a flush prickling his skin from head
to foot, his toes making the cotton of his socks squeak as they curl
in his shoes, knowing what it makes him that he did not refuse this
and worse, how that knowledge pulls the shuddering knot of arousal
so deep and ferocious in his belly it hardly takes a minute for him
to spill in violent spurts over his shaking, salted palm, helpless against the need to wallow in his own shame and imagining all eyes on
him as he returns, somehow knowing – though hardly a head is
raised when he enters, only

Göring

smirks and moves the water
bottle aside when he reaches for it, sniffing the air a little before
telling him, well done, so that Goebbels spends the rest of
the meeting with his hand pressed ‘thoughtfully’ over his mouth.

@reichblr-ficathon

tongue-tied

aus-der-traum:

Letting
Hermann do the talking has never been the tricky part of any venture
and Udet just sticks his tongue into the pocket of his cheek and
observes as

Göring introduces him to the man he has been staying
with, a Captain Beaumont
(fortuitous happenstance the British pilot Hermann had
shown such hospitality to after he’d been shot down over their lines
is here now in Munich and doing very well for himself – fortuitous,
Hermann’s word, though offered airily and in the manner of one
who generally expects fate to shine upon him and thus is not
particularly grateful or surprised when it does) who welcomes Ernst
in excellent German and a curiously apologetic smile.

It
takes until his third night enjoying Beaumont’s effusive generosity
that he realises, passing by a door left carelessly ajar: there is
Hermann, one leg hooked over the arm of a chair, his clothes
dishevelled and pulled open to display a gleaming swathe of his chest
– he’s sitting sprawled like it’s a throne, every line of his body
imperious but most of all in the cold curl of his mouth as he stares
down at Beaumont kneeling before him, begging (Ernst can hear it
now, the sheer shock of the sight that had deafened his senses
softening) a litany of desperate pleas falling from

Beaumont’s

lips as his
fingers creep tentatively up Hermann’s leg to where the creases in
his trousers twist across his thigh and the indistinct
shadow of his erection.

The
next morning when Beaumont hands Hermann a wad of banknotes, you
chaps go get yourself a good breakfast, he
must have stared a little too long, for Hermann meets his gaze and
frowns a moment before a dimple appears on either cheek and his
mouth twists as if he’s trying to stop himself from erupting into
laughter – all the way down to the cafe Ernst feels as though with
each breath the questions, comments, accusations, tumbling around in
his chest will finally burst forth but when Hermann arches an eyebrow
at him and enquires, something
on your mind, Ernst, he
merely shakes his head.

@reichblr-ficathon

skinny dipping

aus-der-traum:

Goebbels wonders at first, as he lights his cigarette and thinks of wildfires
(the warm paper settling in the warmer V of two fingers, skin bone
dry and the brief flare of the matchstick almost unbearable in the
sticky heat) if Göring is going to press the
issue and bully him out of his buttoned up shirt, insist upon his invitation to disrobe and slip into the cool, deep waters of the lake alongside him with the brute force Goebbels knows he is both capable and willing to use. 

Instead
Göring shrugs and rises from his deckchair, undresses without
apparent care and stands there with his hands resting on the shelf of his
round hips, unabashed, surveying his domain while a bead of sweat
rolls down Goebbels’ temple and he fidgets in his seat – even in
Summer he’s usually so cold, but perhaps all of Göring’s attentive
persistence that he stays
well fed this weekend (his, finish
your plate, Joseph, ah now don’t fuss, his,
come
here you need to try this, his,
of
course you have room for something more and these came all the way from
Paris) has
stoked his little furnace more than usual.

Tentatively
Goebbels stands and after a breath begins to methodically work his
tie loose, staring at the rough planks before his feet as he removes and folds each
item; acutely aware of the breeze as it caresses his bare skin and
the feel of Göring’s eyes there too, quite sure it isn’t sunstroke
making his cheeks burn before, finally, naked as the day he was born, he turns a nervous, toothy smile
toward Göring who touches him briefly, gently on the hip and helps him wade unsteadily into the lake, laughing fondly at his sigh of pleasure as the water laps up his body and oh
it really does feel like bliss.

tease and denial

aus-der-traum:

Goebbels’
self-conscious, skittish displays of reluctance beg for new, rough
seductions each time; to have his jaw pried open for Göring’s tongue, to be
forcefully wrenched down onto the bed and restrained where his restless, solipsistic
neediness can finally find a match in the equally unquenchable force
of

Göring’s own selfish demands – laid bare
as a pretty thing to be fondled, an aid for Hermann’s relaxation, just like the pills he swallows once he’s tied the last knot and settles down amidst the silk and overstuffed pillows to find his serenity once more.

It may be hours
and hours until that event and by that time Goebbels’ stiff bobbing
cock will be burnished deep-red as a ruby, drooling precome in thick
silver strings and his body all aglow with sweat (his lips chapped
from licking them over and over once he’s given up begging, given up
gasping even, since Hermann doesn’t like to use a gag, prefers to
feed him the salty mess that’s pouring from his prick or listen to how his
arguments for release break down – Goebbels has a lovely timbre to
his oration even when he’s pleading and besides, Hermann can see how
it only torments the little doctor further with arousal to hear himself beg
and be ignored) all hope of mercy lost and his whole world
concentrated in the agonising pulse of his untouched shaft, hard for so long and denied even one firm full stroke that would give an ounce of relief from the deep, bruised feeling radiating from it with every breath.

Göring

likes to
trace a very slick, feathering touch (just the pad of one grazing
finger, the barest hint of friction) around the corona of Goebbels’ desperately throbbing cock head
and exhale slowly, peacefully, waiting until the frustrated member has stopped
twitching toward his hand (mere millimetres away) then tap
the sweet spot right underneath until there are tears streaming down
Goebbels’ cheeks and he can recline and watch the light dazzle in
them as they fall, rolling Goebbels’ heavy, tight balls in his palm with a
contented sigh, his scent, what a rich, animal
smell, mixing sweetly with the perfume of the linens.