This Christmas no one shall want for art or fic!

[tisiph0ne]

Winter Relief asks for kind donations for kinksters comrades in need! 

 

Leave prompts if you are in need of spiritual nourishment. 

 

Fill prompts by submitting visual art or fic on Christmas Eve (or Christmas Day if you don't want to adhere to German customs).

 

Naughty or nice, all flavours are welcome.

 

Your generosity is much appreciated!

 

🎄 🎁 🎅 ❄️

Rough guidelines:

1. Prompts must be submitted on anon (click 'more options'). 
2. We suggest to submit 3-5 prompts per person. (Deadline: Thursday, 12.12. 23:59 CET)
3. Everyone who submits a prompt promises to post at least one fill.
4. Fills can be art or fic. Fic should be 300 words or longer.
5. Multiple fills are welcome.
6. Please post at least one fill off-anon if at all possible. Thank you :)

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

panzer orgy

[peiperkrieg]

Kriegsweihnachten | Christmas in war times

[(Anonymous)]

At the front or at home. In the city, in the countryside. From a soldier's perspective, a mother's, a wife's, a child's. Religious, non-religious. Christian or pagan. Is there a little Christmas spirit? Is it very bleak? Is it cold? Is there a warming fire? What's for food? Are there presents? Something wonderful? Something dreadful? Love, death, despair, comfort...

Crime & Punishment

[(Anonymous)]

Retribution / revenge / penance / forgiveness – someone has to pay for their (real, alleged, fictitious) sins...

forbidden fruit

[(Anonymous)]

the irresistible lure of what's taboo

The winner(s) of our "vote for an emoji" poll: 🦴❄️

[(Anonymous)]

(Doesn't necessarily translate to boning in the snow... all interpretations are welcome.)

[(Anonymous)]

A nice hot bath

A hot bath and a cold razor

[tisiph0ne]

He takes a bath every Tuesday and Friday before dinner and he is tempted to do it every single time.

Sometimes, after undressing, he will braces himself on the wash basin for a moment and careful not to as much as glance at the mirror – he can't bear seeing his scrawny body reflected back at him – he will open the drawer. He'll pick up his straight razor, unfold it, look at the blade, gleaming sharp and enticing in the dim bathroom light. He shouldn't have it in the first place. He's using a safety razor for shaving – for all sorts of safety, not least to avoid temptation.
Sometimes he will go as far as to take the razor with him, put it on the small table next to the tub before he gets into the water.

Tonight is one of those days. He's cold and exhausted and, for lack of a better word, sad. Misery holds him fast in her cruel claws, and he can't help thinking how he longs to put a stop to his suffering.
It would be so easy to end it.

The water engulfs him, soft and hot, as he slides into the bath, melting the chilliness from his limbs. Berlin winters are cold, the east wind merciless, and his fragile body has no padding to protect him from its bite. No matter how tightly he wraps himself in his coat, he can never quite keep the warmth from slipping away and his fingers from turning to ice. Perhaps he burns too bright, his thoughts too passionate, his dreams too feverish, to leave enough energy for his body to stay warm.

Most times that notion is enough to reassure him he has a place in this world, a purpose. But every now and then doubt prevails. Turns into knowledge. Turns into certainty.

What a sad excuse for a man he is, really. An embarrassment to their great nation. He would not survive a single day in the wild, much less on the battlefield. He's too feeble, too broken to live.

It's what makes him reach for the blade, again and again. But he is weak in every way. He can't muster the courage to do it. He is too much of a coward to put an end to his misery.

Instead, he comes up with excuses, things to live for, clutching at them with the strength of a drowning man – his passion for the cause, the hot fervour of a speech, the thunderous applause, the soothing glow of importance, the heady sensation of praise. But there's more to it than that, isn't there? His life isn't just about intellectual, abstract gratification – unspeakable what that would imply! No, he is made from flesh and blood after all, and he yearns for physical pleasure much as the next man.

He turns the razor between his fingers as he contemplates the bliss of sharing a bed, the soft skin of a woman against his, the divine warmth of her mouth, the silky heat of her cunt. Perfection. But there are smaller delights he cherishes too – the cheerful crackling of a fire, the memory of the scorching summer sun, warm sand between his toes, the sweet burn of a sip of brandy, even the tar-black bitterness of coffee and the fiery scratch of cigarette smoke when he pulls it down into his lungs.

He could give up on all that, open his veins with a few quick slashes, bleed out into the hot water. It'd be almost painless, he assumes. Just slip away quietly. It'd feel like coming full circle, crawling back into a mother's womb.

He drops the blade, suddenly disgusted with himself.

It won't prevent him from returning to this train of thought at a later time, but for now he looks forwards to a drink and a hearty meal and the sweltering temperature of the dining room, then bed after that, cozy and soft. Or perhaps he can call on his mistress later.

The thought warms him in a way no bath ever could. It coils searing hot in the pit of his stomach. A flare of desire rushes through him, making his cock twitch and harden. All cold and misery forgotten, he wraps his right hand around the stiffening flesh, giving himself a well-deserved stroke. After all, he earned it.

And just like that, he is his usual self again...

[(Anonymous)]

Something with Wehrmacht priests

[(Anonymous)]

The classic officer/prisoner scenario, specifically with a prisoner promoted to a comfortable position and pitted between survival and ostracization from former community. Put a holiday twist on it if you can

[(Anonymous)]

Painted skulls in a long lost ossuary nestled in the depths of a snow covered mountain await their next visitor....

[(Anonymous)]

A panzer crew separated from their battalion in the dead of winter, huddled around their dwindling campfire.

when he nothing shines upon

[tisiph0ne]

The sky was pitch black, a dull nothing stretching out above them. Emil knew he should be thankful about the clouds – clear nights were even colder – but he missed the stars. He wanted to see their cruel twinkle just one more time.

He doubted they'd make it through the night. At least Otto wouldn't. He had stopped screaming after the morphine had taken effect. It had been all they could do for him. Rudi was with him now, holding his hand, telling him everything would be all right.

What an ugly way to go, dying slowly of a shot in the stomach on a godforsaken field so far from home.

Emil wouldn't wish that upon his worst enemy. None of them would. It had not taken them long to include the wish for a clean death in their night time prayers. Too few of them were granted that mercy.

To the other side of their small, dwindling fire, their commander tried to keep Paulchen warm. The youngest of their crew, a boy still, sat between his legs, his teeth chattering, his eyes wide. He was too delicate for the climate, much less for war, and he always had been. A pretty little thing with wheat-blond hair and bright-blue eyes, their Untersturmführer had taken an instant liking to him.

“He cares for him like a father,” they used to say whenever someone from a different tank crew had insinuated sinister motives.

Untersturmführer Werner König was a decent commander. He didn't deserve such slander.

Or at least that's what they had thought. Now Emil wasn't so sure anymore. The way their commander touched little Paul left no doubt about the nature of their relationship. He held him in a lover's embrace, the mouth close to his ear as he whispered words encouragement and endearment.

It was too late to care about that, too. From the looks of it, Paulchen wouldn't leave this damn field any more than Otto. The cold had taken hold of his scrawny body, spreading up his fingers and toes.

Emil had seen enough frostbite over the last year to know how it looked, like porcelain at first, almost pretty, then the blackness of dying tissue. He had seen the shivering, the chatter of teeth, and the illusion of heat that was a side effect of freezing. Men had torn off their hats and scarves and gloves, offering their flesh to winter like a sacrifice.

Why not give poor Paulchen a little comfort in his last hours, Emil thought as he looked away. They would face judgement for their actions soon enough.

The fire was already dying, the flames licking weakly at the wood. One of them would have to go deeper into the birch grove to get some more, and there was no question who would be that one.

Laboriously, Emil scrambled to his feet. His own limbs were heavy with cold and exhaustion.

“I'm gonna go and look for more fire wood,” he said, stumbling off without waiting for a response.

His heart grew lighter when he left the dying behind. It felt like a weight had been lifted. A thought crept up on him that he had forbidden himself for the last hours, ever since they had realized their battalion was gone: Perhaps he could make it to safety on his own.

It already seemed warmer between the trees, almost balmy. In the crisp cold air, there was a first whiff of spring. Emil took a deep breath as he made his way through the grove. He moved slowly, carefully, not to stumble over roots or collide with a low hanging brunch, but after a while the darkness seem to grew lighter. The tree trunks grew more distinct, black silhouettes against a foggy grey.

Emil couldn't have said how much time had passed when he saw something he hadn't reckoned with. There was a little hut a few yards ahead, nestled between the birches. It stood on stilts that reminded Emil of something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Chicken feet, he thought as he came closer. How odd.

The hut exuded the strangest of smells, alluring and repelling at the same time. As though drawn by an invisible string, Emil stepped up to the door and raised his hand to knock against it...

[(Anonymous)]

Ritual slaughter for the winter solstice

[(Anonymous)]

The great dark pillars of evergreen groan and shriek as the wind harries them, their pines needles bristling painted pretty in ice or on the ground, churned up by tank tracks into the muddy earth or pristine, undisturbed ice and the sky above so grey and empty and featureless, terror incognita. All around us the hush or howling of the forest. No place that exists on a map, despite our superiors pouring over one badly dog-eared map after another in their flapping, makeshift tent.

Our sacrifice knows, just as we do, this place exists outside the bounds. Rising from his knees and wiping the frozen blood from his chin, I wonder how it felt to him to know that he would not die in his own country. We crowd him in a circle and our shadows cast long and dark, mixing with the sway of the trees themselves. The sun is slowly setting, leaving an orange dazzling glitter over the ice by our bloody boots. The blood dripping from his nose freezes where he falls, the cold sucking the colour from him. Pretty, nonetheless.

I want to put my hand to his cheek, to feel those rough, chapped lips under my thumb and tell him of the honour of his sacrifice, but he would not understand. Besides, already there are those fidgeting back and forth and trying to melt snow out of the gelid, grey water in our supplies, those who do not want to chance an investigation into what 'willing' means too much.

It's a useful circle of woodland we've found, not something of our own making. Something the faeries or trolls left, the earth loamy beneath that crinkle of ice, good for planting. It smells fresh and cold and clean. It makes me think of my father and walking out at dawn to attend to the farm. When we pin him down there he begins to weep. No one looks away, the shadows drifting over him will attack us as viciously as him if we don't do this. Our officer's lanterns blink somewhere a little away, we understand they know what needs to be done too.

After on the bloody ice, our feet slipping in the unravelling viscera of the lad opened, we know this has made the difference. We gaze at the steam rising up and sigh in concert. Someone offers a prayer to travel with dissipating heat of that body.

Unrequited love turning reciprocal

[(Anonymous)]

A platonic pairing turning into reality after the other party starts seeing things from another perspective. Preferably between the inner circle, Hitler x Goebbels at best but anything works
Link

Temptation and seduction

[(Anonymous)]

Irresistible passion leading to the impossible happening - an SA/SS soldier and one from the inner circle

Pieces from the past

[(Anonymous)]

A fragment from the past catching up. A meeting with an old friend or lover. A glance into the what could have happened in another life with different choices. Could be anyone, SS, SA, Wehrmacht, Luftwaffe, inner circle, Hitler himself.

[(Anonymous)]

Huge cock peering through brown breeches, admiration and envy

Presents

[(Anonymous)]

Himmler getting Heydrich a very special gift for Christmas. Or vice versa. Maybe it's a welcome gift or maybe the exact opposite, intentional or otherwise.

Alternatively: another subordinate getting either Himmler or Heydrich a gift in the hopes of currying favour.

[(Anonymous)]

Göring visiting the Goebbels' household to spoil the children with sweets and bring festive cheer, post-Carin's death and before Edda has been born. Any sort of Göring/Goebbels element would be delightful but not necessary.

[(Anonymous)]

An SA or SS escort witnessing his superiors in some incredibly inappropriate behaviour, POV of the SA/SS man - whether they notice that he's caught them is up to you.

[ungefug]

It’s 1942, five days to Christmas, the office Yuletide party coming to an end, long past midnight and I’m walking down the long dark hallway of the office looking for the boss to pick him up, drive him home and return him to his concerned wife. There is this long hallway leading up to his office, tall heavy wooden doors left and right and just at the end the hallway makes a right turn and that’s where his office is and a dim light shines the way. I didn’t have a single drop of alcohol, never do if I can avoid it and duty makes for a good excuse. It’s not intoxication but that clarity of mind which changes my perception of the dark building and transforms the brutal architecture of a mundane office into a temple of paper. My steps fall quiet, leather soles on marble flooring. Slowly I walk by every closed door, ready to halt and disappear into the darkness as a black-clothed spectre if one were to open, but none do and I sneak forward towards the light, and the office is cold and empty and seems much older than it is. Faintly I can still hear the music from downstairs, muffled and blending with the noise of the remaining guests, their babbling and bellowing laughter, distant rites of superficiality. As I approach the corner, the noise has died down almost completely. Suddenly I hear a moan, a man’s voice, my boss. It sounds raspy and sexual. The image of him engaged with some secretary impresses itself on my mind. Deeply repulsed I take a step back and press myself to the wall like a boy hiding from the monster of his subconscious. I am unsure how to proceed: disturb him in the act with all of the embarrassment and disgust it would entail or wait the matter out and have to listen to the whole ordeal? As I think these options over I hear the rustling of clothing and another moan, a man’s voice, not my boss. I glance around the corner. The curtains are drawn shut, the room is lit by a single lamp on the enormous desk in the otherwise sparsely furnished room. There is my boss, tall blond guy, used to be Sturmabteilung, used to be built like a house, a real model Aryan, but the stress of the war, poor thing, made him fatten up and grey at the temples. He’s sitting on the edge of the desk, side towards me, leaning backwards and pressed to his body, held close by his big arms he’s got another man and he’s got his tongue in the man’s mouth. I don’t recognise the other guy, he’s a good head shorter than my boss and half his weight; Schutzstaffel too, but wearing field grey. He’s on tiptoes to make their bodies meet at the middle. They are grinding into each other, rustling uniforms, belts clicking, boots slipping and sliding. There isn’t an inch of space between them. I can’t see if they got their cocks out, I imagine they must have, judging by the noise the boss is making. He’s panting, almost whining, when the smaller one starts grinding into him with the rhythmic movements of copulation. “God, Horst, fuck, goddammit, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, losing control of his voice, slipping into dialect. He's leaning back now on his big arms, head thrown back, cheeks flushed, the posture of a smitten lady and Horst is pumping his hips into him. His long thin fingers squeeze between them, he's opening their flies. In an entirely out of place and rather comically timed observation I notice Horst's tabs and that Horst is far outranked by my boss just as the two men bring their cocks together. I know they can't see me in the darkness, so I watch them as if I was watching the breeding of a grotesquely mismatched pair of pedigree dogs, hardly believing that they are capable of mating, yet all the more fascinated by the disturbing sight. They rub their cocks together for a while, my boss making all sorts of undignified noise, and I, feeling the pressure in my pants, lazily rub myself through the front of my trousers. Suddenly my boss pushes Horst away in a gesture that I initially mistake for a panicked change of mind. For a moment Horst stands there on thin unsteady legs, deep shadows on his gaunt face, fully decorated uniform gleaming and a wet swollen cock peeking out of his breeches. Then the boss falls to his knees, scrambling forward with such haste you'd think Himmler himself was at his heels, only to bury his face in the other man's trousers and swallow his prick down to the base with a wet slurping sound that makes me worry that the contents of his swollen belly will come up again. But evidently he can take a dick. Horst holds him by the back of the head and pumps into his mouth while my boss, taking some special delight in this uncouth treatment, jerks himself off and very quickly spill all over the good carpet. He's still lazily milking his own cock when Horst finishes in his mouth. He gargles the spunk like mouthwash before swallowing it down.
I wait a moment for them to pull themselves back together to a halfway respectable state, or at least to tug their cocks back in, before I politely knock and waltz in with a knowing smirk, which only a couple weeks later earns me a much deserved promotion.

[(Anonymous)]

After hours drinking session at the RHSA, a good amount of alcohol later and when the topic turns to interesting methods of interrogation, actual or hypothetical, the conversation turns decidedly enthusiastic and temperatures begin to rise.

Not Just for Christmas

[(Anonymous)]

Kurt Meyer dealing with his dog being accidentally killed in action - whatever way he needs to take that out.

[(Anonymous)]

Public use

[(Anonymous)]

A young HJ boy and his hero-worship of an older officer, or perhaps Hitler himself.

I'm an idiot + there is a character limit for comments, its 16000 characters

[(Anonymous)]

Srry deleted the wrong comment. Mea culpa. Also, warning for underage & sexual assault in the following fill.