Dieter Hellstrom & Alexander
Warning : Power imbalance, rank dynamics,hair pulling, threats of death.
Dieter closed the distance with a terrifying lack of haste, and the air in the office seemed to lose its transparency, taking on the density and staleness of a crypt. Hellstrom didn't just approach, he collapsed into Alexander’s space like a storm shadow, cutting off all avenues of retreat. Keller did not flinch. Only his gaze, falsely submissive slid across the desk, coming to rest on the unfolded staff maps.
— " Look at the map, Keller. See this sector?" — Dieter’s voice rustled right against his ear, devoid of any human warmth, as flat and dispassionate as a death sentence.
In the next second, a weight settled on the back of Alexander’s head. The leather glove felt like a foreign, dead object against his skin. Dieter’s fingers wove slowly, with a kind of perverted tenderness, into the dark red strands, a gesture that might have seemed like a caress if not for the steel-like spasm that immediately followed.
A jerk. The thick paper responded with a dry, short crunch. Alexander felt the cold gloss of the map against his face, the sharp scent of printer’s ink hit his nose, mixed with the pungent aroma of boot wax and something else, heavy, animalistic, profoundly alien. The ring on Dieter’s finger, cold and ruthless, dug into the back of his head like a brand.
Alexander did not resist. He turned to stone. Only his breath hitched for a moment before becoming measured and quiet again. His body had surrendered before his mind could even grasp the scale of the humiliation, but his mind greedily drank in the details. He inventoried every gram of pressure, every degree of the tilt, recording Dieter’s position behind his back as if drafting a blueprint for future slaughter.
— "This is where they will catch you and hang you," — Dieter said in a near-whisper.
The whisper was more terrifying than a scream. The fingers on his nape tightened even further, testing the fragility of the cervical vertebrae, checking how easily the thread of this worthless life might snap.
— "In this square, your body will dangle in the wind until the birds peck out your eyes..." — Dieter paused, savoring the finale. — "...If you aren't a good soldier."
Alexander stared into the map. The point into which he had been pressed was seared into his memory. He marked it like a scar. It wasn't Dieter's anger that frightened him, it was this stability that paralyzed him. The Sturmbannführer’s hand did not shake. Violence was not an outburst for him, but a natural habitat and that was the worst discovery of all.
Dieter increased the pressure. Dust from the desk's surface touched Alexander’s lips, the dry, dead taste of another man's office.
— "And a good soldier, Keller..." — Hellstrom leaned lower, and his breath, warm and commanding, brushed against Alexander's exposed neck.
Alexander’s body reacted instantly. It wasn't fear, but rather a crystal-clear, distilled revulsion that was impossible to hide, yet must not be allowed to break through.
— "...knows how to follow orders before they are even spoken. Do you hear me?"—
Alexander nodded slowly, as much as the few millimeters allowed by the fist clenched in his hair would permit. Inside him, there was no longer fear or submission. There, an icy thirst for the strike was taking shape. He was calculating the trajectory, gauging the force, searching for that exact vulnerable spot beneath the jaw or between the ribs. He knew that when the time came, he would not waver.
Dieter did not let go. He held Alexander in that pose of frozen shame, savoring his power like a long, drawn-out sip of wine. Alexander allowed it to last. He waited. Dogs know how to wait. But predators know how to wait even longer.
