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kindkitPorn! I haven't written porn in ages! And this story was just meant to be a ficlet, something to post while I work on a longer story for another square in another fandom, but it ended up being (by my standards) fairly substantial.
The thing is, Secret Army is a fandom of one: me. And since I am vain and like people to read my stories, I've written up a little introduction with what you need to know for this story to make sense. You can skip it if you like, and if you would rather watch the relevant episode instead (please do, oh please, at least enough to see the characters interact) it's viewable starting here on YT.
Secret Army, which ran for three series in the late 1970s on the BBC, is about the activities of a Belgian group called "Lifeline" which helps downed Allied airmen to escape. The first series is great, although bleak, and I recommend it; I stopped watching halfway through the second series as the tone began to be dominated by writer and script editor John Brason's obsessive anti-communism. Incidentally, 'Allo 'Allo started out as a Secret Army parody, and watching Secret Army if you've already seen 'Allo 'Allo can be an odd experience at first.
My story is set during episode 1x04, "Child's Play," and because the episode is fairly self-contained, you don't need to know much about the rest of the show. I do want to introduce you to the episode's main characters and basic plot, though.
This is Major Erwin Brandt:
He's a decorated Luftwaffe officer, formerly aircrew and now working in intelligence. His job is to discover and break the escape lines. Although he's forced to work with/under the Gestapo, he dislikes them and tries to behave honorably towards both civilian suspects and Allied prisoners of war.
In "Child's Play," an article published in an American magazine leads Brandt to believe he might be able to trace and shut down a route used to take airmen over the Pyrenees and into Spain, so he's given permission to travel to the south of France.
In France, Brandt enlists the help of Malaud, the head of the local gendarmerie. Malaud used to live and work in Paris, but a run-in with the Gestapo (they thought he was obstructing one of their investigations and tortured him to encourage his cooperation) led to his being transferred to the Spanish border and more or less left to rot. Colditz watchers may note that Malaud is played by Ian McCulloch, who played Larry Page in Colditz.
Here's Malaud and Brandt's first encounter:
Brandt was having a wash after his journey when Malaud knocked, and Brandt answered the door half dressed. As you do. (When I rewatched this episode, having not watched Secret Army for a long time and thus forgotten many details, I got to the washing scene and thought, "OMG, this must be the episode Arden Winch wrote!" And sure enough, it was. Winch was a writer with a brilliant grasp of dialogue and characterization, and also an amiable fondness for writing scenes in which semi-dressed men stand around and talk to each other, usually while washing. A lot of the homoeroticism of shows like Colditz and Wings is found in Winch's episodes, and "Child's Play" is the only slashy episode of Secret Army.)
So, anyway, Brandt and Malaud have a tense conversation in Brandt's hotel room:
Brandt's dressing gown is very . . . purple. Note also the book, Herman Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund. It's (a) wildly homoerotic and (b) illegal, Hesse's books having been banned by the Nazis because Hesse opposed anti-semitism. I can't read the title of the book in Malaud's hand, but I suspect it's similarly interesting.
Malaud agrees to help Brandt, not because he wants to catch Allied airmen but because he wants to catch the smugglers who help them for a price. Eventually, it's Malaud who figures out where the safe house must be, and he rushes over in the middle of the night to tell Brandt about it. This time, he gets Brandt out of bed:
Previously, Malaud had demanded payment for each captured airman. Now he says he doesn't want money. Instead, he wants a souvenir, and he takes it from Brandt's uniform. Remember the first picture of Brandt? The top decoration on the left side of his chest (that is, Brandt's left), the long metal bar, is the Front Flying Clasp, awarded for a certain number of operational missions. I think it's the bronze one (20 missions) although it could conceivably be the gold (100 missions). That's what Malaud takes, joking that he's going to put it in a frame:
Having finally struck a bargain, the two start discussing plans for the next day. And that's pretty much where my story begins.
Title: Occupying Forces
Fandom: Secret Army
Pairing: Malaud/Brandt
Rating: Explicit
Word count: 2733
Kink: Power exchange. (Used to be called "Masters, doms, subs, and slaves," and the Kink Wiki entry hasn't been fully updated to reflect the new terminology and scope.)
Content notes: No standard notes apply. Kink and sex are consensual but not exactly thoroughly negotiated. References (not very explicit) to one character having been tortured. Period-appropriate homophobic and sexist language.
Summary: The urge to command, the urge to resist, and the urge to surrender.
Notes: See above for fandom background. The stuff about German prohibitions (and not) against male/male sex is accurate to the best of my knowledge.
"That seems to be that," Malaud says when he and Brandt have worked out the details of tomorrow's raid on the Cuvillier farmhouse. "Whatever shall we do until morning?"
Brandt hesitates over the map he's been folding. "Personally, I should like to get a few more hours' sleep."
Malaud waits until Brandt has to look up at him, then says, "No, you wouldn't."
Brandt springs like a jack-in-the-box into his usual ramrod-spined German posture. "I know you'd be delighted to sit up drinking my cognac, Malaud, but - "
"Why haven't you tied your dressing gown properly?"
"What?"
"You're flaunting your body like a Marseille whore." Malaud takes a step towards him; Brandt moves back, tugging without much effect at the edges of the dressing gown.
"What on earth do you - you knocked on my door in the middle of the night, you can hardly blame me for not being dressed!"
"You answered the door half naked. Second time you've done that. In fact, every time I see you, you manage to be a little undressed, even if it's only removing your jacket or rolling up your sleeves."
The flush high on Brandt's cheeks could pass for anger if he didn't have a matching flush just under the hollow of his throat. Amazing that Germans can lie at all when their Nordic skins blush like that. "You - revolting, with such insinuations!" Brandt's French momentarily loses its fluency. He sounds like a comedy German from before the war, when it wasn't illegal to make fun of Germans. "What do you mean, saying these things? You could be shot."
"Oh, not me. We inferior races are welcome to bugger ourselves into extinction. It's only good Aryan pricks that have to stay out of holes that can't make good Aryan babies." Malaud picks up Brandt's copy of Narziss und Goldmund. Back when Malaud was a Parisian who read books instead of a country gendarme who fails to catch smugglers, he read it in translation. It's a lot of queerness barely disguised as mysticism, and the Nazis banned it in Germany years ago. He turns from the book to Brandt and raises an eyebrow. "They might shoot you, though."
"I think that the word of a decorated German officer, a married man with children, by the way, would be taken over that of a disgraced French policeman who drinks too much." Brandt plucks the book out of Malaud's hands and sets it down. The panic has gone out of him. He's brave, there's no denying that.
"Probably. Fortunately for me, I don't want to have you shot."
"What do you want, then, Malaud?"
"Maybe another little souvenir, to go with your . . . what's it called?" Malaud takes the badge out of his pocket and holds it under the desk lamp's light. He picked it because it was the gaudiest thing on Brandt's uniform, and therefore likely the most important.
"Front Flying Clasp. Bronze, for twenty operational missions. I flew forty-six missions, actually, before I was seconded to intelligence," Brandt adds, boasting--uncharacteristically, Malaud thinks--to prove himself a man. "Not quite enough to qualify for the silver one. In any case, you may not have more of my uniform."
It's time, Malaud thinks, to stop this dancing around. Brandt won't say it, probably can't, and that's why he needs a man like Malaud. Malaud drops the Flying Clasp back into his pocket and gives Brandt a long look, a slow smile that he's been told is intimidating. "Then let me fuck you. It's what we both want."
For a few breaths Brandt stands rigidly, a sentry at some frontier of decision. He swallows and takes a step closer, then stops and shakes his head. "It's too dangerous."
"I won't tell."
"So you say."
"Telling would do me no good. Your lot wouldn't shoot me for fucking a Frenchman, but I hear they get a bit shirty about seducing members of the master race." Malaud curls his fingers in Brandt's purple dressing gown, which is about one degree more masculine than frilly knickers, and pulls him forward until their bodies touch. "And this is war, and my smugglers or your Resistance could shoot us both tomorrow."
"I haven't . . . not for a long time." Brandt comes to rest against him, passive, accepting. "Yes."
"Good lad," he murmurs, and feels Brandt shiver. Yes, that's what Brandt likes. He must have felt it in Malaud, the other side of it, and that's why he's been so damned provocative. "Now, let me have a good look at what's mine." Brandt stirs, takes an audible breath, and for a moment Malaud thinks he's said too much, too soon. Brandt's a man of authority, and however much he wants to forget it all and be fucked like a virgin choirboy, he may need to be led to it little by little.
"Come on," Malaud says, gentler this time, as he unties the black silk belt himself and pushes the gown off Brandt's shoulders. "Let me see you." Finally Brandt lowers his arms, letting go his hold on Malaud's waist, and the gown slips away. Through Brandt's thin pyjama bottoms, the outline of his hardening prick is obvious. "Pyjamas too," Malaud says. Brandt's eyes turn away, but he does as he's told.
He's good looking in his stern way, with a lean build that suits his thin poised face, but some muscle too. Malaud's glad. He likes a proper man under him, not a frail flower. And the signs of middle age--those muscles aren't as firm as they once were, and there's a hint of soft flesh at Brandt's waist--oddly make Malaud want him all the more. Perfect bodies are for farm boys and private soldiers; Brandt looks like a man who gives orders. "Not bad," he says to Brandt, who's been standing almost to attention. Even his prick. "And mine. Right?"
"For now." As much of a surrender as Malaud's going to get, at least until things are further along.
"Now's good enough for me," he answers, and runs his hands appraisingly over Brandt's flesh. He doesn't touch Brandt's prick yet, but he looks down and sees that it's growing redder, more eager. Planting both hands on Brandt's arse, he pulls the man tight against his body and kisses him. At first he's not sure if Brandt will accept it, but he pries at Brandt with his lips and tongue until Brandt lets him in. I will have all of you, he thinks, and tells Brandt so by parting his buttocks enough to bare him entirely, reminding him that he'll be opened and taken. Brandt makes a sound that is not protest.
"Well," Malaud says, breaking off the kiss and whispering in Brandt's ear, "I think we understand each other." It sets Brandt to trembling again, and more so when Malaud sucks on his earlobe. Interesting. Anything too forceful, too crudely dominating, makes Brandt resist; it's gentleness that undoes him. What he craves and fears is to surrender without a fight.
Malaud had been thinking of keeping his uniform on while they fucked, maybe even putting his gloves back on. For powerlessness, there's nothing like being naked when someone else is dressed. The Gestapo know it; they made Malaud strip before they asked him a single question. But Brandt . . . Brandt's afraid of his own desire, afraid of how it feels to be desired. Afraid of how badly he wants men to want him. "Undress me," Malaud says, taking a step back. Brandt stares at him, blinking, idiotic with lust and startlement. "I said undress me. Don't be coy, pretty thing." Oh, how Brandt hates that, how he loves it. There's a brief, writhing shudder. "Look at me now. Undress me and look at me."
Malaud doesn't help at all as Brandt unfastens and removes all the layers of his uniform. Even for the boots, he only lifts each foot a little. Brandt has to kneel. Brandt doesn't caress him; his fingers are impersonal, like a servant's (or so Malaud, who has never had a servant, supposes). His breathing is strange, though, and his prick, when Malaud catches a glimpse of it, is as hard as ever. "Look at me," Malaud insists once he too is naked. "Watch what I'm doing." He drops a hand to his own prick, which is stiffening but not quite hard, and begins to stroke. "Don't you like the sight of it? Not as pretty as yours - " Brandt turns fiercely red from the belly up " - but it'll do the job just like you want it to. It's going to give you the fuck you're needing." He takes Brandt's unresisting hand and places it on the shaft. "Feel nice? You'll like it even better inside." Brandt, without prompting, strokes him, half-leaning on Malaud's chest and staring down to watch his work. It's what Malaud thought would happen--take enough, push Brandt just enough but not too much, and then he'll give of his own free will.
Malaud leads him to the bed and settles him face down on it. Then he has to go back to where his uniform is crumpled on the floor, because in the trouser pocket, next to Brandt's Front Flying Clasp, is the vial of oil he brought with him in the hope that he'd been reading Brandt right. He can't fuck Brandt dry; pain's no part of what's happening between them, and Malaud doesn't much care for pain anyway.
Brandt, of course, notices, his mind snapping back on as soon as Malaud's attention is distracted. "You were damn sure of yourself."
"Yes," Malaud says, calmly and softly. "I was." That quells Brandt, who folds his arms over the pillow and lays his head on them. Malaud crouches on the bed, tilting Brandt's face up, and kisses him awkwardly but deeply before spreading Brandt's thighs and kneeling between them. He oils his prick, running his free hand over Brandt's rather flat arse and his smooth, pale lower back, and Brandt tilts his hips up, offering.
Getting inside him is like all the rest of it with Brandt: at first a little pressure's needed. Brandt is tight as hell and he tenses so much that Malaud nearly pulls out, but then he exhales a sigh and opens, letting Malaud possess him as fully as anatomy allows. "Good," Malaud says, "good, good," and begins to fuck. He takes a long time at it, making himself go slowly, changing positions every so often to break the rhythm and keep from coming, and all the while Brandt lets himself be moved about however Malaud likes. From kneeling between Brandt's legs, Malaud lies flat on top of him, sucking his ears and making him gasp; rolls onto his side, bringing Brandt with him; nudges Brandt onto his hands and knees; and then kneels upright, holding Brandt to his chest so that Brandt's back arches like a female cat's when a tom is at her. Then, at last, Malaud puts his hand on Brandt's prick; Brandt mewls like a cat, too. "Yes, shhh, I know just what you need." Malaud works him for a little while, stokes the flame until Brandt has melted away and there's nothing but a hot, pliant body.
And then he stops. Brandt whimpers through clenched teeth. When Malaud pulls out, he manages a word that could be "what?" or "why?"
"Turn over, pretty. Turn over for me." All the rest has been a softening-up, like interrogation. He could do anything with Brandt now, and he wants Brandt to see that knowledge on his face. He wants to see Brandt realise.
Brandt turns, and Malaud kisses him for a long time, until Brandt is clinging, desperate, and Malaud frankly isn't much better off. He slicks a little more oil on his prick, pushes Brandt's thighs up and back, and is inside him again. Brandt's eyes are closed, his mouth open. "Look at me." When Brandt obeys, Malaud says, "You're mine. Your body is mine."
"I - "
Malaud pins his wrists one-handed (he's off balance and Brandt could throw him off easily, but he doesn't, of course he doesn't) and thrusts slowly, staring into his eyes. Soon Brandt is biting his lip, and then Malaud runs a thumb over the head of his prick. "You're mine."
"I - yes, yes, oh fuck, yes . . . "
"Yes. Will you let me fuck you again if I want to?"
"Yes."
"Do you want me to fuck you again? Will you burn for me?" Malaud is moving his circled thumb and forefinger over the head of Brandt's prick, not enough to make him come but enough to make him need it.
"Yes! Oh - "
Malaud lets his wrists go, and Brandt doesn't even move them. His eyes have closed again. Malaud puts his hand close to Brandt's face and says, "Look at me. Open your eyes, look at my hand." Brandt, panting, obeys, though his eyes can barely focus. "Look at what the Gestapo did to me." Malaud's fingers are still bruised, the flesh almost raw at the tips, the new nails white and babyish.
"I - I - " Panic crosses Brandt's face, warring with pleasure and the submission Malaud has awoken in him.
"Shhh, I know it's not your fault. You'd never hurt me, would you?" Malaud pushes down a spiking fear that if this goes wrong, Brandt is very likely to hurt him, and very soon too. "That's not what you want from a man like me, to hurt him." He lays his ugly, purple fingers on Brandt's cheek. "Kiss my hand."
Brandt looks at him, wide-eyed; Malaud thrusts deeply into him, letting the circle of his fingers slide down Brandt's shaft. And Brandt turns his head and kisses the palm of Malaud's hand. He keeps kissing it, holding it between his own hands, kissing the backs of the fingers as though Malaud is a king or a cardinal, kissing the damaged fingertips, finally taking two of Malaud's fingers into his mouth and sucking on them. The only expression on his face is mindless ecstasy. He comes moments later, mouth closing tight on Malaud's fingers while his arse spasms around Malaud's prick and his semen covers Malaud's other hand. Malaud groans, simple physical need overwhelming him, and thrusts a few more times before orgasm breaks like a lightning storm.
For a little while Brandt lies quiet beneath him, as though all wars are finished, as though Brandt is really his. Soon, though, Brandt pushes him away. As strongly as Brandt needs to surrender, he only needs it with part of his nature. If he'd been otherwise, Malaud would never have wanted him.
Malaud gets up, washes himself quickly, and starts to dress. The sky is getting light. It would make sense, in a practical way, for him and Brandt to review their plans together over some bread and coffee. But that's impossible. They've got to separate now and meet again, in a hour, as Inspector Malaud and Major Brandt.
Malaud slips out of the door without saying anything, and hears Brandt lock it behind him. He touches the Flying Clasp in his pocket, his souvenir. He'll never fuck Brandt again, of course. Brandt will never be his, never was his, but sweet Christ it was good to make him say it. Good for Brandt, too, he hopes. He likes Brandt more than he'd thought he could. Brandt's interesting, all his twists and turns and knots and puzzles, and if there was only more time, different time, what a pleasure to explore him.
Malaud catches himself and grins disgustedly. He never used to be this sentimental. It's the war or something addling his brains.
The poor bastard Cuvilliers are who he should be thinking about. Not that there's anything to be done for them. They're doomed. It isn't Malaud's fault; Brandt would have found them sooner or later. But . . . Brandt's not going to keep too close an eye on him today, for the same foolish mix of reasons that has Malaud holding the Flying Clasp in his fist like a boy with a secret prize. Malaud might be able to discover the airmen and any resistance agents before Brandt does. And he thinks he just might let them go.
The thing is, Secret Army is a fandom of one: me. And since I am vain and like people to read my stories, I've written up a little introduction with what you need to know for this story to make sense. You can skip it if you like, and if you would rather watch the relevant episode instead (please do, oh please, at least enough to see the characters interact) it's viewable starting here on YT.
Secret Army, which ran for three series in the late 1970s on the BBC, is about the activities of a Belgian group called "Lifeline" which helps downed Allied airmen to escape. The first series is great, although bleak, and I recommend it; I stopped watching halfway through the second series as the tone began to be dominated by writer and script editor John Brason's obsessive anti-communism. Incidentally, 'Allo 'Allo started out as a Secret Army parody, and watching Secret Army if you've already seen 'Allo 'Allo can be an odd experience at first.
My story is set during episode 1x04, "Child's Play," and because the episode is fairly self-contained, you don't need to know much about the rest of the show. I do want to introduce you to the episode's main characters and basic plot, though.
This is Major Erwin Brandt:
He's a decorated Luftwaffe officer, formerly aircrew and now working in intelligence. His job is to discover and break the escape lines. Although he's forced to work with/under the Gestapo, he dislikes them and tries to behave honorably towards both civilian suspects and Allied prisoners of war.
In "Child's Play," an article published in an American magazine leads Brandt to believe he might be able to trace and shut down a route used to take airmen over the Pyrenees and into Spain, so he's given permission to travel to the south of France.
In France, Brandt enlists the help of Malaud, the head of the local gendarmerie. Malaud used to live and work in Paris, but a run-in with the Gestapo (they thought he was obstructing one of their investigations and tortured him to encourage his cooperation) led to his being transferred to the Spanish border and more or less left to rot. Colditz watchers may note that Malaud is played by Ian McCulloch, who played Larry Page in Colditz.
Here's Malaud and Brandt's first encounter:
Brandt was having a wash after his journey when Malaud knocked, and Brandt answered the door half dressed. As you do. (When I rewatched this episode, having not watched Secret Army for a long time and thus forgotten many details, I got to the washing scene and thought, "OMG, this must be the episode Arden Winch wrote!" And sure enough, it was. Winch was a writer with a brilliant grasp of dialogue and characterization, and also an amiable fondness for writing scenes in which semi-dressed men stand around and talk to each other, usually while washing. A lot of the homoeroticism of shows like Colditz and Wings is found in Winch's episodes, and "Child's Play" is the only slashy episode of Secret Army.)
So, anyway, Brandt and Malaud have a tense conversation in Brandt's hotel room:
Brandt's dressing gown is very . . . purple. Note also the book, Herman Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund. It's (a) wildly homoerotic and (b) illegal, Hesse's books having been banned by the Nazis because Hesse opposed anti-semitism. I can't read the title of the book in Malaud's hand, but I suspect it's similarly interesting.
Malaud agrees to help Brandt, not because he wants to catch Allied airmen but because he wants to catch the smugglers who help them for a price. Eventually, it's Malaud who figures out where the safe house must be, and he rushes over in the middle of the night to tell Brandt about it. This time, he gets Brandt out of bed:
Previously, Malaud had demanded payment for each captured airman. Now he says he doesn't want money. Instead, he wants a souvenir, and he takes it from Brandt's uniform. Remember the first picture of Brandt? The top decoration on the left side of his chest (that is, Brandt's left), the long metal bar, is the Front Flying Clasp, awarded for a certain number of operational missions. I think it's the bronze one (20 missions) although it could conceivably be the gold (100 missions). That's what Malaud takes, joking that he's going to put it in a frame:
Having finally struck a bargain, the two start discussing plans for the next day. And that's pretty much where my story begins.
Title: Occupying Forces
Fandom: Secret Army
Pairing: Malaud/Brandt
Rating: Explicit
Word count: 2733
Kink: Power exchange. (Used to be called "Masters, doms, subs, and slaves," and the Kink Wiki entry hasn't been fully updated to reflect the new terminology and scope.)
Content notes: No standard notes apply. Kink and sex are consensual but not exactly thoroughly negotiated. References (not very explicit) to one character having been tortured. Period-appropriate homophobic and sexist language.
Summary: The urge to command, the urge to resist, and the urge to surrender.
Notes: See above for fandom background. The stuff about German prohibitions (and not) against male/male sex is accurate to the best of my knowledge.
"That seems to be that," Malaud says when he and Brandt have worked out the details of tomorrow's raid on the Cuvillier farmhouse. "Whatever shall we do until morning?"
Brandt hesitates over the map he's been folding. "Personally, I should like to get a few more hours' sleep."
Malaud waits until Brandt has to look up at him, then says, "No, you wouldn't."
Brandt springs like a jack-in-the-box into his usual ramrod-spined German posture. "I know you'd be delighted to sit up drinking my cognac, Malaud, but - "
"Why haven't you tied your dressing gown properly?"
"What?"
"You're flaunting your body like a Marseille whore." Malaud takes a step towards him; Brandt moves back, tugging without much effect at the edges of the dressing gown.
"What on earth do you - you knocked on my door in the middle of the night, you can hardly blame me for not being dressed!"
"You answered the door half naked. Second time you've done that. In fact, every time I see you, you manage to be a little undressed, even if it's only removing your jacket or rolling up your sleeves."
The flush high on Brandt's cheeks could pass for anger if he didn't have a matching flush just under the hollow of his throat. Amazing that Germans can lie at all when their Nordic skins blush like that. "You - revolting, with such insinuations!" Brandt's French momentarily loses its fluency. He sounds like a comedy German from before the war, when it wasn't illegal to make fun of Germans. "What do you mean, saying these things? You could be shot."
"Oh, not me. We inferior races are welcome to bugger ourselves into extinction. It's only good Aryan pricks that have to stay out of holes that can't make good Aryan babies." Malaud picks up Brandt's copy of Narziss und Goldmund. Back when Malaud was a Parisian who read books instead of a country gendarme who fails to catch smugglers, he read it in translation. It's a lot of queerness barely disguised as mysticism, and the Nazis banned it in Germany years ago. He turns from the book to Brandt and raises an eyebrow. "They might shoot you, though."
"I think that the word of a decorated German officer, a married man with children, by the way, would be taken over that of a disgraced French policeman who drinks too much." Brandt plucks the book out of Malaud's hands and sets it down. The panic has gone out of him. He's brave, there's no denying that.
"Probably. Fortunately for me, I don't want to have you shot."
"What do you want, then, Malaud?"
"Maybe another little souvenir, to go with your . . . what's it called?" Malaud takes the badge out of his pocket and holds it under the desk lamp's light. He picked it because it was the gaudiest thing on Brandt's uniform, and therefore likely the most important.
"Front Flying Clasp. Bronze, for twenty operational missions. I flew forty-six missions, actually, before I was seconded to intelligence," Brandt adds, boasting--uncharacteristically, Malaud thinks--to prove himself a man. "Not quite enough to qualify for the silver one. In any case, you may not have more of my uniform."
It's time, Malaud thinks, to stop this dancing around. Brandt won't say it, probably can't, and that's why he needs a man like Malaud. Malaud drops the Flying Clasp back into his pocket and gives Brandt a long look, a slow smile that he's been told is intimidating. "Then let me fuck you. It's what we both want."
For a few breaths Brandt stands rigidly, a sentry at some frontier of decision. He swallows and takes a step closer, then stops and shakes his head. "It's too dangerous."
"I won't tell."
"So you say."
"Telling would do me no good. Your lot wouldn't shoot me for fucking a Frenchman, but I hear they get a bit shirty about seducing members of the master race." Malaud curls his fingers in Brandt's purple dressing gown, which is about one degree more masculine than frilly knickers, and pulls him forward until their bodies touch. "And this is war, and my smugglers or your Resistance could shoot us both tomorrow."
"I haven't . . . not for a long time." Brandt comes to rest against him, passive, accepting. "Yes."
"Good lad," he murmurs, and feels Brandt shiver. Yes, that's what Brandt likes. He must have felt it in Malaud, the other side of it, and that's why he's been so damned provocative. "Now, let me have a good look at what's mine." Brandt stirs, takes an audible breath, and for a moment Malaud thinks he's said too much, too soon. Brandt's a man of authority, and however much he wants to forget it all and be fucked like a virgin choirboy, he may need to be led to it little by little.
"Come on," Malaud says, gentler this time, as he unties the black silk belt himself and pushes the gown off Brandt's shoulders. "Let me see you." Finally Brandt lowers his arms, letting go his hold on Malaud's waist, and the gown slips away. Through Brandt's thin pyjama bottoms, the outline of his hardening prick is obvious. "Pyjamas too," Malaud says. Brandt's eyes turn away, but he does as he's told.
He's good looking in his stern way, with a lean build that suits his thin poised face, but some muscle too. Malaud's glad. He likes a proper man under him, not a frail flower. And the signs of middle age--those muscles aren't as firm as they once were, and there's a hint of soft flesh at Brandt's waist--oddly make Malaud want him all the more. Perfect bodies are for farm boys and private soldiers; Brandt looks like a man who gives orders. "Not bad," he says to Brandt, who's been standing almost to attention. Even his prick. "And mine. Right?"
"For now." As much of a surrender as Malaud's going to get, at least until things are further along.
"Now's good enough for me," he answers, and runs his hands appraisingly over Brandt's flesh. He doesn't touch Brandt's prick yet, but he looks down and sees that it's growing redder, more eager. Planting both hands on Brandt's arse, he pulls the man tight against his body and kisses him. At first he's not sure if Brandt will accept it, but he pries at Brandt with his lips and tongue until Brandt lets him in. I will have all of you, he thinks, and tells Brandt so by parting his buttocks enough to bare him entirely, reminding him that he'll be opened and taken. Brandt makes a sound that is not protest.
"Well," Malaud says, breaking off the kiss and whispering in Brandt's ear, "I think we understand each other." It sets Brandt to trembling again, and more so when Malaud sucks on his earlobe. Interesting. Anything too forceful, too crudely dominating, makes Brandt resist; it's gentleness that undoes him. What he craves and fears is to surrender without a fight.
Malaud had been thinking of keeping his uniform on while they fucked, maybe even putting his gloves back on. For powerlessness, there's nothing like being naked when someone else is dressed. The Gestapo know it; they made Malaud strip before they asked him a single question. But Brandt . . . Brandt's afraid of his own desire, afraid of how it feels to be desired. Afraid of how badly he wants men to want him. "Undress me," Malaud says, taking a step back. Brandt stares at him, blinking, idiotic with lust and startlement. "I said undress me. Don't be coy, pretty thing." Oh, how Brandt hates that, how he loves it. There's a brief, writhing shudder. "Look at me now. Undress me and look at me."
Malaud doesn't help at all as Brandt unfastens and removes all the layers of his uniform. Even for the boots, he only lifts each foot a little. Brandt has to kneel. Brandt doesn't caress him; his fingers are impersonal, like a servant's (or so Malaud, who has never had a servant, supposes). His breathing is strange, though, and his prick, when Malaud catches a glimpse of it, is as hard as ever. "Look at me," Malaud insists once he too is naked. "Watch what I'm doing." He drops a hand to his own prick, which is stiffening but not quite hard, and begins to stroke. "Don't you like the sight of it? Not as pretty as yours - " Brandt turns fiercely red from the belly up " - but it'll do the job just like you want it to. It's going to give you the fuck you're needing." He takes Brandt's unresisting hand and places it on the shaft. "Feel nice? You'll like it even better inside." Brandt, without prompting, strokes him, half-leaning on Malaud's chest and staring down to watch his work. It's what Malaud thought would happen--take enough, push Brandt just enough but not too much, and then he'll give of his own free will.
Malaud leads him to the bed and settles him face down on it. Then he has to go back to where his uniform is crumpled on the floor, because in the trouser pocket, next to Brandt's Front Flying Clasp, is the vial of oil he brought with him in the hope that he'd been reading Brandt right. He can't fuck Brandt dry; pain's no part of what's happening between them, and Malaud doesn't much care for pain anyway.
Brandt, of course, notices, his mind snapping back on as soon as Malaud's attention is distracted. "You were damn sure of yourself."
"Yes," Malaud says, calmly and softly. "I was." That quells Brandt, who folds his arms over the pillow and lays his head on them. Malaud crouches on the bed, tilting Brandt's face up, and kisses him awkwardly but deeply before spreading Brandt's thighs and kneeling between them. He oils his prick, running his free hand over Brandt's rather flat arse and his smooth, pale lower back, and Brandt tilts his hips up, offering.
Getting inside him is like all the rest of it with Brandt: at first a little pressure's needed. Brandt is tight as hell and he tenses so much that Malaud nearly pulls out, but then he exhales a sigh and opens, letting Malaud possess him as fully as anatomy allows. "Good," Malaud says, "good, good," and begins to fuck. He takes a long time at it, making himself go slowly, changing positions every so often to break the rhythm and keep from coming, and all the while Brandt lets himself be moved about however Malaud likes. From kneeling between Brandt's legs, Malaud lies flat on top of him, sucking his ears and making him gasp; rolls onto his side, bringing Brandt with him; nudges Brandt onto his hands and knees; and then kneels upright, holding Brandt to his chest so that Brandt's back arches like a female cat's when a tom is at her. Then, at last, Malaud puts his hand on Brandt's prick; Brandt mewls like a cat, too. "Yes, shhh, I know just what you need." Malaud works him for a little while, stokes the flame until Brandt has melted away and there's nothing but a hot, pliant body.
And then he stops. Brandt whimpers through clenched teeth. When Malaud pulls out, he manages a word that could be "what?" or "why?"
"Turn over, pretty. Turn over for me." All the rest has been a softening-up, like interrogation. He could do anything with Brandt now, and he wants Brandt to see that knowledge on his face. He wants to see Brandt realise.
Brandt turns, and Malaud kisses him for a long time, until Brandt is clinging, desperate, and Malaud frankly isn't much better off. He slicks a little more oil on his prick, pushes Brandt's thighs up and back, and is inside him again. Brandt's eyes are closed, his mouth open. "Look at me." When Brandt obeys, Malaud says, "You're mine. Your body is mine."
"I - "
Malaud pins his wrists one-handed (he's off balance and Brandt could throw him off easily, but he doesn't, of course he doesn't) and thrusts slowly, staring into his eyes. Soon Brandt is biting his lip, and then Malaud runs a thumb over the head of his prick. "You're mine."
"I - yes, yes, oh fuck, yes . . . "
"Yes. Will you let me fuck you again if I want to?"
"Yes."
"Do you want me to fuck you again? Will you burn for me?" Malaud is moving his circled thumb and forefinger over the head of Brandt's prick, not enough to make him come but enough to make him need it.
"Yes! Oh - "
Malaud lets his wrists go, and Brandt doesn't even move them. His eyes have closed again. Malaud puts his hand close to Brandt's face and says, "Look at me. Open your eyes, look at my hand." Brandt, panting, obeys, though his eyes can barely focus. "Look at what the Gestapo did to me." Malaud's fingers are still bruised, the flesh almost raw at the tips, the new nails white and babyish.
"I - I - " Panic crosses Brandt's face, warring with pleasure and the submission Malaud has awoken in him.
"Shhh, I know it's not your fault. You'd never hurt me, would you?" Malaud pushes down a spiking fear that if this goes wrong, Brandt is very likely to hurt him, and very soon too. "That's not what you want from a man like me, to hurt him." He lays his ugly, purple fingers on Brandt's cheek. "Kiss my hand."
Brandt looks at him, wide-eyed; Malaud thrusts deeply into him, letting the circle of his fingers slide down Brandt's shaft. And Brandt turns his head and kisses the palm of Malaud's hand. He keeps kissing it, holding it between his own hands, kissing the backs of the fingers as though Malaud is a king or a cardinal, kissing the damaged fingertips, finally taking two of Malaud's fingers into his mouth and sucking on them. The only expression on his face is mindless ecstasy. He comes moments later, mouth closing tight on Malaud's fingers while his arse spasms around Malaud's prick and his semen covers Malaud's other hand. Malaud groans, simple physical need overwhelming him, and thrusts a few more times before orgasm breaks like a lightning storm.
For a little while Brandt lies quiet beneath him, as though all wars are finished, as though Brandt is really his. Soon, though, Brandt pushes him away. As strongly as Brandt needs to surrender, he only needs it with part of his nature. If he'd been otherwise, Malaud would never have wanted him.
Malaud gets up, washes himself quickly, and starts to dress. The sky is getting light. It would make sense, in a practical way, for him and Brandt to review their plans together over some bread and coffee. But that's impossible. They've got to separate now and meet again, in a hour, as Inspector Malaud and Major Brandt.
Malaud slips out of the door without saying anything, and hears Brandt lock it behind him. He touches the Flying Clasp in his pocket, his souvenir. He'll never fuck Brandt again, of course. Brandt will never be his, never was his, but sweet Christ it was good to make him say it. Good for Brandt, too, he hopes. He likes Brandt more than he'd thought he could. Brandt's interesting, all his twists and turns and knots and puzzles, and if there was only more time, different time, what a pleasure to explore him.
Malaud catches himself and grins disgustedly. He never used to be this sentimental. It's the war or something addling his brains.
The poor bastard Cuvilliers are who he should be thinking about. Not that there's anything to be done for them. They're doomed. It isn't Malaud's fault; Brandt would have found them sooner or later. But . . . Brandt's not going to keep too close an eye on him today, for the same foolish mix of reasons that has Malaud holding the Flying Clasp in his fist like a boy with a secret prize. Malaud might be able to discover the airmen and any resistance agents before Brandt does. And he thinks he just might let them go.
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Date: 2013-07-19 07:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-21 08:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-24 11:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-25 05:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-26 06:43 pm (UTC)I love Gruber so much.
I think I was in my twenties when I first saw 'Allo 'Allo, so I definitely got the jokes, but it was long enough ago (and enough of a contrast to the prudery of American television) that I was shocked, in a good way, by the gay innuendo.