Chapter Text
Eames could still remember where he was on that day in June of 1940 when the armistice was signed in Compiegne. He could still remember the grim faces of all the Frenchmen in the bar, their slumped shoulders and defeated frowns. It was as if Hitler himself had walked into the joint and told them all to say their last good-bye’s before he ordered the Gestapo to fill them all full of bullets.
He should have gotten out of France while he’d had the chance.
+
Personally, Eames had nothing against Jews. They’d never harmed him, never stolen money from him, never even looked at him the wrong way-- nothing to provoke him into wanting to hurt them. But he was part of the SS now, had been roped in by threat of death. It was either join up and fight the good fight or go to the camps where homosexuals lasted no time at all before being beaten to death by the other prisoners. The pink triangle had not even been an option for Eames. He had a wife and kid back in London he wanted to see again, and this war wouldn’t last forever. Better to do as he was told and get through this madness with all his limbs intact than to die without ever holding his son in his arms again.
So how could he explain what he was doing now? If someone asked, what would he tell them? Here he was, in the back alley behind some bakery, fucking Arthur Goldberg against a cold damp wall. Fucking a Jew. Using the poor young man as something less than even a prostitute while Arthur sobbed and begged for Eames to stop.
Eames couldn’t stop. He’d seen Arthur a week earlier, Arthur with his beautiful dimples that made Eames’ chest tight, Arthur with his dark hair and eyes, Arthur with the long calloused fingers and small girlish waist. Eames had wanted him badly.
Being in the SS had taught Eames that if you want something, you take it. It had changed him at his very core, and it would have made him sick to think about had it been years ago, but now he was working for the Gestapo, now he was working for Hitler, and corruption had taken hold. Now, Eames wanted something and he took it. He’d wanted Arthur, and now he was taking him.
“Stop, stop, please, why are you- you doing this?” Arthur sobbed, spine curved uncomfortably and bloodied cheek scraping against the uneven brick. His calf muscles were strained with the effort to stand on his toes, make the angle at which Eames’ cock drove into him less painful. It was a valiant effort, but wholly futile.
There was so much rage pumping through Eames’ veins—rage at the Nazi’s for occupying France, the home he’d found after parting from his wife. Rage at himself for being a homosexual and getting himself into this mess in the first place. Rage at Arthur for being so fucking beautiful. And rage at the SS for doing this to him, for making him into this disgusting monster. But that was his fault too, wasn’t it? No one else’s, not even Hitler’s. Only Eames himself could be responsible for what he’d turned into.
One hand left Arthur’s hips to yank painfully at the soft brown hair that smelled like ink and parchment, while the other stayed, fingers digging deeper into the bruises marring milky white skin. Eames buried his nose in Arthur’s hair, breathing deeply as he rammed his uncut prick as deep as possible into the young man under him. There hadn’t been the time or the resources to prepare Arthur properly, so they’d had to settle with a handful of spit, much to Arthur’s horror and Eames’ frustration. Arthur had yelped and choked on his cries, clawing at the brick wall he was shoved into as Eames set a brutal pace much too early.
“Mr. Eames, please!” Arthur keened as the SS officer yanked his head back, exposing that long, pale neck. “God, why me, why me,” he continued to sob, face red and cheek bruised, dimples nowhere in sight. Arthur was loose, trembling with his entire body, completely limp cock hanging between his thighs pathetically. And yet, even in this miserable state, Eames found the youth beautiful beyond compare.
He couldn’t resist. He yanked Arthur’s head back further and slotted their mouths together, effectively muffling the sobs while his tongue wriggled its way past Arthur’s lips like an eel. Eames’ thrusts became long and languid as he fucked Arthur’s mouth with his tongue, a hot moan escaping his throat as he mapped out the hot wet cavern for memory. A sharp pain ripped through his mouth like the crack of a whip and he pulled his tongue out, tasting the familiar tang of copper. His eyes shot to Arthur’s lips, stained bloody red and twisted into a grimace that was almost a smile.
“You fucking-!!” Eames began and growled dangerously, his mouth going numb as the fresh gash in his tongue blossomed with pain on each word. Arthur wasn’t crying anymore, just looking at him with a dull sort of smug satisfaction and Eames wanted to hate him, he really did, but instead he smiled, wiped the blood from his mouth and slammed Arthur’s head back against the wall. “Cheeky fucking prick. Done crying for me then? Was fun while it lasted, I suppose.”
No more crying, no more whimpering sobs, only labored breath from Arthur as Eames plowed viciously into him. The alleyway was dark, it was past time for the locals to be indoors, and Eames had planned on taking his sweet time fucking Arthur, but now he was too pissed. This was to be a one-time thing, because what Eames was doing could not only get him outted publicly as a homosexual, but it could get him killed by his peers. But now, he thought maybe coming back a few more times to drive the point home wouldn’t be such a terrible idea. Arthur clearly needed to be shown what his place was.
Eames pressed his forehead to Arthur’s back, both hands firmly digging into slim hips as he rolled one last time up into that hot, tight heat. It had been months since he’d been able to do this, since he’d been balls deep in another man, cock twitching as he filled an asshole full of his cum. Months and months, too long, he’d missed it, and now he was marking his territory, claiming what he’d wanted as officially his. He’d be coming back for this again and again, he had to.
Arthur’s breath was shallow, his shoulders trembling as Eames pulled out, semen tainted red following the tip of his prick and dribbling down Arthur’s thighs in rivulets. Eames should have felt guilty. The Eames of a year ago did feel guilty. The Eames here and now though only felt cold, hollow satisfaction. He watched as Arthur slid to his knees, dry heaving.
Every cake needed icing, and Eames felt a sickening need to push Arthur that one last step overboard.
He took his cock in hand and leaned back against the brick wall inches behind him. Arthur was still on his knees, stretched entrance dripping with cum, and Eames thought he was still just too beautiful. He needed to muddy Arthur up.
Arthur gasped and shrank away as a hot stream of piss hit him square in the back. Tears stung his eyes once again as he glared daggers over his shoulder. Eames smiled lazily in return as he pissed all over his new property, satisfied with how dirty he’d made his toy. When he was finished, he tucked himself away and buttoned up his trousers.
“Be here tomorrow. Don’t make me come get you.”