Just The SLASHY Bits
Just The SLASHY Bits
Now everyone knows that my ongoing saga, These Eyes So Green, is a hetfic. So those who prefer not to read hetfic are missing out on all the gay mansex that seems to populate almost 50 percent of the story. You see, to me a completely straight man just isn’t interesting, and a completely straight Hans Landa is unimaginable. So my Landa swings both ways. Now it made me sad to think that some of my friends were missing out on the slash. This is primarily for Linndechir, to whom I promised it. Now please keep in mind that these are essentially all the slashy excerpts strung together, some slashier than others, so there’s no plot whatsoever. Just think of it as a Reader’s Digest version of a stroke book. I hope you enjoy it, such as it is!
Just The SLASHY Bits
Now it was Friday, he was alone, and aroused, as he had been for most of the last week. It was part of his preparation for what he was sure would be his most challenging case. He wanted to keep that edge, that raw hunger. As it had when he swum competitively as a youth, that edge kept his focus keen, his mind alert. Oh, there had been several times when he’d had to relieve himself from the discomfort. But he had denied himself any real pleasure in obtaining release. It had been quick, hard and joyless.
The joylessness was the most difficult part. Hans hadn’t realized what a considerable effort it would be for him to deny himself even the most basic of sexual pleasures. He hadn’t realized that he found such exhilaration in the pure physicality of sex. The touching. The tasting. The sounds and scents. That part of his life had always sustained him when times were difficult, and the cravings were deeper and more profound than he had expected.
At one point it had been too much bear. The hunger for physical contact had overwhelmed him. On that night he had Herrmann drive him to a town at some distance from Angouleme, where he found a dark alleyway filled with the equally hungry. While Herrmann stood by the car and enjoyed a smoke, Hans disappeared into the alley and found a young man, a boy, really, 18 at most, with dark hair and deep brown eyes, a virtual doppelganger for the women he so desired.
A mouth is a mouth, he thought, as he watched the boy minister to his needs. Lips, teeth, tongue were all that mattered. The touch of another person. Hans let himself take pleasure this time, prolonged it, in fact, at one point even caressing the boy’s soft hair. He came deep in the boy’s throat, savoring each spasm. Afterward, he roughly pulled up the boy and shoved his tongue into his mouth to taste himself. Then he pulled back and struck him, hard, knocking him to the ground. As the boy gazed up at him in pained confusion, Hans drew out his wallet and tossed a few francs at his feet, then turned and strode away.
* * * * * *
His skills in this arena were legendary, and Hans took great pride in them. He couldn’t help but be pleased now. But another part of him was deeply uneasy. It was a part of himself that he usually had no problem keeping subdued-doing so, in fact, was what fueled his sexuality, the eagerness with which he embraced the sensual, the exuberant pleasure he found in the sheer physicality of sex and the exquisite if temporary bliss of orgasm.
It was that part of Hans that hungered for something beyond himself. For as long as he could remember, he had felt alone, cut off somehow from the world and from other people. In many ways he treasured the independence that acute sense of alienation brought him. It was what made him strong, what fed his intelligence and his talents. It was so much an intrinsic part of him, who he was and always had been, that he couldn’t imagine life without it.
He could barely remember when he had first become aware of this hunger. He had been very, very young, not more than six or seven. A neighboring boy, much older than he, had been the one. A boy he admired and looked up to, almost to the point of worship.
It had been worship, now that Hans thought about it. How else could he explain the sheer bliss he had felt when Friedrich had touched him in a way that was not at all innocent? Something had soared inside him at that touch. He had, after all, so very rarely been touched or held-and never, ever kissed, his parents both being far too Prussian to ever show him affection.
It had only happened once. Perhaps afraid of what he’d done, Friedrich had never touched him again-not even to lay a friendly hand on his shoulder or give him an affectionate slap on the back, as he always had before. They had remained friends, but something had changed, something had been lost forever. And that was when the hunger had begun.
As Hans grew up, there had been other boys, childish fumblings, momentary bursts of heated pleasure, always leaving him yearning for more. These scattered experiences sustained him through all those lonely years spent so far away from home. He had been sent away to school when he was only eight, and, even now, as he remembered it, Hans felt that sharp stab of excruciating emotional pain, the pain of rejection, of loss, a pain so unbearable that he keep it buried very deeply within him.
That pain had only fed his hunger further, creating a level of need inside him so strong and so terrifying that he quickly came to welcome the control and discipline required of his schooling. Indeed, when Hans thought about it, those two qualities had been the most valuable aspect of his education. Far more valuable than the mathematics, the history, the literature, the Latin and the sports. His carefully cultivated self-control and discipline had not only helped him keep his hunger at bay, it had brought him academic and then professional success and recognition.
And yet Hans had never been able to completely deny the power and sustenance he derived from feeding that persistent hunger. As a horseman, he understood that even the most well-trained of thoroughbreds needed time to play, to let loose all control and unleash the most feral aspects of his existence. Hans knew he was no different from that thoroughbred. There would always be times when he needed to unleash his most primitive, raw self. And for him that outlet had always been sex.
* * * * * *
Hans held the boy by his slender throat, pushing his face into the hard brick wall. His other hand gripped the boy’s hip and held him steady for each hard thrust. His mind was on fire, every one of his senses fully attuned to this very moment, the heat and the rage and the pleasure of it, the aching, desperate need for release running headlong against the equally strong desire to prolong the physical pleasure, to lose himself in it until the sharp, lightning-like bolts of completion overtook him.
He pulled the boy’s head back, slowing his thrusts to savor the slick slide along that tight channel, letting his tongue snake along the boy’s ear, reaching around to grab and then tug at the boy’s stiff cock, thumb sweeping through the secretions on the sensitive head as he nipped and bit at that tender ear. The boy’s whimpering thrilled Hans, spurred him to move faster, harder, until the slap of flesh on flesh seemed almost deafening. But then, that sound-and others similar to it-permeated the dark alleyway, the thick air punctuated by moans, gasps and growls.
The boy stiffened against him, and Hans opened his hand to catch the turgid spills, feeling the boy’s inner core clench and release, clench and release until it pulled his own seed from him so forcefully that he bit down into the boy’s shoulder, hard, to stifle his sharp cry of release.
He slumped against the boy then, panting hard, and brought his spunk-filled hand to the boy’s mouth, shivered as he felt the tongue against his palm, lapping up every last drop. He surprised himself then by kissing the boy’s ear, then gently licking the sweat on the back of his soft neck, just beneath his downy curls of dark hair, luxuriating in the sensation of his whole being now beautifully satiated, however brief that sensation might be.
Hans surprised himself again by wrapping his arms around the boy, gathering him closer in an embrace almost tender. He felt the boy settle back into that embrace, and remembered himself at that age-so starved for physical contact that he would have done anything to have someone-man or woman-embrace him in this way. Had he known at that age that such dark alleyways existed, he might very well have been exactly like that boy, seeking them out for whatever physical contact he could find.
Hans let the boy go, pulled out of him and drew up his trousers, watching the boy do the same. The boy turned and looked at him with those large, shining brown eyes, the ones that reminded him so much of Desiree. The look on the boy’s face was luminous, almost beatific, and that look tore at him, filled him with anger and despair. He grabbed the boy by the neck with both hands, pushed him back into wall.
“Never, ever, look at me that way,” he growled. He watched as tears welled up in the boy’s dark eyes, then let him go. With a sigh, he drew out his wallet, pulled out several francs and held them out to the boy, who shook his head. Hans shoved the notes into the pocket of the boy’s jacket. He was about to leave when he hesitated, looked once more at this boy whose hunger reflected his own. He saw himself at that age, eyes wide with need. With a sad smile, Hans reached out and touched the boy’s cheek, lightly, almost tenderly, then turned and left.
* * * * * *
Hans tossed in the bed sheets, suddenly restless. Jürgen was reading, his spectacles low on his nose. He peered over them to look at his old friend, who reached out a hand to caress his bare belly.
“Hungry for it again, are you?” Jürgen chuckled. “So who is it this time?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come now, Hans. Don’t put on that act with me. I’ve known you for nearly twenty years now.”
Hans was silent, gazing forward, keeping his eyes away from the penetrating gaze of his friend. Over the years Jürgen had learned to read every nuance in the man’s expressive face, and he knew, even if Hans himself didn’t know-or rather, refused to recognize it-that his dearest friend was in love again.
“So…who has besotted you this time?”
“Besotted is a good word for it,” Hans replied. “That’s how it…that’s what it’s like.” He lay back and closed his eyes. Such bliss, he thought. Such bliss and torment.
He opened his eyes again, caught Jürgen looking at him, blue eyes sly yet warm. Jürgen was his oldest friend-and in many respects, his only friend. And perhaps the only person in the world who truly knew and understood him.
“I knew it. When you’re that wild, that passionate, when you’re begging me to fuck you…”
Hans reached up abruptly, grabbed Jürgen by his hair, pulled his head down to him, swatting off his spectacles.
“Ja,” he said, “I’ve begged you to fuck me. And I’m begging you again. Do it. Fuck me.” And with that Hans pulled Jürgen into a fierce kiss.
Jürgen was on top of Hans in an instant, lifting his friend’s legs over his hips. A shudder ran through him as he gazed down at Hans’ wanton, hungry face, felt him arch his hips, so unbelievably eager to be penetrated, to be taken. Jürgen had seen that hungry look before, and it never failed to set him on fire.
The first thrust came sharp and hard, and Hans gasped, winced in pain, but he wrapped his legs around Jürgen’s back, and reached around him to cling to his shoulders, bracing himself. He needed this now, needed this invasion, that intense mixture of pain and pleasure, and he lifted his hips and arched up to meet each thrust.
“Don’t’ stop,” he gasped, “harder…bitte…”
“Ja-as hard as you want-” Jürgen breathed, as his thrusts increased in speed. He reached down between them and took hold of his friend, began pulling him in time with each deep thrust.
“Harder…bitte…” Jürgen leaned down and kissed Hans deeply, bit his lower lip, felt him shudder, felt the hot splashes of semen on his belly, the rhythmic clutching around his cock. He thrust in deep and held still, filling his friend with his seed, as he had so many times before, including earlier that very evening.
Afterwards, when they were once again lying side by side, Hans gazed up once more into his friend’s penetrating blue eyes. If it were possible for him to love a man, he would love this one. But then, he doubted he could love anyone.
“I think, mein freund,” Jürgen began, “that you need to take a good, long look at yourself. You think you can’t feel. You think you don’t feel. But you do. And you feel very deeply, much more than you’re willing to admit.”
“Shut up,” Hans growled, reaching up again to grab Jürgen, this time by the throat. Jürgen wasn’t having any of it, and he flung Hans’ hand away.
“Oh, stop it, Hans,” he said. “Don’t posture with me. I haven’t said anything that isn’t true, and you know it. You’ve always known it.”
“Ja,” Hans finally whispered. “You’ve always been truthful with me. I don’t think you’re capable of being untruthful. It’s not in your nature. But I…I’m not sure what the truth is any more.”
Jürgen leaned back, grabbed his cigarettes, and offered one to Hans, who took it gratefully. He took one himself, waited for Hans’ to grab his lighter and light both cigarettes. The two then lay together in silence for a few minutes, smoking.
“I think you do know the truth, mein freund,” Jürgen finally said. “You’re just not willing to recognize it.”
“Maybe so. All I know is that I want this woman-more fiercely than I’ve ever wanted anyone, even-” Hans stopped abruptly, afraid of saying too much, revealing too much.
Jürgen smiled. Even me, he thought. Even me. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew that was what Hans had almost said. He had always known, and he knew that Hans knew it, too.
FIN