#what if they branded gale in the stalag…ahahahhahah

[wayrad]

20 plsssss

of course, anon! i turned this prompt into a #the wrath of the lamb what-if. enjoy!!

for prompt 20: “get away! you’re hurting him!”

Gale’s mouth fills with spit. They’re holding him down, two German officers on both limbs, their fingernails pressing crescent moons into his flesh. He’s gagged with the collar they usually keep around his neck. Salty leather bites into his tongue, saliva-slick. His yells are choked back into his throat.

Haussmann nods his head. His specs fall down the bridge of his nose.

A Luftwaffe grunt pulls the metal rod out of the fire. It’s black burnt, edged red with fire, a heat Gale knows all too well. Reminds him of before, of cigarettes snuffed against his forearm, the fire of whiskey down his throat. The sweltering air during his heats in the omegahouse, before.

The grunt edges closer.

“Don’t,” John yells, muscles shaking where he’s strapped to his chair. The smoke of his scent fills the room entirely. “I’ll fucking kill you, I swear to God, all of you—”

“Do we need to muzzle you too, Major Egan?” Haussmann asks, smiling. Gale pulls his arms again; more of an automatic movement at this point. “Because that can be arranged.”

John hacks against the concrete floor. “Fuck you.”

The grunt is standing in front of Gale now. He looks to Haussmann for something. A message, a word, the snap of his fingers.

Gale’s eyes slam shut. Maybe he can think himself somewhere else. Somewhere nice. If he’d let himself go to London with John, to some hotel, with some king sized bed. Somewhere far from here. If he can think it, he can almost believe it.

Haussmann pulls his shirt higher. Exposes the vulnerable flesh over his spine, the very top where his vertebrae protrude from his skin. “Now you’ll really belong the Reich, hm, Major?”

Gale can feel a tear burn its path down his cheek. His legs kick pathetically. “Stop,” he gasps, muffled, incoherent. He wants to plead with them, but knows pleading’s never gotten him anywhere.

Haussmann cups his chin. His hands are warm and tender, his smile saccharine. And then he looks to his subordinate. “Do it.”

Gale feels the cry rip from his chest before ever hearing it. Smells it, his skin, blistering beneath the hot iron. Nothings ever smelt this bad in his life.

“Get away!” John screams, chair legs thumping against the floor. He’s going to break out of it. Gale needs- needs him to break out of it. “You’re hurting him!”

Haussmann laughs, because that’s the point, laughs because he’s got all the power and he’s swelling with it. Having John’s omega, Harding’s property, here, wearing his mark. Fucking alpha head games; anything to get his knot up.

Haussmann doesn’t move his fingers from Gale’s chin. He spreads the drool around with the pad of his thumb, tracking his mess everywhere. “How do you still smell so sweet?” he asks,

John’s hands are fisted against the chair’s arms. His biceps pull the uniform jacket taut, the binding rope across his chest and legs thick and unbreakable. He’s stinking up the place, maybe even worse than Gale is.

“I’ll kill you for this,” John says, his lip curled in a snarl.

The grunt pulls the branding iron from Gale’s skin. For a sick moment it sticks; pulls, then releases. Gale mewls beneath the gag.

Haussmann smooths a hand over his hair, gold streaked with grime and worse. “I bet,” he says.