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The grand, dimly lit hall of the presidential palace was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. Heavy curtains, crimson like spilled wine, hung from the tall windows, blocking out the dying light of the evening. The room exuded an air of authority and dread, befitting its sole occupant: Adolf Hitler, the Führer, dictator, the leader, god how many names of the Reich he was!
Hitler sat behind a mahogany desk, his fingers drumming impatiently. A man of aged old, with dark hair that fell over his forehead in loose strands, his eyes were unforgiving. He looked good for his age, 50 and still standing strong. He had the face of a man who had seen the world from the top, shaped it with his iron fist, and now watched it slowly crumble at his command. Power was both his lifeline and his burden. Today, it felt like a weight too heavy to bear.
His thoughts were interrupted by the soft sound of the door creaking open. A figure slipped inside — Joseph Goebbles, Adolf’s most trusted minister and confidant. Unlike Adolf, Goebbles carried himself with a more ‘friendly’ look ( not much but still! ). His dark hair was neatly combed, his suit immaculate, and his expression a mixture of respect and something that lingered beneath the surface — something almost intimate.
"Mein Führer," the propaganda minister began, his voice smooth like a well-aged whiskey, "I've brought the reports you asked for." He approached the desk, his footsteps barely audible on the thick carpet, and placed a stack of papers before the dictator. The air between them crackled with tension, the kind that had little to do with politics and everything to do with their shared past.
Adolf’s eyes flicked up, locking onto Joseph’s with an intensity that could have scorched the sun. "What do they say?" His voice was a low growl, a warning more than a question.
He didn't flinch. He never did. He met that fierce gaze with a cool, almost challenging look of his own. "The Soviets are getting more power," he replied. "It’s all a big blur, Herr. There’s too much to deal with at once, the Americans, Brits, French and Soviets… all we have is useless Italy and japan which is all the way in Asia!"
The moustached man stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor, and strode over to the grand windows. He pushed the curtains aside, revealing the cityscape below, the people who obeyed him — or pretended to. The city was his, but it was slowly slipping through his fingers like sand. "Decisive action," he repeated, his tone mocking. "That's all you ever say, Goebbles. Do you think it's that simple? That I can just snap my fingers and everything falls in line?"
Goebbles followed, closing the distance between them. "You have the power, mein Führer. You've always had it. You just need to use it more responsibly." There was something in his voice, an edge that Adolf couldn't ignore. It wasn't just advice; it was a challenge.
Hitler turned, his eyes narrowing. He hated being questioned, but Joseph was different. He was the one person who could speak freely, the one person who dared to step beyond the line. And maybe, just maybe, the man wanted him to.
A charged silence hung between them, and then, without warning, Adolf closed the gap, grabbing Goebbles by the collar. "You think you know me, don't you?" he hissed, his breath hot against his cheek. "You think you understand what it means to hold this power. But you don't, Goebbles. You couldn’t possibly understand the weight of it."
Joseph didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into the grip, his own hands coming to rest on Adolf’s chest. "Try me," he whispered, his eyes burning with an intensity that matched Adolf’s. "Show me what it's like to be in your shoes. To carry this… burden, you say."
For a moment, Hitler faltered. The world outside faded, leaving just the two of them locked in a battle of wills and unspoken desires. Then, something snapped. The tension that had been simmering for years finally erupted. Adolf crushed his lips against Joseph’s, a clash of dominance and submission, anger and longing.
Goebbles responded with equal fervor, their kiss a blend of fury and passion. It was a clash of titans, two men who ruled the world from the shadows, now entangled in a dance of power and need. The kiss was desperate, almost violent, as if they were trying to devour each other, to take what they needed from the other without surrendering an inch.
Adolf’s hands roamed down Joseph’s back, pulling him closer, feeling the heat of his body through the fabric of their clothes. Goebbles, the strategist, twisted his fingers into the leaders hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. They broke apart only when the need for air became too much, their breaths ragged and their eyes blazing.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Goebbles," Hitler rasped, his voice rough with a mix of lust and warning.
"Maybe," Joseph replied, a smirk playing on his lips. "But isn't that what we’ve always done? Played with fire, knowing it could consume us?"
Hitler’s gaze softened, just for a fraction of a second. In that moment, the mask of the dictator slipped, revealing the man beneath. The one who was tired, who craved something real, something beyond power and control. But just as quickly, the mask was back, and Adolf was once again the ruler, the tyrant who couldn't afford to show weakness.
"Enough," he muttered, though his grip onJ oseph didn't loosen. "We have work to do. The Reich won't built itself."
The minister nodded, but his eyes never left his leader. "Yes, mein Führer," he replied, but there was a note of triumph in his voice, a silent acknowledgment that, for once, he had seen a crack in the armor.
As they pulled away, the weight of their responsibilities settled back over them.