The Ficlets

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/14707208.

Rating: Not Rated

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Fandom: Real Person Fiction, Historical RPF, Historical Criminals RPF, Third
Reich - Fandom, World War 2 - Fandom, Adolf Hitler - Fandom
Relationship: Eva Braun/Adolf Hitler, Reader Insert - Relationship
Character: Reader, Adolf Hitler, Eva Braun
Additional Tags: Reader-Insert, Tumblr Prompt, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Prompt Fic, Prompt
Fill, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2018-05-16 Updated: 2019-09-13 Chapters: 4/? Words:
2323

The Ficlets
by Elizabeth Klarke (cyanideparty)

Summary

A collection of various ficlets and prompt-fills.

Notes

A reichblr-ficaton "three sentence" prompt: "Someone gets some flowers."

 Flowers

There had been something abnormal in Eva’s response to those flowers, the ones that Adolf had
given as a request that they simply let bygones be bygones, that he had given as a proposal for a
much desired and long overdue reconciliation, that he had given in response to her second attempt
at death: a strange hesitancy in accepting them, a sudden anxiety in being around them, an almost
outwardly and bizarre aversion toward the sight of them, as though she were looking at death all
over again.

And what an odd thing to see in such a universal representation of life, he’d thought–in what is
now for them a bittersweet symbol of rebirth; but he hadn’t asked about it and he doesn’t want to
ask about it; because intuition says it will lead back to him and neither of them want to talk about
that because they are fine now, everything is back in place, everything is how it should be,
everything is how she’d wanted for it to be and how he’d meant for it to be, they are fine now.

That stupid cat-and-mouse game of jealousy, of entitlement, of rejection, of fear, of desertion,

doubt and denial that had suddenly become their relationship and had quickly gotten out of hand
and then unexpectedly deadly, that is over and they are fine now; she can and should enjoy the
sight of those flowers now; he just wants her to be how she used to be whenever she was around
him now….
 Innocence (Reader Insert)
Chapter Notes

A reichblr-ficathon "three sentence" prompt: "Hitler x Reader"

Your romantic history is short, almost nonexistent, and he likes this about you, it’s the reason he
decides to hunt you down; and he doesn’t even have to bring it up in conversation because the way
you fidget and blush and stumble through your silly, innocent responses to his less than innocent
advances, it’s clear to him that you’re far from your element, that you’ve never even heard these
words before–and that, by this simple math, no man has ever been inside you.

So he’s soft with you, he’s gentle with you, he hides his teeth from you and kisses the back of your
hands and the inside of your wrists, and he murmurs into your ear pretty words about your enticing,
enviable beauty as you sit beside him, the two of you alone in his den; and you can’t help but lean
into him because his breath against your neck is very warm, it makes your skin buzz and tingle in a
way you’ve never felt before, ticklish almost, yet oddly addicting; and you want more of it, more
of him, so much more.

He welcomes this response, it’s predictable and it’s exactly what he wants; and he becomes a little
less soft with you, a little less gentle in his handling of you as he draws you in closer, as he pulls
your head back by your hair, as he presses his mouth to your neck; and you remember how you
were warned, you were warned the moment they noticed his interest in you, they told you he was a
predator; but you allow him to sink his teeth into your neck anyway, to make you gasp, whimper
and writhe like the delicate little white lamb that you are.
 Symmetry
Chapter Notes

A reichblr-ficathon prompt: "Symmetry."

The real question on her mind was, for how long had he been thinking about the two of them like
this? Days? Weeks? Months? When had the language in his mind moved from “her and him” onto
“her with him”? The first time he’d taken her fingers in his own and placed his lips against the
back of her hand, had he been imagining what it would feel like to place them against her mouth
instead? His eyes had certainly left the possibility behind for her to pick up and take home with her
that night. A gift that had seemed to be very intentional.

Or perhaps these ruminations had started the day he began to let those kisses linger against her skin
just a second too long to be considered typical, to be considered normal. To be considered
appropriate. The day he began to permanently dismantle the already impure innocence of their
friendship, slowly and carefully, piece by piece by piece. As piece after piece was kicked away
and left to fall between the cracks of the floorboards, forever lost, leaving their innocence without a
way to ever be rebuilt.

That had seemed to be very intentional too.

The real question on his mind was, for how long had she been thinking about the two of them like
this? Since the moment they met? When had the scene in her mind changed from “him and her”
into “him with her”? The first time his knee had accidentally found hers under the surface of the
table, had she been imagining what it would feel like to have her knees riding his hips as she lay on
her back beneath his body instead? Her eyes had certainly offered up the fantasy for him to feast
upon when he’d finally grown too hungry for her that night. An offering that had proven to be
downright irresistible.

Or perhaps these ruminations had started the day she began to linger in the shop long after the
closing hour. He was used to people turning spellbound under his eyes, but she had apparently
found herself equally bewitched by how his lips and his tongue worked together as he talked. How
he managed to whittle away the sharp edges of their language, and purr from the back of his throat
with the gentle sounds of old romance as he promised “Ich werde morgen Abend zurückkommen.”

That had proven to be downright irresistible too.

But how had his thoughts compared to her own? How had his days compared to her own? Hours
and hours of her life consumed by a deep red light and the harsh aroma of chemicals, only to finally
emerge from the shadows with a colorless facsimile of their most beloved and their most feared
client. The lines were all there, inhumanly precise, the angles of his face clear and unmistakable.
Yet the photographs never developed faithfully.

They were not perfect. And to her immense frustration she knew they never, ever would be.
But she was determined to fix that. The world would eventually consider him to be made of more
than just the black and the white.

But how had her thoughts compared to his own? How had her nights compared to his own? Hours
and hours of his life consumed by a growing collection of little pink slips of paper covered in lines
of soft, feminine words he’d already read a hundred times over, likely more. At first, the prurient
intimacy he’d quickly developed with these notes was enough. The reveries were fresh and bright,
and they were colorful enough to keep his attentions shackled to himself. But then they began to
dull. And fade. And he needed them to be rawer, so much rawer, so he recklessly went at them with
a knife, cutting and cutting and cutting until there was no more color left to bleed.

Suddenly, they were not enough. And to his immense frustration, he knew they never, ever would
be.

But he was determined to fix that. The dimensions and the details of this woman who freely and
skillfully manipulated the shape of his desires would eventually be rooted not in opinion, but in
irrefutable fact.
 Take Note
Chapter Notes

A reichblr-ficathon prompt: "an exchange of secrets."

Alright. Here’s the state of things so you’d best take note:

She does know how to break a man when no one’s looking, that Lady. She may not look it herself:
halo of hair woven in shades of hard gold; deft, dainty fingers, manicured nails; blood red lips
painted so stark and careful; black lashes and powder blue eyes dyed deep with trust–trust you can
see because there’s a whole lotta secrets in ‘em, some hers and some not, and it does say a lot about
a body that holds so many…

But appearances do so often lie, don’t they? Blood is rather alarming, after all. A waving red flag.
Puts a person to a stop. Makes ‘em take note.

And maybe that’s why He keeps her around, likes that she sees something in breaking, in bleeding,
in pain: the spilling of red hot pressure to recklessly pan for its rich deposits of dopamine. Maybe
He keeps her around because He was already broken when He found her, the only state that man
there knows, and He likes that someone else can see that for what it is, take that for nothing more
and nothing less than what it means.

Which is to say: she knows how to handle it.

How to hold it tight to her chest, safe between her breasts, warm hands, cupped palms, fingers
curled and secure but soft and adoring because what she has sitting heavy in her hands there, what
she has sitting close to her heart is valuable, priceless. And she ain’t gonna let anything happen to
it.

She ain’t gonna sell it, she ain’t gonna toss it, she ain’t gonna hide it, not completely. She’s gonna
put it high up on her shelf where it won’t mean a darn thing to a person who glances at it, not that
much–unless you stop and stand there, down below it, head tipped back, and you look up at it,
consider it, see it…

Which means you now know very well that it’s there. Always lookin’ over everything and
everyone that walks into that room, into her life. And that’s quite the significant thing, ain’t it.
Ain’t a thing for a body to scoff at, no matter who you are.

(And let you know this, know it good and true: even kinship means very little here. Once you
poison a well, there ain’t no fixing it. Sinks deep. Sets even deeper. Makes a person sick with
headaches. No choice but to board the useless thing up and walk away. Let the weeds have at it. So
take note and be sure to underline that.)

You don’t waltz into a Queen’s life without her King knowing you’re there; ‘cause He’s also
letting you stay there. Best remember that. Your behavior, ‘specially around her, will be more than
a mile high above impeccable, and it’d best make her happy. Yes, it does mean a lot to be waltzing
that close which means there’s even more sitting on down the line.
Best remember that too.

Not a place friendly to missteps–which is to say, you’d better not so much as sneeze in His Lady’s
direction ‘cause He’ll know about it. And you’d better not forget the God Bless You when His
Lady sneezes in yours ‘cause He’ll know about that too. Otherwise you’re prayin’ harm on His
Lady and He does not take kindly to that. Makes sure everyone knows that. He’s very clear about
that, very very clear. Even when it feels you can’t pull a damn thing outta that seam down there,
down in that mine you’re tryin’ in secret to work, the one with that Lady’s name written all over it–
if you even manage the guts and the audacity to do such a potentially stupid and hazardous thing–

Even then.
You will pull that.
You will claim it clean and clear from the rock.
Every time.

He’s very fond of her and He don’t want anything happening to her.

So.
Do you understand what, exactly, that thing there is, sitting heavy in your hands?

If you don’t, you’re not nearly as smart as He thinks you to be which means you don’t belong
down there. A mine ain’t no place for a wandering fool, wildly throwing about his tools, blind as a
fucking bat. Can’t tell gold from pyrite, a fool, which means he’ll dig the knife claim straight outta
vein of Fool’s Gold and work it ‘til sparks fly and the whole damn thing blows ‘cause he didn’t
know about the damn pyrites and he didn’t know about the damn firedamp ‘cause he couldn’t see
it.

Now there’s a mess no one wants to deal with, especially the Boss. A lotta paperwork, a lotta
coffins. And have you ever tried papering over rumors spread by word of mouth?

Ain’t possible.

And a castle ain’t any safer for a wandering fool, sorry to say. A dangerous place if you don’t
know where you’re going, where you ain’t allowed to be, because… well, you see, here’s the
thing: without dragging up any of the dirty details (don’t kid yourself–you don’t have the proper
papers for those and you know it), sometimes locked doors are left unlocked on accident and
opening them just creates awkward and irritating complications where a man of the house can’t
even walk his own halls in peace because he don’t wanna run into you, knowing what it is that you
know is, in fact, too much.

Eye contact gives a lot away and avoiding it gives away even more. See the problem here?

So you’ll fast get a:

Thank you for coming, it’s been a pleasure to see you, you really ought to visit more often, yes, it’s
always been too long and we absolutely must set a date to keep that from happening, we must
break the habit now while we have the opportunity.
Now.
Do you need help with your bags?
The car will take you to the station.
Have a safe trip.

Take note: you will leave without a “Goodbye” from the King and you will leave without a date.
And the next time you come, if you ever do, His Lady ain’t gonna be there. You ain’t gonna see
her. Both the mine and the well are gonna be all boarded up, left to the weeds–because you just
didn’t get it, this state of things.

So you’d best take note.

Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!