Inglourious Basterds Fic: They Watch His Body Twist, NC-17
Title: They Watch His Body Twist
Characters: Hans Landa/Dieter Hellstrom, and hints of Hellstrom/Shosanna if you feel like it.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1561
Warnings: Dubcon, power games, dark themes, and, well, have you seen the characters being slashed?
Summary: Scotch has never been a good friend to Dieter.
Disclaimer: Inglourious Basterds belongs to God Quentin Tarantino, I'm just borrowing the characters for the moment. Also, the title was snagged from the Joy Division song, "Atrocity Exhibition".
Notes: It was only a matter of time before Joy Division inspired a Basterds fic, and yes, I can see the irony in a band named Joy Division inspiring this particular type of fic. Also, I just found out that it is linndechir 's birthday, and since she is largely responsible for my fondness of this pairing, i thought it was the right time to post it. Also, you could read this as a tie-in to "I Can Stare For A Thousand Years", if you feel like it.
They Watch His Body Twist
“How many glasses?”
“Five glasses.”
“Not me. I like scotch, scotch doesn’t like me.”
***
“I don’t understand. What have I done?” Dieter looks at her. The corners of his mouth twitch, and he can’t help but smirk. He likes this one. She would be so much fun to interrogate, to watch her as that façade of proud annoyance crumble around her feet, to break her until there was nothing but fear left. Pity. The private begins to translate, but he holds his hand up to silence him. He’s going to have his fun with this one while he still can.
“Get your ass in that car.” There is no need for the private to translate, he can see by the momentary flicker of terror on her face that Shosanna knows exactly what he means. She moves towards the open sedan door, moves to step inside, and he can’t help but lend an assisting hand, smacking her slightly more roughly than necessary on the ass.
She remains silent for the entire car trip. It doesn’t bother him in the slightest, he couldn’t care less about what she has to say anyway. The way she resolutely avoids looking in his direction says more than words ever could. He watches her for the entire journey. The thin line of her lips, the way her fingers tap against her thighs. The distant look in her eyes as she stares out of the sedan window, wishing she was anywhere but in this car. He watches her, and he makes sure that she knows he is doing exactly that.
***
“Ah, Landa, you’re here.” His on his feet straight away, standing to attention like some God-damned little bitch, waiting to be thrown the tiniest scrap of acknowledgement. His stomach churns with revulsion and something he doesn‘t want to put a name to, something that is more than a little reminiscent of envy. He vaguely hears Zoller introduce Landa (as if the man needs an introduction), but barely notices the words that are actually spoken.
Landa takes the French girl’s hand in his palm, presses his lips against the skin. A glimmer of sheer panic flashes in her eyes. All he had to do was kiss the girl’s hand, and she’s already pissing herself. Landa lifts his lips from her skin. “Charmed, Mademoiselle.” He smiles, and he knows that smile. He’s used it too often not to recognise it. It’s the smile of the predator as its prey is backed into in a corner. Dieter looks at Shosanna. Her mask has fallen back into place, but he can still see the slight tremor of her free hand, the tension in her back.
His eyes move back to Landa, and he takes in the disarming smile, the cold composure. Thoughts flood his mind, dangerous thoughts that really shouldn‘t see the light of day. Thoughts about snapping that composure in half and tearing it to pieces.
***
The sound of laughter echoes around him, and his lips twist around the cigarette into a smile, just in case someone is watching. He exhales around the cigarette, the smoke illuminated by the bright light from the screen, and the smile fades as soon as the laughter stops. It’s too much, but it’s nowhere near enough, and he keeps his eyes trained on the screen without seeing anything. Sitting next to Landa in the dark, watching his lips caress his German cigarette as he inhales smoke, while he desperately avoiding any thoughts of what that cigarette could be replaced with. Avoiding mental images of that mouth sucking on something much larger, of his own fingers twisted in the colonel’s neat hair as he’d watch beads of sweat run down his forehead and tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Watching him struggle for breath as he fucks Landa’s throat. The beauty in the breakdown of that cool, calm demeanour. He swallows too much smoke on his next drag, and quickly suppresses the cough that threatens to break.
***
He digs around in his trench coat for another cigarette, pulls it from his pocket when it has been located. A brief click, a flash of orange flame in the dark, and the cigarette is between his lips, fingers caressing the paper as he greedily sucks the smoke into his lungs. He walks away and leans against the nearest wall, head resting against the brick as he exhales. “Do you have a spare cigarette, Dieter? I seem to have run out.” His free hand dives once more in to his pocket, and he passes another one to Landa, ignoring the feel of Landa’s fingers against his hands. He closes his eyes as he sucks down more nicotine, listening to the click of Landa’s lighter. A brief stretch of silence, before Landa speaks to him once more. “Ah, just what I needed. Thank you, Dieter.” He opens his eyes, sees Landa lean against the wall next to him. The silence builds around them, intensifies. He finds himself staring at Landa for a fraction too long, and closes his eyes once more.
“You’re not much of a talker, are you, Dieter?” His eyes open, and he weighs an appropriate answer.
“Not when I’m smoking, no.” A smile appears on Landa’s face, that sort of grin he himself uses from time to time. That grin that appears when you have someone right where you want them.
“I hate to ask this, Dieter, but I need to do some research, and I could use the company. Even if it is silent.” Dieter finishes his cigarette, and flicks the end in to the dark. Once again, he weighs his response before he speaks. He has found it best to always do that with Landa.
“What are you researching?”
“Oh, you know. Nothing of any great importance. Just a follow-up on a Jewish family I encountered a few years back.” Dieter smirks at the implication of his words.
“Sounds like fun.”
“Excellent.” Dieter doesn’t miss the glint in Landa’s eye when he speaks, crushing his cigarette to the ground underneath his boot.
***
He finishes his third scotch. Formless thoughts collide, lazily fighting for coherence only to be interrupted by a new contender for the most important one. He forgets that he should be alert, he forgets why he is looking through this mess of papers in the first place. “What was her name again?”
Hans looks at him, and Dieter can just see the barest hint of a smug grin. “Shosanna Dreyfus.” He looks down at the paper, trying to identify that name even though the simplest words are little more than a blur. He blinks, but even though the haze does not lift, he still pretends to search.
“This is good scotch, Hans.”
“Isn’t it?” His head rises from the paper in his hands, his eyes eventually settling on Hans. The world starts to spin, and he places a hand on the table to steady himself. The expression on Hans’ face changes, morphs into something more feral, more predatory. “Why, Dieter, you seem to be a little drunk. Don’t tell me that scotch has already gone to your head.” Dieter makes a noise, the bastard son of a giggle and a moan. He feels something touch the hand clenching the table. He didn’t even see Hans move his arm. “Tsk, tsk. Whatever are we going to do with you, Dieter?” Nails clutch at his wrist, digging into skin. His gaze lifts from his hand and moves upward, taking in the slight tilt of Hans’ head, the small grin on his face. “You know, a Gestapo Major really shouldn’t let his guard down so easily.”
***
Hands are on the arms of his coat. He can just feel the dig of fingernails through the thick leather. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to be his face pressed against the wall, his trousers down around his ankles. He was supposed to be the one, biting into leather, breathing against Hans’ neck, violently whispering a litany of filth and degradation. It wasn’t supposed to be him with tears in the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall. “I’ve always loved the split in the back of these coats. They really come in handy.” A particularly sharp thrust, unlubricated cock pounding into a place it was far too big for, brushing against his prostate. A short, sharp cry breaks free from his mouth, and he can feel Landa’s smirk against the stretch of his neck. He grinds his cock against the wall, desperate for friction, but a sharp bite on his neck stops him. “You know you’re not supposed to do that.” He keeps his mouth closed against the moan that threatens to escape as Hans brushes his prostrate once more, as Hans comes inside him while he’s still agonisingly hard.
Hans pulls away from him. “Turn around.” He stays where he is, a vague pretence of insubordination, before a hand grabs him by the shoulder and pulls his around. He feels a hand reach in to the pocket of his trench coat, liberating a cigarette and placing it between his lips as he moves away to sit in an arm chair. A flick of the lighter, an intake of breath, followed by its eventual release. “Now, finish yourself off like a good boy, Dieter.”