Basterds fic: Carve The Word Across His Back, NC-17
Title: Carve The Word Across His Back
Pairing: Landa/Hellstrom
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1423
Warnings: dom!Hellstrom, sub!Landa, whipping kink, and dark themes.
Summary: Nothing is as horrifying as the feeling of losing control.
Disclaimer: Inglourious Basterds belongs to God Quentin Tarantino, I'm just borrowing the characters for the moment.
Notes: For some bizarre, unknown reason (although, I have a feeling that the idea of sub!Landa may have had something to do with it), I decided to write a sequel to The Beauty In The Whiplash. This is that sequel.
Carve The Word Across His Back
A puff of smoke obscures Hans’ vision. The smell of that tobacco is far stronger than what he is used to, and it threatens to make him cough, but he manages to suppress it. Instead he looks up, arching an eyebrow. “What?” All he gets is that damned smirk in reply. He closes the folder on the table before him before he speaks again. “I take it that you haven’t found anything?”
Dieter doesn’t so much look as he stares, those eyes refusing to blink as they observe him. He resists the urge to look away. Another waft of smoke slightly clouds his vision before he gets a reply. Of sorts. “Why weren’t you there today?”
He rolls his eyes, like he practiced. “Well, dear Major, when you’ve seen one whipping you have seen them all, have you not?” He knew that Dieter would ask, knew that he had to have a reply. Judging from Dieter’s curt nod, he had accepted the excuse.
“So what made Stiglitz the one whipping you had to see, then?”
He sits back in his chair, slouching in a well-practiced manner. You make the victim feel comfortable before you let them know that they are the prey. “Oh, you know me. I do love a good spectacle.” A look of wry amusement, a cigarette stubbed out in an ashtray.
He stands, and he watches as Dieter grabs his coat. “You know, it’s a shame.”
“What is?”
He walks around the table, so that Hans can’t see him. Instead, he feels hands on his shoulders and the tickle of warm breath against his ear. He maintains that practiced casual indifference. He has to, even after those seven little words spill from Dieter‘s mouth. “That you feel the need to lie.”
Hands leave his shoulders, and he hears the door being pulled shut behind him. He doesn’t exhale the long breath he has been holding. You never know who could be watching.
***
He doesn’t avoid Dieter. He doesn’t alter his behaviour in any way that would be noticeable. That would arouse suspicion. Sure, he may pace floors when he is alone, he possibly runs his fingers though his hair, before grasping things between his hands and squeezing the inanimate life out of them. He might even yell in the silence. When he’s alone, that is when he can lose his composure, but not here.
Not when Dieter throws a discreet glance in his direction, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Not when specific words are burdened with double entendres that only he and Dieter would understand. He has to remains cool. Have the shadow of a grin on his face, as though this is some private game they are playing, and that he is enjoying it. As if the very idea that there could be another reason for his presence at Stiglitz’s punishment was absurd.
The game continues, and even though he makes all of the right moves, he can’t help but feel that he is on the losing side.
***
His eyes remain glued to the glass in his hand, to the way the light will occasionally catch the amber liquid as he swishes the scotch around. He can’t look, he can’t allow himself to. So he stares at the scotch, instead of letting his gaze linger on the way long fingers were stroking along the edge of the bar in mock distraction. He opens his mouth, lets the alcohol burn down his throat. A nudge against his arm, and he looks up. Dieter tilts his head on an angle, observing him with a smile on his face, and he ignores the stray strands of sticky hair that have fallen, disregards how much younger he looks when all of his hair isn’t slicked back. “You look tense, Colonel.”
He takes seconds to react, seconds that seem like a moment forever suspended in time, and Dieter’s grin widens. “I’m fine, you know how it is.” He makes a weak attempt at a smile, and Dieter straightens up. A lion catching a whiff of fear, looking around for a cowering victim.
He sits up, places the glass down on the bar, then turns his head to look directly at Dieter. He wants to leave, make up some pathetic excuse, but he sees the glint of victory in Dieter’s eye and knows that he can’t. Not while there is a chance that he can still win this little game of theirs. “Actually, that reminds me. Do you have any plans for this evening?”
***
The pretext of research is soon discarded, left swimming in the ashes of too many cigarettes, the red stains of too much spilt wine. He starts to run a hand through his hair, but stops as fingers meet the strands. That would show weakness, and weakness leads to failure. He looks at Dieter, and knows that this is one game that he can not fail. He has played against opponents who have the upper hand before. He always wins, in the end.
“Why did you think I was lying?” He tries not to grimace. Usually, he likes to be more subtle in his interrogations, but the need to know what he is playing against is too strong. Dieter’s eyes open, and he turns his head to the side, looking at him.
“Hmmm?”
“You said that you thought I was lying about my motives for seeing Hugo’s punishment. I was just wondering why.” Dieter looks at him for a moment, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. Then, without saying a word, he slides his fingers along the edge of the couch, before moving them up his legs, slowly bringing them to a halt just below his belt. Hans’ mouth begins to go dry as the tips of those fingers brush against the leather, and when he finally tears his gaze away, it’s only to find a grin on Dieter’s face. “I think you just answered your own question.”
Dieter stands and walks across the room, coming to a stop before him. A hand grips his tie and pull, but when he leans forward, he is stopped by the other hand pressing against the medals pinned to his jacket. He remains still as Dieter leans in, cold lips brushing against his earlobe. He lets out a breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding as the words register in his mind. “I’ll take over from here. Colonel.”
Dieter straightens, the hand that was on Hans’ chest returning to his side as his other hand pulls on the tie roughly. He tries to resist, but they both know that this little act of defiance is little more than a weak façade. He feels the grip on his tie loosen as he stands, and watches as Dieter steps back, fingers once more resting on his belt. The smirk widens as he says one word. “Strip.”
He looks Dieter directly in the eye as he removes his coat, desperately hoping the blind panic coursing through his veins isn‘t noticeable.
***
The cold metal runs along his spine. He bites his lip against the moan that threatens to escape. Dieter doesn’t need to know the extent of his reaction to the belt buckle being dragged across his skin. He can still control this. He feels the buckle stop, hears a low chuckle behind him. The belt is replaced with a hand, cold fingers rubbing against his lower back and nails digging into skin. He can’t help but whimper, and the sound of that noise coming from his own mouth makes him panic.
The sound of air rushing past a quickly moving object. The pain of leather connecting with soft flesh. The embarrassment about the sound that escapes from his mouth and the fact that he doesn’t want this to stop. The feel of a hand stroke his tender skin, and the sound of a mocking voice. “It’s alright, Colonel. I’ll look after you.”
The belt comes down across his arse again, the sound making him hard, making him so desperate that he has to rut against the couch, just for the tiniest bit of friction. The panic and the bile rising in his throat. Sickened by the fact that he has lost control, that he’s been defeated. Disgusted by his anticipation of the next crack of the belt against his arse.
***
He straightens his tie, and makes sure that he doesn‘t look at Dieter as he leaves. “We will never speak of this again.”
“By all means, Colonel.”
Pairing: Landa/Hellstrom
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1423
Warnings: dom!Hellstrom, sub!Landa, whipping kink, and dark themes.
Summary: Nothing is as horrifying as the feeling of losing control.
Disclaimer: Inglourious Basterds belongs to God Quentin Tarantino, I'm just borrowing the characters for the moment.
Notes: For some bizarre, unknown reason (although, I have a feeling that the idea of sub!Landa may have had something to do with it), I decided to write a sequel to The Beauty In The Whiplash. This is that sequel.
Carve The Word Across His Back
A puff of smoke obscures Hans’ vision. The smell of that tobacco is far stronger than what he is used to, and it threatens to make him cough, but he manages to suppress it. Instead he looks up, arching an eyebrow. “What?” All he gets is that damned smirk in reply. He closes the folder on the table before him before he speaks again. “I take it that you haven’t found anything?”
Dieter doesn’t so much look as he stares, those eyes refusing to blink as they observe him. He resists the urge to look away. Another waft of smoke slightly clouds his vision before he gets a reply. Of sorts. “Why weren’t you there today?”
He rolls his eyes, like he practiced. “Well, dear Major, when you’ve seen one whipping you have seen them all, have you not?” He knew that Dieter would ask, knew that he had to have a reply. Judging from Dieter’s curt nod, he had accepted the excuse.
“So what made Stiglitz the one whipping you had to see, then?”
He sits back in his chair, slouching in a well-practiced manner. You make the victim feel comfortable before you let them know that they are the prey. “Oh, you know me. I do love a good spectacle.” A look of wry amusement, a cigarette stubbed out in an ashtray.
He stands, and he watches as Dieter grabs his coat. “You know, it’s a shame.”
“What is?”
He walks around the table, so that Hans can’t see him. Instead, he feels hands on his shoulders and the tickle of warm breath against his ear. He maintains that practiced casual indifference. He has to, even after those seven little words spill from Dieter‘s mouth. “That you feel the need to lie.”
Hands leave his shoulders, and he hears the door being pulled shut behind him. He doesn’t exhale the long breath he has been holding. You never know who could be watching.
***
He doesn’t avoid Dieter. He doesn’t alter his behaviour in any way that would be noticeable. That would arouse suspicion. Sure, he may pace floors when he is alone, he possibly runs his fingers though his hair, before grasping things between his hands and squeezing the inanimate life out of them. He might even yell in the silence. When he’s alone, that is when he can lose his composure, but not here.
Not when Dieter throws a discreet glance in his direction, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Not when specific words are burdened with double entendres that only he and Dieter would understand. He has to remains cool. Have the shadow of a grin on his face, as though this is some private game they are playing, and that he is enjoying it. As if the very idea that there could be another reason for his presence at Stiglitz’s punishment was absurd.
The game continues, and even though he makes all of the right moves, he can’t help but feel that he is on the losing side.
***
His eyes remain glued to the glass in his hand, to the way the light will occasionally catch the amber liquid as he swishes the scotch around. He can’t look, he can’t allow himself to. So he stares at the scotch, instead of letting his gaze linger on the way long fingers were stroking along the edge of the bar in mock distraction. He opens his mouth, lets the alcohol burn down his throat. A nudge against his arm, and he looks up. Dieter tilts his head on an angle, observing him with a smile on his face, and he ignores the stray strands of sticky hair that have fallen, disregards how much younger he looks when all of his hair isn’t slicked back. “You look tense, Colonel.”
He takes seconds to react, seconds that seem like a moment forever suspended in time, and Dieter’s grin widens. “I’m fine, you know how it is.” He makes a weak attempt at a smile, and Dieter straightens up. A lion catching a whiff of fear, looking around for a cowering victim.
He sits up, places the glass down on the bar, then turns his head to look directly at Dieter. He wants to leave, make up some pathetic excuse, but he sees the glint of victory in Dieter’s eye and knows that he can’t. Not while there is a chance that he can still win this little game of theirs. “Actually, that reminds me. Do you have any plans for this evening?”
***
The pretext of research is soon discarded, left swimming in the ashes of too many cigarettes, the red stains of too much spilt wine. He starts to run a hand through his hair, but stops as fingers meet the strands. That would show weakness, and weakness leads to failure. He looks at Dieter, and knows that this is one game that he can not fail. He has played against opponents who have the upper hand before. He always wins, in the end.
“Why did you think I was lying?” He tries not to grimace. Usually, he likes to be more subtle in his interrogations, but the need to know what he is playing against is too strong. Dieter’s eyes open, and he turns his head to the side, looking at him.
“Hmmm?”
“You said that you thought I was lying about my motives for seeing Hugo’s punishment. I was just wondering why.” Dieter looks at him for a moment, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. Then, without saying a word, he slides his fingers along the edge of the couch, before moving them up his legs, slowly bringing them to a halt just below his belt. Hans’ mouth begins to go dry as the tips of those fingers brush against the leather, and when he finally tears his gaze away, it’s only to find a grin on Dieter’s face. “I think you just answered your own question.”
Dieter stands and walks across the room, coming to a stop before him. A hand grips his tie and pull, but when he leans forward, he is stopped by the other hand pressing against the medals pinned to his jacket. He remains still as Dieter leans in, cold lips brushing against his earlobe. He lets out a breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding as the words register in his mind. “I’ll take over from here. Colonel.”
Dieter straightens, the hand that was on Hans’ chest returning to his side as his other hand pulls on the tie roughly. He tries to resist, but they both know that this little act of defiance is little more than a weak façade. He feels the grip on his tie loosen as he stands, and watches as Dieter steps back, fingers once more resting on his belt. The smirk widens as he says one word. “Strip.”
He looks Dieter directly in the eye as he removes his coat, desperately hoping the blind panic coursing through his veins isn‘t noticeable.
***
The cold metal runs along his spine. He bites his lip against the moan that threatens to escape. Dieter doesn’t need to know the extent of his reaction to the belt buckle being dragged across his skin. He can still control this. He feels the buckle stop, hears a low chuckle behind him. The belt is replaced with a hand, cold fingers rubbing against his lower back and nails digging into skin. He can’t help but whimper, and the sound of that noise coming from his own mouth makes him panic.
The sound of air rushing past a quickly moving object. The pain of leather connecting with soft flesh. The embarrassment about the sound that escapes from his mouth and the fact that he doesn’t want this to stop. The feel of a hand stroke his tender skin, and the sound of a mocking voice. “It’s alright, Colonel. I’ll look after you.”
The belt comes down across his arse again, the sound making him hard, making him so desperate that he has to rut against the couch, just for the tiniest bit of friction. The panic and the bile rising in his throat. Sickened by the fact that he has lost control, that he’s been defeated. Disgusted by his anticipation of the next crack of the belt against his arse.
***
He straightens his tie, and makes sure that he doesn‘t look at Dieter as he leaves. “We will never speak of this again.”
“By all means, Colonel.”