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linndechirTitle: Five Senses - Part one: See
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
linndechir
Fandom: Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Hellstrom/Landa
Rating: PG
Warning: top!Hellstrom, sub!Landa, hand kink, smoking porn
Words: 1021
Author’s note: What Hellstrom is doing in this scene is blatantly stolen from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Mhmm, Garak and Hellstrom should meet. I don’t think they’d get along, but they’d mindfuck each other to no end.
Links to part two, part three, part four, part five.
1) SEE
Hans Landa’s eyes had been fixed on the interrogation room for almost an hour now. He was standing in the observation room next door, separated by a glass wall that allowed him to see what was going on without being seen.
The scene that fascinated him so much seemed to be fairly normal. A bleak interrogation room, rather dark except for a cold lamp hanging from the ceiling over the small table, a shivering young man in a torn, dirty suit, sitting opposite an equally young Gestapo officer in a black SS-uniform. An interrogation scene like many others that happened these days, an officer squeezing information out of a suspected regime opponent.
Nothing of particular interest for someone of Landa’s rank, had it not been for the identity of the interrogator - Sturmbannführer Dieter Hellstrom. His obvious intelligence and shrewdness, together with his very impressive record and reputation, had piqued Landa’s interest, and after one of Hellstrom’s superiors had told him that the major could make a mute man talk, Landa had been quite curious to see him at work.
For an hour Hellstrom had simply been staring at the young man, who had tried to escape his gaze a few times, but had found himself drawn in again like a moth to the flame. Hellstrom blinked rarely, slowly, and when he did it didn’t seem to break the power of his gaze. His whole body seemed immobile, except for the occasional shifting to make himself more comfortable; his hands were folded on the table.
After asking the prisoner, at the very beginning, if he would simply answer the questions they had - which the man had refused - Hellstrom hadn’t said a word. He had just stared at him in complete silence, with the patience of a hawk, gliding in the skies and waiting for the right moment to bear down on his victim.
To Hans Landa’s eyes, the sight was just as beautiful to behold as a hawk’s flight. Even from a distance he could see the utter control in Hellstrom’s body - even his occasional shifting was carefully calculated, same as the rare movements of his long fingers, tapping on the table as if he had become impatient, while his face remained the same cold mask as before, conveying the absolute certainty that he would win this game, even if he had to sit here for the next three days.
And the prisoner, who had held his head so high when he had been brought in, had all too soon started to shiver, his initial discomfort quickly turning into fear. It was impressive - the longer he looked into Hellstrom’s eyes, incapable of averting his gaze, the weaker he seemed to get.
Hellstrom hadn’t even moved to light a cigarette, and Landa knew how much self-control this had to cost a chain-smoker like him. He kept watching, with the same fascination with which he would watch a cat toy with a mouse, seeing how the prisoner was slowly worn down, his imagination no doubt painting vivid images of all the things a man with such eyes as Hellstrom’s would do to him. And Landa, more than anyone else, could appreciate the art and the skill behind this gaze. Other interrogators would have started physical torture by now, but Hellstrom knew that letting the victim imagine the pain that awaited him was much more frightening.
Landa had long stopped checking his watch when the prisoner suddenly sobbed loudly, tears spilling over his face, and whimpered a name.
Finally, for the first time since he had entered the interrogation room, Hellstrom smiled, a smile that showed too many teeth, a shark’s smile. His fingers unfolded and quickly picked up his pen, noting the name in a tiny, absurdly regular handwriting. His eyes moved up again, from the paper to the prisoner, and the first name of an accomplice was soon followed by more names, then even a full confession.
Landa watched Hellstrom’s hand as avidly, almost greedily, as he had stared at his eyes before. Two pages were filled before Hellstrom nodded in satisfaction and made a quick sign to the two waiting SS-men. While the still weeping prisoner was being dragged out of the room, Hellstrom finally pulled out his cigarette case.
Landa almost caught himself moaning when a cigarette was put between slightly parted lips, drawn in by the elegance of these long fingers when they lit the cigarette, their caresses on the white paper after he had taken the first drag. The touch of his lips and hands on the cigarette was like a lover’s, tender and yet greedy and impatient, and to his own shock Landa felt intense arousal stir in his groin, earlier intellectual fascination turning into mere physical desire. And just as Hellstrom’s eyes had made the prisoner imagine the things he would have to endure if he stayed silent, his hands made Landa imagine how they would feel on his body, caressing him, holding him down, teasing him …
Hellstrom’s skin was ghostly pale against the black uniform, slender wrists barely visible under the long sleeves. Landa wanted to push those sleeves up a little, kiss the fragile looking wrists, lick over his blue veins, feel the strong pulse under his hot skin.
Suddenly it occurred to him how awkward it would be to be found here, staring at Hellstrom, his breathing accelerated, his face probably flushed. He quickly straightened up and turned to leave, but in the same moment Hellstrom looked up. Even through the glass their eyes met, and although Landa knew that Hellstrom couldn’t possibly see him, he felt as if his eyes were seeing right through him.
Hellstrom took a last drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out slowly. An almost dirty smirk graced his pale face for a second, but it was gone so quickly that Landa wondered if he had only imagined it.
Barely a second later Hellstrom had turned his attention back to his notes, calmly sorting through the papers and making a few annotations.
Landa almost stumbled when he hurried out of the room.
ON TO PART TWO
Author:
linndechir Fandom: Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Hellstrom/Landa
Rating: PG
Warning: top!Hellstrom, sub!Landa, hand kink, smoking porn
Words: 1021
Author’s note: What Hellstrom is doing in this scene is blatantly stolen from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Mhmm, Garak and Hellstrom should meet. I don’t think they’d get along, but they’d mindfuck each other to no end.
Links to part two, part three, part four, part five.
1) SEE
Hans Landa’s eyes had been fixed on the interrogation room for almost an hour now. He was standing in the observation room next door, separated by a glass wall that allowed him to see what was going on without being seen.
The scene that fascinated him so much seemed to be fairly normal. A bleak interrogation room, rather dark except for a cold lamp hanging from the ceiling over the small table, a shivering young man in a torn, dirty suit, sitting opposite an equally young Gestapo officer in a black SS-uniform. An interrogation scene like many others that happened these days, an officer squeezing information out of a suspected regime opponent.
Nothing of particular interest for someone of Landa’s rank, had it not been for the identity of the interrogator - Sturmbannführer Dieter Hellstrom. His obvious intelligence and shrewdness, together with his very impressive record and reputation, had piqued Landa’s interest, and after one of Hellstrom’s superiors had told him that the major could make a mute man talk, Landa had been quite curious to see him at work.
For an hour Hellstrom had simply been staring at the young man, who had tried to escape his gaze a few times, but had found himself drawn in again like a moth to the flame. Hellstrom blinked rarely, slowly, and when he did it didn’t seem to break the power of his gaze. His whole body seemed immobile, except for the occasional shifting to make himself more comfortable; his hands were folded on the table.
After asking the prisoner, at the very beginning, if he would simply answer the questions they had - which the man had refused - Hellstrom hadn’t said a word. He had just stared at him in complete silence, with the patience of a hawk, gliding in the skies and waiting for the right moment to bear down on his victim.
To Hans Landa’s eyes, the sight was just as beautiful to behold as a hawk’s flight. Even from a distance he could see the utter control in Hellstrom’s body - even his occasional shifting was carefully calculated, same as the rare movements of his long fingers, tapping on the table as if he had become impatient, while his face remained the same cold mask as before, conveying the absolute certainty that he would win this game, even if he had to sit here for the next three days.
And the prisoner, who had held his head so high when he had been brought in, had all too soon started to shiver, his initial discomfort quickly turning into fear. It was impressive - the longer he looked into Hellstrom’s eyes, incapable of averting his gaze, the weaker he seemed to get.
Hellstrom hadn’t even moved to light a cigarette, and Landa knew how much self-control this had to cost a chain-smoker like him. He kept watching, with the same fascination with which he would watch a cat toy with a mouse, seeing how the prisoner was slowly worn down, his imagination no doubt painting vivid images of all the things a man with such eyes as Hellstrom’s would do to him. And Landa, more than anyone else, could appreciate the art and the skill behind this gaze. Other interrogators would have started physical torture by now, but Hellstrom knew that letting the victim imagine the pain that awaited him was much more frightening.
Landa had long stopped checking his watch when the prisoner suddenly sobbed loudly, tears spilling over his face, and whimpered a name.
Finally, for the first time since he had entered the interrogation room, Hellstrom smiled, a smile that showed too many teeth, a shark’s smile. His fingers unfolded and quickly picked up his pen, noting the name in a tiny, absurdly regular handwriting. His eyes moved up again, from the paper to the prisoner, and the first name of an accomplice was soon followed by more names, then even a full confession.
Landa watched Hellstrom’s hand as avidly, almost greedily, as he had stared at his eyes before. Two pages were filled before Hellstrom nodded in satisfaction and made a quick sign to the two waiting SS-men. While the still weeping prisoner was being dragged out of the room, Hellstrom finally pulled out his cigarette case.
Landa almost caught himself moaning when a cigarette was put between slightly parted lips, drawn in by the elegance of these long fingers when they lit the cigarette, their caresses on the white paper after he had taken the first drag. The touch of his lips and hands on the cigarette was like a lover’s, tender and yet greedy and impatient, and to his own shock Landa felt intense arousal stir in his groin, earlier intellectual fascination turning into mere physical desire. And just as Hellstrom’s eyes had made the prisoner imagine the things he would have to endure if he stayed silent, his hands made Landa imagine how they would feel on his body, caressing him, holding him down, teasing him …
Hellstrom’s skin was ghostly pale against the black uniform, slender wrists barely visible under the long sleeves. Landa wanted to push those sleeves up a little, kiss the fragile looking wrists, lick over his blue veins, feel the strong pulse under his hot skin.
Suddenly it occurred to him how awkward it would be to be found here, staring at Hellstrom, his breathing accelerated, his face probably flushed. He quickly straightened up and turned to leave, but in the same moment Hellstrom looked up. Even through the glass their eyes met, and although Landa knew that Hellstrom couldn’t possibly see him, he felt as if his eyes were seeing right through him.
Hellstrom took a last drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out slowly. An almost dirty smirk graced his pale face for a second, but it was gone so quickly that Landa wondered if he had only imagined it.
Barely a second later Hellstrom had turned his attention back to his notes, calmly sorting through the papers and making a few annotations.
Landa almost stumbled when he hurried out of the room.
ON TO PART TWO
