Title: Death in Berlin
Summary: In this AU, Aldo and the Basterds kidnap Landa. After some coarse interrogation and jaw-flappin', Landa gets a little dazed and confused, and begins to reminisce about his violent sexual past with a Berlin rentboy. Donny later confronts Landa alone and some filthy violent peversion occurs. This story explores the sadistic sides of both the character of Hans Landa and of Donny Donowitz (since its so obvious to me they both have one!).
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence and slashy sex. Non-con (dub-con?), choking, bondage, humiliation, sadomasochism.
Pairings: Col. Hans Landa/OMC, Col. Hans Landa/Donny Donowitz
Disclaimer: Quentin Tarentino invented the Basterds. I only bend them to my perversity. The character of Tadzio is obviously heavily influenced by the boy from Thomas Mann's short story "Death in Venice" so I kind of based my title off of that. Enjoy.
It was 1939 and a man in uniform was taking a walk. Breathing cumulus into the frigid night air, he gazed up at the empty windows of taverns and rooming houses, desolate by deportation. The man's suitcase contained all paperwork necessary for promotion under the Sicherheitsdienst—or S.S – the papers were written in German with French translation. France was where here we could be going.
But for now, a young Colonel Hans Landa was in Berlin.
Landa saw the tavern glowing like a haunted relic amongst the evicted buildings. This was the last remaining gemstone of a dying breed, he mused. One last gasp of rebellion against the Third Reich. The Germans called it the modern Sodom. But to Berliners, it was a bar called The Patriot.
As he entered, the black-haired, perfume-soaked rentboys cooed in his direction. They had seen the uniform before, dozens, hundreds of times. There was a stereograph boasting nude pictures. Half-empty cups of absinthe littered the tables. Landa passed the drinks and boys with an aloofness perfected by his profession. He had no time for the wet eyes of sluts and junkies. He went upstairs. And went to the room. To Tadzio.
"How avant-garde," Someone said, in English.
The accent was atrocious, the French phrase tripping on the tongue clumsily.
It was Donny's voice, echoing like a golem. Then Landa heard the other Basterds laughing.
The back end of Aldo's musket caught Landa across the temple. He was jerked from his daydream, his nightmare. Tied to a chair in some damp basement, feeling the blood curl down his cheek, Landa awoke. Then he put his dark eyes on Aldo and spit.
"Yer sittin' here shakin' in yer boots tellin' us about some faerie bar of yester-year, ya kraut faggot. Now," Aldo was smoking a cigar under a single shaft of light, straddling a chair, arms bent. He blew the smoke in Landa's eyes. "whatcher need be tellin' us is everythan' else. Talkin' bout nine teen hundred 'n fourty 'n forward. See, I figger yer a little banged up in the noggin from our previous encounter, seein' as we had to do some convincin' to get you to come with us..."
Correction: they had almost killed him. The Basterds had, quite cleverly Landa would have admitted, found Landa's private (one could call it treacherous) headquarters, le petit café in the red light district. They kicked him 'til blood came outta his nose and put a gag in his mouth. They had taken him here. Wherever here was. Poured ale down his throat. Tied him to a chair. For what? Interrogation? Or revenge?
Aldo leaned forward, his rugged face lit up in the pillar of lamplight. The smoke made a halo around his head. "Suddenly you ain't the talkiative type. What kinda type that is, Donny?"
Donny retorted: "Remind me again, why haven't we killed him yet?"
"The word I was lookin' for is Loquacious, Donny. I mean the loquacious type."
Landa sniffed softly, tasting blood. He craned his head to see the pale, brooding shadows of Donny and Utivich behind Aldo. There was no one else, he calculated. He cleared his throat. He had not lost his eloquence. "Mister Aldo. You're clearly underestimating my dedication to my service and country, if you believe that I will so easily give up the information you're requesting. I take too much pride in my independent research to have you and your unskilled yanks putting their grubby hands all over it. You'll simply have to kill me, boys, an honor I'll happily grant you and the Fuhrer will happily decapitate you for."
"See, I don't buy that." Aldo chewed on his lip, and pulled the chair out, the sound grating across the walls. He stood over Landa, put his hands on his waist, sucked on the end of that cigar. "Nah, Hans, you ain't so honorable yerself. My guess is you'd rather be a traitor 'n git outta here alive, maybe with both yer balls if you plan on usin' em. What yer interested in is savin' yer own nazi ass. You wanna make a deal."
"A deal." Landa, unconvinced, smacked his lips.
"Yessir, a deal. See, I happen to know you ain't so buddy-buddy with mister Hitler as you make out to be. I happen to know yer runnin' yer own enterprise down here in France and you could git yer head chopped off for it if word got around."
Landa swallowed, saw the edge of Donny's baseball bat against a sliver of light.
In a swift movement, Aldo stuck the toe of his boot under Landa's seat and dragged him under the shaft of light. Illuminated like that, the Basterds could see just what state Landa was in. In fact, it was a bit of a tickle for them. Straight-backed against a rickety wooden chair, he was still in full uniform—gloves, coat, medals, boots, everything. But he was, indeed, tied to that chair-- arms were crossed, wrists joined behind him in a genius collection of rope knots. His ankles were bound up to the legs of the chair, forcing his feet wide apart. His hay-colored hair stuck to his forehead, blood beading on his nose, defiant eyes narrowing at the burst of light.
"Yer lookin' awful vulnerable right about now, Hans." Aldo chuckled. "Which is good for Donny here, ain't nothin' he loves more 'n hitting nazis in the balls with a baseball bat…"
Landa's breath caught. Through the blast of light he blinked at the figure of Sgt. Donny Donowitz moving towards him, bat raised. Striding into the ray of light, the man forced Landa's knees further apart with his bootheel, grinning wide. The light made him look like a jewish devil, a wicked black-haired animal—a bear jew.
"You wanna fuckin' talk, Hans Lahn-Dah?" Donny sneered, heaving his bat across his shoulder. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt. He smelled like sweat.
Landa's brows crashed together. He felt his heart rising in his throat.
Slowly Donny weighed the bat in his hand. Then he pointed the bat down at Landa, put it against his chin. Forced Landa to look at him.
"Listen you nazi piece of shit, I'm going to fuckin' hurt you." Donny drawled.
In shock, Landa's mouth dropped open, but before he could speak the bat relocated itself, grazing painfully slowly across the uniformed man's thigh, and then pressing firmly, with finality, into his groin. "No, stop!" he said it without thinking, out of fear. It was happening too fast.
He heard Aldo chuckling.
His eyes were stuck on Donny's face, which was frighteningly captivating in its stillness: dark, heavy eyes staring down on him, mouth curled into a sadistic smirk.
"Don't." Landa spoke quickly. The bat rotated softly, rubbing his cock through his pants. An electric heat traveled down his waist. Unintentional.
"Don't what, fuckin' nazi bitch?" Donny barked, pushing Landa's legs apart wider with his foot. The Colonel's disposition had become unusually timid. He felt the humiliation and fear before the blow, about to be beat like a dog with the Basterds as audience.
The bat was raised. Donny had explosives in his eyes.
Landa squeezed his eyes shut, cried out: "OKAY. YES. A DEAL. LET'S MAKE A DEAL."
Time hung. He expected to feel the sour torment of pain any moment. The bat did not collide. He shuddered.
The applause from Aldo and Utivich filled up the tiny basement. Donny, visibly disappointed, pulled away, dropping his foot from Landa's leg. The bat cracked along the ground.
"We got us a real patriot tonight!" Aldo put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, then went over to Landa and grabbed him by the chin. He held him mercilessly, squeezing Landa's face, the cigar inches from his cheek, clutched between two thick fingers. Landa's eyes stung. "So yer gonna be a good lil' nazi and tell us everything we want to know, is that crystal fuckin' clear?"
Landa felt his head being twisted around, shook up and down by Aldo's firm grip. He coughed. "Yes, yes." He hissed.
The Basterds catcalled, chortled. Aldo mashed Landa's S.S. cap back on his skull, ruffling his hair with it. He felt his heart racing, raging against his insides. Then Aldo knocked him on the head again with the pistol and it went black.