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description: when Dieter finds out he is to be stationed in France he decides to propose—unable to tolerate the thought of you not waiting for him. When you refuse he decides to take more drastic measures. p2
warning: ive never written for him and there was supposed to be smut but i got lazy so you just get semi-explicit and dieter being bitchy
The smoke from your cigarette went straight into Dieter’s face.
He pretended to not mind.
“And another thing,” uncle Wilhelm leaned forward now, trapping you both in his breath, “You young people rush weddings these days. No patience. No patience at all.”
Every guest was gone, even the lousy neighbour. Still, Dieter’s uncle lingered—refilling his glass, talking as if the room were full.
Dieter nodded, like it was a reflex he’d been born with. “We tried not to rush.”
“Oh, you did rush,” Wilhelm said cheerfully. “But that’s all right. Most mistakes are made young.”
You twirled your wedding ring, trying to soothe the irritated skin.
Family heirloom. Daisy-shaped, glittering shamefully—too bright, too heavy, too small
Dieter was to be stationed in France. You were fine with it, if you ignored the small gap in your routine.
Dieter wasn’t. Not when it meant leaving you behind.
He had proposed, in his own sterile way—at dinner, after the waiter asked if you wanted tiramisu.
“You should marry me.” Dieter had said.
You laughed and then refused. He only smiled calmly.
Two days later you returned home just to find him with your father in the living room, drinking schnapps. He looked comfortable, at home.
They shook hands. The marriage was set.
Two and a half weeks later you were dressed in your good ecru dress.
His pick. As everything else.
No one got married in three weeks.
You had a friend whose marriage was delayed for almost a year because of the RuSHA.
The paperwork, the racial background investigation—the presents that came along with marrying a Major—all conducted in a matter of days.And so you knew. The groundwork was laid long before you had refused.
“And now a Major. Imagine that.” The uncle smacked his thigh.
You stared at the parquet. The wood wax was drying your throat.
“You see this one,” he pointed his fat finger at Dieter. “He was never one to make demands. If he wanted a second slice of cake, one of his brothers would ask for him.”
“That was a long time ago, uncle.” Dieter shifted on the couch.
Wilhelm’s gaze fell on you. From instinct you forced a smile.
“His mother used to say he was ‘particular’. I used to think you’d always need someone to speak up on your behalf.”
You uncrossed your legs and then crossed them to the other side.
Dieter shot you a warning glance.
“Funny thing, authority,” the uncle went on. “Put the right title on a man, and suddenly people hear him perfectly well. Don’t need intermediaries anymore. Don’t need to ask twice.” He nodded, satisfied with the thought.
“And your little Frau?”
You put out your cigarette on the ashtray with force.
“A shame you’ll have to leave so soon. But it’s alright,” the uncle said, smoothing his trousers as if he might stand, then didn’t. “You’ll find dear, that a house like this keeps you busy.”
“It does take looking after.”
Dieter put your cigarette case in his pocket before you could take it.
The metal case clicked shut.
“Oh, constantly,” Wilhelm said. “Meals don’t plan themselves. Rooms don’t stay straight. People notice those things.” He looked at you, kindly, as if offering a tip.
An insult was at the tip of your tongue. You made a fist, nails digging into the skin.
“It’s — as my Frau likes to call it—the burden and honour of being the lady of the house.”
Dieter took your hand into his. The uncle smiled in secret approval.
“I remember your mother, Dieter. Oh, Irma knew how to keep the house in order.”
“I like things in order,” Dieter squeezed your hand. “It makes life easier.”
Wilhelm shook his head, gaze fixed on you.
“But don’t worry. Once you’re here most days, it comes naturally.”
You turned at Dieter. “Most days?”
There was a pause. Somewhere in the house, a door closed.
“You’ll find your rhythm,” his hand was heavy on yours. “Mornings go quickly. Afternoons slower. Then suddenly it’s evening.”
Wilhelm smiled, pleased, as if nothing of importance had been said. “That’s how it happens.”
Your eyes bore into Dieter.
He reached for his cup, found it empty, and set it back with a small, precise motion.
“It's not a burden if you settle into it. Mother did.” He offered. “Routine can be… reassuring.”
“For whom?”
“For everyone, I think.”
Wilhelm leaned back, satisfied. “You see? He understands.”
“And my job?”
Dieter finally looked at you.
“I don’t think uncle Wilhelm came all the way here to hear about—”
Your nails dug into your palm.
“It is late, uncle.” You said.
“Yes, yes I know. Parties end early.” He let out a sigh before draining his glass“Your mother would’ve stayed. She hated leaving things unfinished.”
He looked between you two before standing. In union you stood with him.
“Well, you've done well for yourself. Both of you have.
No sense dragging things out once the course is clear.” He lingered a moment longer, as if expecting agreement, then reached for his hat.
"Guten nacht."
He kissed your hand. His lips were chapped and wet at the same time.
“Goodnight. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
“Let us walk you outside—“
Dieter’s hand pressed on the small of your back, guiding you toward the door.
You stood still—stiff like a statue.
“Oh don’t worry. I’m old but I remember where the door is!” He chuckled
“Make us proud in France, Dieter.”
Wilhelm patted Dieter on the back, making your husband’s polite smile falter a little. You relished that moment.
The uncle left and the whole apartment was swallowed in silence.
“I thought he’d never leave.”
Dieter let out a sigh.
You looked out the window. Berlin’s streets were empty by now.
Dieter paused for a second.
“Once he drank so much he spent the night on the couch.”
The ring shone brightly on your swollen finger.
“You’re tired.” He said it almost kindly.
You glared at him over your shoulder.
“Indeed.”
“You smoked quite a lot too. Frau Kübler said so.”
“Really?” You scoffed. “I’m surprised she could see anything underneath that atrocious hat.”
“You didn’t have to tell her that ‘Italian’ doesn’t mean kitsch.”
You hummed, pleased with yourself.
You twisted and tugged the ring, hoping it would slip over the knuckle.
“It doesn’t fit?”
He stepped closer and took your hand into his.
There was an odd gentleness. “I was certain it would.”
“A slip-up?” You asked. “ How did you allow it?”
He examined the ring as if he hadn’t heard.
“I really like it on your finger. Don’t take it off.”
You pulled your hand away.
“It’s stuck and it hurts.”
He opened his mouth to say something.
“Soap might help.” You cut him off.
He didn’t follow you. He didn’t have to.
You heard the clink of ice in his glass as you walked away.
You went to the bedroom.
Long after you were out of your wedding dress, Dieter still hadn’t come. You wondered if he was feeling guilty, if he was ashamed of being alone with you.
But you knew how men like him were.
In front of the mirror your reflection sickened you. Silk negligee, long and pale pink— meant to show purity.
Dieter walked in with a drink in hand. He didn’t glance at you once.
Somehow that felt better than if he had.
“I trust you enjoyed yourself today?”
You didn’t answer. It wasn’t a question but a statement like the one he made in his reports.
With quiet precision you took the pins out of your hair.
It felt oddly domestic.
“I only mean to ensure you’re taken care of before I leave,” he said.
With one hand he undid his tie. The movement was mechanical and smooth.
“I presume you understand that.”
Your hand stilled.
“I do.”
His reflection tried to suppress a smile. He stepped closer, unable to resist the indulgence.
“I knew you would.” He hovered behind you. The scent of something bitter and wooden flooded your senses.
You had almost missed that.
His gaze fell on your robe. Examining, not touching.
“This is for your own good, you know,” he murmured.
“It’s not distrust.”
It was.
“War just doesn’t favour loyalty.”
His chest was against your back, firm and unmovable.
Your body caved in.
“I didn’t know we had promised each other loyalty.”
He didn’t bother answering.
“I didn’t know you even wanted my loyalty.”
“I changed my mind.” He spoke the words as if they weighed nothing.
His hand slid smoothly down the satin fabric— from your ribcage to your waist. There was a slight frown on his face, a quiet determination.
He had touched you countless times before yet this time was different. Tonight was something worth remembering.
“Will you take this off for me?” His voice dripped with mock politeness. His hand tugged gently at the fabric. “There is no need to hide yourself from me.”
“I’m not hiding.”
He tolerated your lie the way one tolerates a child’s caprice.
The robe draped on the floor with no protest.The cold was piercing like needles.
He shunted it aside with his foot, then wrapped his hand around your waist like a viper.
You felt his lips on the nape of your neck, where he knew you liked it.
You shivered, body reacting before the mind could.
“Dieter—”
A kiss on your shoulder hushed you.
He pressed his cheek against your face, nose nuzzling your hair, smelling—consuming you whole.
“Don't fight me.”
It was spoken kindly.
His breath was warm on your skin.
His gaze met yours through the mirror.
“Don’t fight me— not now or ever.”
The strap of your nightdress fell off your shoulder. For a second you thought he’d pull it up, allow you the slightest dignity.
He cupped your breast, his palm spread flat against your sternum, intruding under the slippery fabric.
“Selbst hundert französische Huren können mit dir nicht mithalten.”
He murmured against your skin.
He bit down on your neck. Your lips parted a moan threatening to betray you. He squeezed your breast to get the sound out of you.
You refused.
“Don’t-“
He pressed you closer— not to harm but to remind.
You stood still, eyes never leaving his reflection. Your jaw tightened.
“Don’t.” His lips brushed against your skin. His hand left your breast and he pushed off your nightgown altogether.
A whimper. Your chest heaved up and down with each ragged breath.
His body was warm against you. Never inviting but always familiar.
“This will be good to you.”
You closed your eyes too tired to pretend you were stronger.
warning: kiss, flirting, fluff, smoking/alcohol consumption, age gap, no use of Y/n
Summary: For her, it was a rehearsed performance; her steps and movements flowed in time with the orchestra. What was happening in front of the stage, the spotlights that illuminated her, made her visible to everyone. In the audience, a gaze fixed solely on her from the moment he had seen her; not mere interest, but the fascination Dieter felt for her. A beauty he resolved to court, to praise, to give her everything she deserved and so much more.
Word count: 1785
request: Dieter- I would love to see something about him being interested in ballerina.Like he saw her performing once and she caught his attention.She’s very elegant,from a good family,very womanly and shy.Don’t really care if it’s a smut or fluff or etc,whatever you want it to be!
Disclaimer: This is not meant to glorify anything; it is a work of fiction based on Tarantino's freaky film.
The lights illuminating the State Theatre bathed the grand old building in light, particularly the banners that evoked a wintry atmosphere, announcing tonight’s performance in large letters.
Swan Lake.
Whilst outside the audience made their way to the entrance, a murmuring crowd handed their coats in at the cloakroom and treated themselves to a glass of wine or champagne at the bars, things were still hectic behind the large velvet curtain.
The technicians were still adjusting the lighting, the costumes and make-up were still being applied to all the dancers, and the conductor still had to warm up a little with the orchestra.
The usual hustle and bustle, she knew no different, nor did she want it any other way, knowing that as the gong sounded and the crowds poured in, a wave of discipline, fun and skill would wash over them all.
They had practised long enough, day in, day out, from morning till night; every dancer had pushed themselves to their limits for this now perfect evening.
“Critics, high society, even a few soldiers are here” she caught snippets of the background dancers’ conversation as she walked past.
With a production like this, it hardly surprised her that only those with money in their pockets came here. One thing, however, was always the same: the applause.
Whether at the State Theatre or just the small stage in the park, in the end the applause was full of passion – which told her she had done everything right.
Yet nervousness would always be a part of it.
As she tied the final laces of her ballet shoes, she tried not to listen too much to the others, to stay in her own rhythm, an arm’s length behind the curtain, breathing calmly as the lights dimmed; even the last murmurs of the audience fell silent.
A certain tension always emanated from the crowd, as if they were standing on stage themselves – or wanted to know whether it had been worth the money to come here.
With the first note from the violins, she began to tiptoe onto the stage; the wood beneath her made not a sound as she took her first rehearsed steps.
The light was bright and warm; it would grow even hotter over the next few hours.
The familiar outlines of the crowd watched as the background dancers too slowly made their way towards the prima ballerina.
The orchestra gave forth a sea of sound as the fantastical journey slowly took its course, and the shadowy crowd whispered quiet words of appreciation, though none of them understood.
A pirouette, a leap, one lifting figure after another in time with the ceaseless music; the more she danced, the more she fled from the magician, making her way to the edge of the stage.
With a drumbeat, the lights dimmed and feathers began to fall upon her; holding her breath as shallowly as possible in the silence, pierced only by the strumming of music, she raised her gaze slightly.
Directly opposite her in the front row, centre stage, she saw a man, faintly illuminated by the scant light, he held her gaze, his dark hair neatly slicked back.
His bluish eyes seemed darker, yet the intensity he directed at her gave her goosebumps as she quickly let her gaze wander back to the wooden floor.
With the last feathers and the fading light, the first act came to an end and the interval was heralded.
Separated as they were only by the curtain, the feeling that he was watching her made her nervous, her cheeks flushed as she hurried back to her dressing room.
Glad for a moment of peace as the chaos of the interval descended upon the ensemble.
————— ୨୧ —————
A shower of feathers had been the highlight of the first act; now it was the clarinet’s final bright note as she danced a final figure with the prince before the orchestra fell silent, the lights went out, only to come back on to the thunderous applause of the audience.
Everything had gone perfectly; everyone had timed their cues perfectly; the conductor was clearly relieved, and the technical crew above them was delighted.
It was a complete success as she stepped forward in a line with her dance partner and took a bow.
The stranger’s gaze was still fixed on her as he rose to his feet, clapping, visibly taken with her; she felt the warmth on her cheeks again as her gaze met his.
After the minutes of applause, the doors opened once more and the ballet was over.
Now the after-party began, the inner circle of culture lovers, those who generously donated, organized the texts, and forged connection, otherwise none of this would have been possible.
Celebrations to which she also contributed as she stepped out of her costume with relief and dressed herself in her silk evening gown, the night wasn’t over yet as she stepped into the foyer with a pounding heart.
It was always nice to chat with the audience, even if she usually got lost in the crowd, her voice never quite loud enough, just a little too shy as she briefly said goodbye to her dancers to treat herself to a drink at the bar.
Familiar faces, more congratulations than she could count as she leaned lightly against the wooden bar, her order not yet placed, when out of the corner of her eye she saw something red
“I must congratulate you personally on such a success, Miss” a voice said as she turned toward the seemingly unfamiliar man, her gaze once again avoiding his, drawn instead to the bouquet of red roses he held out to her with a smile.
Bright blue eyes, his hair still slicked back; in the light, he seemed a little softer, more human, yet he still looked at her with the same fascination, the same attraction.
“I-thank you, I’m glad to hear that…Sir” she stammered as she pulled herself together when he handed her the roses; his hand was warm, slightly rough.
There seemed to be strength behind it as she smelled the fresh flowers, well aware of the symbolism.
Her heart began to beat faster again; it wasn’t just the flowers that were truly captivating to her as she had them placed in a vase.
“If I may, Dieter Hellstrom, I simply had to make your acquaintance, you were outstanding” he said, suddenly making a gesture of a bow and reaching for her hand, gently taking it and kissing the back of it.
Hellstrom simply did it; his smile widened slightly when he saw her expression, the overwhelming emotion, the flattery of such a gesture, both of them well aware of the gravity of doing so in public.
He simply took the liberty; a man of his class apparently had the right to do so.
Her fingers moved to her necklace, nervously playing with the pendant as she replied.
“It is a pleasure to make the company of such a connoisseur of culture” and Dieter took the decision regarding her drink choice out of her hands - the most expensive red wine on the menu.
“That’s too kind of you” she tried to demur, as she could have easily paid for the wine herself; instead, with a knowing glance, he handed her the glass, his fingers brushing hers again as he asked her to lead the way.
“Please don’t misunderstand me; for such beauty, it’s the least I can do” he countered as they both came to a stop at one of the velvet-covered bar tables.
The wine had a sweet undertone to its tartness, with notes of ripe fruit; she had a bottle like that at home herself, one of the many gifts she’d received.
One of the perks of being a public figure, surrounded by critics and admirers, and coming from a background where her parents had always supported her.
It wasn’t proper for her to stare at his hands, at how they moved the glass, swirled the wine lightly, shifted it back and forth as Hellstrom lightly licked his lips after a sip before she quickly looked back down at the table.
“Your reputation truly does you justice, enchanting on stage and in life” his flattery would have seemed insincere coming from anyone else, but as Dieter said it, his gaze fixed on her, his gestures and facial expressions - he had truly revelled in her.
As time went on, the hall grew fuller, the conversation more stifling and animated, almost unpleasant; she preferred the quieter moments.
“Would it, well, would it be all right to step out onto the terrace for a moment?” she asked, taking another sip of alcohol, noting his smile as he fished something out of his jacket as they walked out onto the large outdoor terrace.
She took a deep breath of the cool night air, pleasant and fresh, clearing her mind as she leaned lightly against the sturdy railing and looked down at the brightly lit city below them.
The clicking sound was followed by the smell of smoke as the dark-haired man took a cigarette from his silver lighter and lit it.
“If I may say so, the stage lights would suit you too” she said as she watched him take a drag, the smoke fading into the night.
Was it perhaps the alcohol that loosened her tongue, or was it her thoughts, her gaze that wouldn’t stray from him?
A laugh, amused, a sound she found rather charming.
“Do you think so? I take a compliment from a muse to heart” Hellstrom replied, reaching for his silver cigarette case again, opening it, and holding it out to her. Reaching into the pocket of her silk coat, she pulled out the cigarette holder.
“How elegant” she commented as he placed the cigarette on it; she expected him to light it, his hand hovering before her.
Accepting it, he drew her toward him, gently, leaving her no chance to pull away.
“Stay still” he said as he approached her, using the glowing tip of his cigarette to light hers. A breath later, she took the holder between her fingers, still held by him and they were finally able to meet each other’s gaze.
“My truest, dearest admirer” she said to him before Hellstrom bridged the last moments and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips, chaste, as if he were continuing to worship her.
As if he were holding her heart, a work of art in itself and for someone like Dieter, she would dance forever just to be looked upon by him like that.
Standartenführer Hans Landa's Identification Card Analysis
___
FRONT;
TRANSLATIONS; (From top to bottom)
'Dienstausweis Nr. 12356' = 'Service ID Number', likely in reference to his assigned service position ID number.
'Gültig bis 1.1.1945' = 'Valid until January 1, 1945'. Some European countries were more acquainted to scribing dates in the DD/MM/YYYY format as opposed to MM/DD/YYYY, which I presume is more common in the states - however, for clarity's sake, I will assume that the format is meant to be MM/DD/YYYY.
As for 'für' and the numbered '43,' well, I honestly have no clue what those could mean in this context - I am well-versed in WWII and its history, but even still, real ID's that were possessed by Reich officers are hard to come by, and so cross-referencing is nearly impossible for me. After all, I don't assume that these are meant to be exact replicas, but only based loosely off of an idea of what they'd looked like then.
For the lightning bolts, it'd do me no good to explain those, as for the fact that anyone who comes upon this post and who is acquainted with the fandom would know what those entail.
Right beside them, however, we see 'Standartenführer,' which translates to 'Standard Leader', or in this case, I'd suppose the term 'Officer' would also be appropriate (many German words share similarities with English ones, I've noticed, and if you are familiar with even a bit of the former, and also with ranks of the SS or NSDAP, then the ranks become less and less difficult to deduce). Anyhow, the rank was founded in 1925, and was given to SA and SS officers who commanded the 'Standarte' unit, which is the equivalent to an army battalion.
Beneath that, we have his name, 'Hans Landa', clearly. I'm unsure if this is his full name or not, but it most likely is, considering most official documents had officer's required to permit their first, middle (if applicable) and last names - maybe he has a middle name that we do not know about, like Dieter? However, it's unlikely, as we'd probably have seen it here on his ID.
'Bei der Sicherheitspolizei-leit-stelle in... Paris' = 'At the security police control center in...' 'Paris'. This would refer to the office or control center in which he'd been stationed / commissioned to reside in, which, as we see in the film, is in Paris, France.
'Der Chef der Sicherheitspolizei und des SD' = 'The head of the security police and the SD'. 'SD,' in this context, refers to the Sicherheitsdienst des Reichsführers-SS of the Nazi Party, which was their intelligence agency.
'Berlin, den... 11. January 1943' = 'Berlin, the 11th of January, 1943'. I'm unsure if this is the date he was assigned to reside in Paris? The date the ID was issued? Who knows?
Towards the bottom, in dark blue ink, we have a signature which appears to read 'Henschke.' This may be a direct reference to Hans Walter Karl Henschke, who was a real life Gestapo and SS officer. Coincidentally, he was actually stationed to Paris, France in October of 1943 as commander of the Sicherheitsdienst des Reichsführers-SS, so it's likely that he was Hans' commanding officer, and signed off on the identification card as his superior. The fact that the rank listed below Henschke's signature is 'Gruppenführer' furthers this theory of mine, seeing as it was of a higher rank than Standartenführer, if I am not mistaken.
To the left of the identification card, we have his identification photo, and listed beneath it is Hans' full name, presumably in his own handwriting.
Beneath that, '(Unterschrift des inhaberst)', which = 'Signature of the owner', which would refer to the holder of the identification card.
___
BACK;
TRANSLATION;
'Der Inhaber dieses Dienstausweises ist zum Führen auch von eigenen Waffen, sowie zum Erwerb der dazu gehörigen Munition berechtigt' = 'The holder of this service ID card is authorized to carry their own weapons and to acquire the corresponding ammunition.' This essentially gives service members of the Reich permission to carry weapons on them and whatnot, and to also carry ammunition. This part speaks for itself.
Also visible on the back of the identification card is exit holes from two bullet casings, and, of course, the identification verification stamp.
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