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headoverhiddles · 5 years

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Grotesk Burlesk - Hans Landa x Marilyn Manson [Smut]

Synopsis: Colonel Landa finds himself a fish out of water as a patron at a racy club in Berlin, but his affections are stolen by a tall, dark and mysterious performer who is more than meets the eye. This fic is also available on ao3!

Notes: Special thanks to @ninavantastisch for saving me with the German translation!

This is the song performed in this fic, and this is the style in which it is performed. Give it a watch/listen before you read. Also, warning for mild period-typical homophobia and accidental misgendering!

Tagging: @blueinkblot @daughterofdesire @wingsy-keeper-of-songs (and @skin-slave you might like this!)

Everything had been getting on Landa's nerves. The job, his subordinates making even the slightest mistake. He was on edge, moody, and short-- this is how he came to visit Das Haus des Gold during his time off, a nightclub not typically frequented by those of his social standing.

"Schöner Laden," (Lovely place) Lt. Schmidt observed, as his fellow lieutenant grinned widely at a passing waitress dressed in a black corset.

"Ein bisschen klein aber in Ordnung," (A little small, but alright) Captain Von Wolff nodded, narrowing his eyes, and turned to Hans. "Wenn es Ihnen nicht zusagt, Oberst dann können wir auch woanders hingehen." (If this does not please you, colonel, we can find another place.)

“Ich denke es ist schon in Ordnung,” (I think it is alright) Lt. Orlock said, still watching the young lady in black, and earned a quick smack to the back of the head from Von Wolff.

Hans thought about this. It was obviously not an establishment he would have picked out. It was filled with dada-esque low art, which would normally disgust him. Still. Was this such a bad thing? Art is to be appreciated in any form, and Landa knew that better than any in his company, being a man of culture himself. Furthermore, it was to be expected of every member of the army that they, in their recreation, find something on the side to amuse them, keep them in good spirits. But Hans, he could hardly bear the idea of getting too chummy with his fellow officers in a place like this. He was an authority figure to be feared, not "one of the men".

That really wasn’t any reason to turn down a nice night on the town, however. It was better than another night of interrogation of those dim-witted enough to believe they could outsmart him.

Von Wolff took Landa's silence as apprehension, and began to back them away to the door. "Ich hätte Schmidt nicht die Planung, für diesen Abend, überlassen sollen…" (I shouldn't have let Schmidt plan this night...)

"Nein," Hans put up a hand with a small smile, "Nein. Es ist ein schönes Établissement." (No, no. It is a fine establishment.)

“Aber, Colonel Landa—”

“Das klingt schrecklich nach einem Kapitän, der die Entscheidung seines Vorgesetzten in Frage stellt. Oder bin ich nur empfindlich?” (This sounds an awful lot like a captain questioning his superior's decision. Or am I just sensitive?)

“…Nein, Herr Colonel. Natürlich nicht.” (No, Colonel. Of course not.)

The three entered the nightclub, and were seated.

A young blonde lady in a small black dress came over. Landa could see her garter belt, and gave her a once over.

"Was kann ich Ihnen bringen?" (What can I get for you?)

"Nur ein schönes, kaltes Glass Milch für mich. Danke." Hans smiled warmly at her. (Just a nice cold glass of milk for me, thanks.) If she was at all confused over his order, she didn’t show it, as the rest of the men ordered tall beers. She departed to promptly to fill their orders.

"Die Damen hier sind reizend," Landa commented. (The women here are lovely.) Just then, the black curtains drew, and the lights dimmed. Two girls shimmied out onstage, bound together as Siamese twins by a stitched up straight jacket. Interesting visual display. They started to play piano, a dark, sexy melody, and a tall figure came out.

She was dressed in heels, long smooth legs running up to black pantyhose and a small black dress covering what could not be left to the imagination. She had a bowler hat down over her eyes, but her lips were luscious and deep red, contrasting against her vampirically pale skin. Strands of short black hair protruded from beneath the hat as she reached up with fingerless gloved hands to move the hat up. Long faux eyelashes were revealed, as they barely dusted the crystals that adorned her cheeks. She lifted her chin, and with a sultry little spin, began to sing.

"Well our monkeys have monkeys, we drive our death crushed diamond jaguar limousine... we're not fantastic mother-fuckers, but we play them on TV..."

Hans was lost in the sway of her hips, her deeper-than-most voice, and the provocative movements of her body. She came to the front of the stage, saluting while parting her long, slender legs. "It's a dirty word, 'Reich', say... what you like, it's a dirty word, 'Reich', say... what you like." She winked the officers' way with that line after noticing their uniforms, and launched into a chorus that was just as sexy.

"We're the low art gloominati, and we... aim to depress... the scab-aret sacrilegends, this is the golden age of grotesque..."

She got up on a platform of sorts, and began to grind her hips against the microphone stand, something that got a considerable rise out of the crowd.

"I got the jigger to make all you bigger, ladies und gentlemen... so drop your piss room bait and make sure you're not late you tramps and lunatics." She held up a finger gun to her forehead, and licked her red lips as she looked directly at Hans.

"Cause the trick... 'sgonna make you.... click."

Landa readjusted in his seat, hoping his men couldn’t see how affected by the performance he really was. This performer was absolutely beautiful. Oh, what those red lips could do around him. Where those slender fingers could touch. This was true art, no doubt in Landa's mind, not Goebbels' drivel propaganda he peddles to the Fuehrer for praise. Landa may be an officer, but he wasn’t blind. This singer could enthrall the entire country with a look alone.

"We sing la, la la la... la la la, we sing la la la la la." The dark haired beauty smirked, tipping that bowler hat back. "La, la la la... la la la, we sing la la la, la la..." She finished off her song with a little bow, and a kiss blown out to the audience. Landa toiled during her next number, a song she introduced as Doll Dagga Buzz Buzz Ziggety Zag. Watching her dance, he narrowed his eyes. There's something about that performer he couldn’t shake. Something different, something... secret. And make no mistake, there was no better man in the country at detecting secrets than Hans Landa. He sat, frozen in reverie as she went on to her third and final song, something about a mobscene.

"Sie ist unglaublich!” (She's incredible!) Schmidt whispered, “Tiefe Stimme, aber.... wunderschön.” (Low voice, but… beautiful.)

Hans wondered what it could be that he was picking up on with this singer. Usually he was better at figuring out what people are hiding. It could just be the fact that one of her eyes was white, while the other was dark… that could be throwing him off.

Interrupting his contemplation a few minutes later, the music picked up a little to a raunchy jazz number, as a curvy, radiant black haired beauty came strutting onstage in a glittery dress and top hat. She winked at the crowd as she shrugged off her feather boa to the music, and began to unzip her dress from behind.

"Was für eine Art von Club ist das hier, Schmidt?” (What kind of club is this, Schmidt?) Von Wolff demanded, though he was unable to take his eyes off the stage.

"Meine liebste Art!” (My favourite kind!) Orlock answered for him, clapping for the girl and laughing. Though this one was beautiful too, Landa simply could not get the mystery and allure of the last performer's eyes out of his mind. As the brunette began to strip, Hans excused himself from his officers, and slipped backstage. He searched around for a moment, then found who he was looking for. The captivating singer from the stage.

"Guten abend, schöne Fraulein."

"I don't speak German," the performer said, taking down one of the stockings on a long, pale leg, "My songs back there were in English, in case you didn't notice."

Hans adjusted his speech accordingly. "Your music still, is very much influenced by German culture, is it not?"

The singer began to lift up the little dress past their undergarments. "Yeah. You're right about that."

"So. An American out of his comfort zone."

And a man, so it would seem. So that's what they were hiding. Hans' gaze lingered for more than a few seconds.

"I wouldn't say I'm out of my comfort zone," the crossdresser tilted his head, "I've got you in the palm of my hand in a small dressing room, small enough for me to either suck your cock or stab you with my hairpin. If I stabbed you, I could go home a war hero." He reached down to unlace his g-string, then looked up, raising his shaved eyebrows. "Mind if I readjust my crotch?"

Hans smiled slightly at the man's blunt language, finding it refreshing. He held up a hand to show he did not mind, and steered the conversation back. "What is stopping you from using... what did you say? A hairpin, to murder me?" Hans smiled. He was rather enjoying this man already. The performer pursed his painted lips.

"I don't get involved in wars. I just do what I do best. Drink expensive absinthe, look pretty, and perform."

"You do certainly do the last two well, yes," Landa nodded, "Do you have any proof of the first point?"

Manson smirked, realizing what the man was asking. He reached behind his vanity, and pulled out a thin bottle. He took two glasses, pouring a bit in each.

“What is your name?”

“…Marilyn.”

“It’s a beautiful name. Is it your real one?”

“Nothing in this world is for real.” He pulled out some distilled water, and added that to both glasses, watching the liquid go a milky green. "Here. Sorry, no sugar spoons around."

"Oh, I prefer to drink milk, thank you."

"You went through all the effort of finding me backstage. Now you have to drink what I drink."

Landa reluctantly accepted the offer, mainly because he was a curious man by nature, but also because the man offering it to him was ridiculously good looking. "Hm. Very well. Do you mind at all if I smoke, to enjoy the drink with it?" Landa asked.

"Go ahead."

Landa lit up a German cigarette, offering one to Marilyn, who declined. Then Landa takes a sip, and marvels at how strong the drink is. Odd flavours dance across his taste buds, and he feels his head begin to swim almost immediately.

"It's different from being drunk," Marilyn commented, cutting through the haze as he took the generous sip of a seasoned drinker, "It's like you can lose your body, but not your mind."

"I see what you mean," Landa nodded, rubbing his chest, "Exquisite taste, however. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it."

Marilyn took another sip. "It's alright. You can say it tastes like herbal acid. It only tastes good when it's pretty much all you drink." He gestured to himself. Hans chuckled, set his drink aside, and carefully cleared some makeup off of a stool. "Eh, may I sit down?" The performer nodded, and stared for a second at the curiously benevolent officer.

"…You don't care that I'm a man, huh?"

Hans mulled this over. "I will not lie, it did surprise me. But then, why should I care?" he shrugged, straightening out his uniform, "You put on a beautiful performance, and you are a beautiful person. There is no reason to shy away from that fact."

"You liked the show?" Marilyn asked, not immune to a little praise.

"It was magnificent. You took my breath away." The man didn’t let the officer see his smile-- he turned away to finish taking down his other stocking.

"I only ask, cause... a lot of men like you see my show, get all hot and bothered, come back here like you did expecting a nice happy ending, then they blame me for seducing them when they find out I'm not the pretty little German woman of their dreams. Makeup only covers up so many black eyes, so I've started warning people before they, uh... bunch up my skirt."

His smile was joking, but his eyes conveyed a weariness only someone as sharp as Hans could detect.

"I'm not complaining, but… why do you continue to perform then?" the German asked softly. "Your performance is art, and so are you. You should be treated as such."

"Yeah, well contrary to popular belief, I don't perform to fuck people," Marilyn said, an undertone of sarcasm present, "I actually do enjoy the art of getting up onstage and putting on a show that'll get people talking. Make people think about how they respond to my art. Fucking attractive people is just a bonus." He undid his corset in front of the mirror.

"Here. Allow me to assist you," Landa said, and put out his cigarette before getting up. He was shorter than the performer, but their eyes still met in the mirror as Landa unlaced the contraption one whalebone hook by one, slowly, deliberately down his back. Shivers ran down Marilyn’s spine, the officer's gaze penetrating. Landa's finger grazed down Marilyn's back, down and up again to unlace the final hook.

A bubbly brunette strode in from the stage. She was the charming burlesque dancer who had gone on after Marilyn.

"You were fantastic," she said, leaning in. She was topless from her striptease—Hans admired the freedom of it all, a breath of fresh air from the stuffy officer’s life he led. It was like being in a whole different world, the exciting underbelly of the artist’s hideout. She and Marilyn shared a European kiss on both cheeks, and she tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He smiled.

"So were you, Dita."

"Gotta run, honey. I see you're indisposed, anyway." She shot off a wink, waving playfully at Hans, and hurried off to her own dressing room, breasts bouncing with every poised step.

"She is charming," Landa commented, shaking his head. "She is American too?" Manson looked back to him, suspicious of the question. He didn't give a fuck about himself, but when it came to the people close to him... Landa smirked. "I am not in the business of turning over American burlesque dancers to the Fuhrer. I am simply curious."

For whatever reason, Manson believed him.

"Dita and I came here to Berlin from Los Angeles to perform. We brought along a couple others to support our shows. We felt like we belonged here more than we did there, with all the uptight, patriotic isolationist nonsense in America." He changed the subject. "You wanna give me your name too, or is that breaching German military code?"

"Colonel Hans Landa, of the SS."

"Colonel," Marilyn nodded, "I'm impressed." He did not seem impressed. Landa gave him a look of amusement.

"Would you rather I be a general?"

Manson sighs, sucking in his cheekbones and powdering his face with a large fluffy powder puff. "I'd rather you be pulling my hair and shouting whatever the f word is in German repeatedly, but wishful thinking gets me nowhere. Especially not with some SS colonel who had the audacity to drop into my boudoir." Landa raised his eyebrows. Watching the performer's graceful limbs and trailing his gaze down to admire the black lace contrasting against Marilyn's backside, Landa started to work the night out in his mind, examining how this could look from all angles. In order to keep his credibility (and his reputation) he'd need to think up an elaborate story that would get the both of them to a spot safe to carry out any fantasies that begged to be indulged. He had to convince Marilyn of it too—he couldn’t risk any slip ups.

"I have the authority to go anywhere I like in this country," he said, smile still on his face but quickly contorting into something ominous, "I hope you know that, my pretty American." Marilyn hesitated, picking up on the sudden shift in the mood, but thought nothing of it as he continued to undress. "I must confess, I have not been entirely truthful with you tonight," Hans went on, folding his hands in his lap. Marilyn tucked his hair behind his ears, inspecting his reflection.

"No? You gonna tell me you're a woman?"

Despite himself, Landa chuckled. "That situation would make for a good stage play, would it not?" His smile slowly ebbed away, as he replaced it with a cold gaze of sinister intent. "Do you know what they call me?"

"I can't say that I do."

"They call me the Jew Hunter."

"I'm not Jewish."

"No. But you are American. An allied country, and an enemy of the state. What you have told me here tonight, and the simple fact of you being a crossdresser by profession, gives me the authority to take you and keep you in holding until your identity has been confirmed by the embassy of the United States of America." At this, Marilyn turned around sharply, dropping his red lipstick with a clatter. "Ah," Landa put up a hand, "There's nowhere for you to go but with me, unless you wish to be shot down like a dog in the street."

Marilyn tried to escape anyway, dodging past him in an attempt to warn the others. Landa however, was too fast. He grabbed the taller by the bicep, and dragged him in with strength unbefitting of a man of his physicality.

"If you run or make any noise at all, I will have the lovely Miss Von Teese kept here as not only a prisoner of war, but a comfort girl. How would she like to strip for the Fuhrer? Hm?"

Manson ripped his arm away as he realized there was no way out of this, snarling. "Fuckin' bastard."

Landa's mouth twitched up. "If you'll be a good boy and cooperate, we can do this the easy way, without a scene." He leaned in. "Remember. What is it you said on stage? Be obscene... not heard."

Marilyn resisted the urge to growl again, and let Landa lead him out from backstage. Dita was busy in her own area, and none of the other performers took his departure on a stranger’s arm as particularly out of the ordinary. Tim Sköld, a Swedish man Marilyn had met in America who had followed his company out here, watched after him lazily, grazing the arm of one of the Siamese twins who was currently staining kisses all over his face.

“There he goes again,” Tim murmured, and took one of her fingers into his mouth.

Landa approached his men again, who were now about three drinks in and having a good old time at the table.

"Ah, Landa!" Orlock laughed, red in his puffy face from too much schnapps, "Da sind Sie ja wieder! Sie haben es verpasst-- Schmidt, der verdammte Narr, hat die Bardame zum Wetttrinken herausgefordert. Hat gesagt, wenn sie verliert, dann zeigt sie ihm ihre großen Brüste! Natürlich hat er--” (Rejoined us at long last! You missed it-- Schmidt, the damned fool, challenged the pretty barmaid to a drinking contest, said if she lost, she'd have to show her big tits! Of course he--)

"Wer ist das, Landa?” (Who is this, Landa?) Von Wolff asked, cutting in with a stern glare.

"Don't you recognize our costumed friend?" Landa asked in English. Marilyn looked up with a sneer, and the other men noticed his lipstick, his clip on earrings, and the sultry shadowed eyes all three of them were unabashedly admiring an hour ago.

"Sie war ein Mann?!” (She was a man?!) Von Wolff growled, “Schmidt, du Narr! Du hast uns in einen entarteten Club gebracht!” (Schmidt, you fool! You brought us to a degenerate club!) Schmidt looked notably sheepish, which made Landa question why he hadn’t clued into the young lieutenant’s predilections sooner; no matter now. Lt. Orlock got up, fist at the ready. Marilyn for his part, didn’t shy away.

"Yeah? You wanna fight me, you pieces of shit?" he blurted, breaking free of Landa's grasp for a moment, "Come on. Come on! Why don’t you teach me what it's like to be a man?!" Landa put a stop to Marilyn's antagonistic behavior by grabbing his arm again, tighter this time.

"And the queer is American," Von Wolff mentioned in English, giving Marilyn the dirtiest look.

“That’s me, everyone’s favorite American slut,” Marilyn sighed. Orlock threatened to punch him again, so Marilyn spat in his face. This had the same effect as waving a red flag in front of a bull.

“Ah ah,” Von Wolff growled, holding Orlock back. “He will get what he deserves behind bars, Lieutenant. He is a person of interest, especially having broken the law in such a… repulsive, lewd manner.”

“I think it’s repulsive and lewd how you’re gonna jerk off later thinking of my ass,” Marilyn mouthed off, and Landa yanked his arm roughly in warning.

"No doubt he is of interest to us," Landa nodded slightly, "I could tell instantly the moment he stepped onstage."

"Bullshit," Marilyn snapped, and that finally earned him a hard slap across the face from Landa. The colonel kept his expression hard, but cringed a little inwardly. He didn't mean to hit the younger man that hard. Marilyn though, shut his mouth, the sting of the slap sending a wave of arousal through him. Perfect. Now he had an inappropriate erection to deal with in his lacy little panties, on top of being taken to see goddamn Adolf Hitler over a little drag performance. Let's go to Germany, Dita said. It'll be fun, she said.

“Und wieder einmal,” (Once again) Von Wolff said, bowing his head, “Ihr Talent Dinge zu erkennen sucht seinesgleichen, Herr Oberst Landa. Ich werde ihnen versichern dass in weniger als fünf Minuten ein Wagen bereit steht und sich um dieses Schwein kümmert.” (Your talents of detection are unmatched, Herr Colonel Landa. I will ensure an automobile for you in less than five minutes to take care of this swine.)

Landa nodded, and escorted Marilyn outside. He kept a firm grip on the performer's arm, and prompted him to get into the car first. Landa then closed the door, keeping his expression calm. They were driven to Landa's private residence in the automobile, the place where he conducted some of his higher profile interrogations.

On his side of the car, Marilyn was mentally kicking himself over being so goddamn naïve. Years of experience, and he still hadn’t learned that not every man or woman that throws a compliment or two his way and seems like the sweetest thing to walk the earth was trustworthy. Maybe he had had too many unrequited affairs—unrequited in the end, that is. He gave affection-starved a whole new meaning… but affection wasn’t all he wanted in this case. Being this close to the Colonel was warming him up... he recalled the gaze he met in the mirror, what was behind it. It was as if the Colonel had been undressing him with his eyes. Could that really have all been an act after all to lure him in? If so, this Landa guy was very good at what he did.

“So. You believe in your cause here?”

“I thought you didn’t like to get political.”

“Well I just figured, before you kill me, I wanna know that it means something to you.”

Landa looked out the window of the car. “I am a part of this organization by uniform only. I am an opportunist. Not a fascist slave.”

“Huh. You sound more like an American than I do.”

The decoration of the old mansion was ornate, beautiful, and Marilyn tried not to get too distracted by it all. At last, Landa followed him in and shut the front door, the two protected by the privacy of his own home. "You can rest easy. I am not holding you prisoner, or murdering you."

"Then why the fuck did you kidnap me?!" Marilyn demanded, rubbing his arm where Landa had had it in a death grip.

"Don’t be so dramatic. I did not kidnap you, I merely removed you from our primary location. Do not forget, I still have jurisdiction in this region to select anyone whom I deem to be an enemy of the state in hiding, to question them and to kill them at my bidding."

Marilyn huffed. "You really want to kill me?"

"No. I do not want to kill you."

“Nah, you wanna fuck me first.”

“Will you learn to speak with better etiquette?”

“Just because I say fuck, doesn’t mean I don’t have better etiquette than you. You’re actually the first man I’ve met in a long time I can carry on an intelligent conversation with.”

Hans considers this. “Your intellect is prominent, I will admit.”

“The only difference between you and me is a little lipstick, and the fact that I say what I mean.” Marilyn strutted in to tug Hans’ tie. “I’d like to get my lipstick all over you, though.”

Hans tugged his tie loose, swallowing. “Red was never my colour.”

“It will be tonight.”

“Scheisse…”

Marilyn looked down and inspected his nails. "Anyway. I don't know why your friends were all so shocked to see I was a man," he muttered, "You military guys might wanna check the part of town they’re spending your evenings in next time you go out and decide to have a good time kidnapping performers for the glory of the state."

“Watch your tongue.”

“You watch my tongue, it’ll be all over your body in a second.”

Hans got pinker in the face. "I've told you, this is not kidnapping, and that was all a show that was necessary to move locations," he sighed, locking his door.

"You couldn't have just fucked me there, in my dressing room?"

"Of course not, it was an open dressing room, there was no door! I will not risk my reputation for that, good god."

"Awww... I'm not worth it?" Marilyn asked, and Landa clenched his jaw.

"Do not push your luck."

"I've already done that, Herr Colonel."

Landa was affected the name, and melted into the touch as Marilyn started to undo his pants, getting between his legs. The same fantasies from earlier swirled in Landa's head, imagining the taller man’s red lips closing around his cock. This fantasy would evidently come true. Marilyn dropped to his knees, and finally got him out of his pants. His false eyelashes blinked up, and he gave the head a kitten lick, before obscenely taking the whole thing to the back of his throat.

"Oh, meine liebe, you have a talent..."

"Keep talking."

He went back down on Hans, his tongue working magic on the Colonel. Hans admired him. "Look at how beautiful you are... you are gorgeous."

"If I run my mouth about it, I gotta have the goods to back it up." Marilyn grinned and hollowed out his cheeks, moaning a little and getting off on being used. “Slap me?”

“For what?”

“I like it. Like you did earlier, slap me in the face while you’re face fucking me.” Landa bit his lip, and Marilyn looked up, fire burning in those mismatched eyes. “Did I stutter? Now!” The slap was sharp, and echoed in the large house. Marilyn went even faster on Landa’s dick, his pale cheek immediately taking on the pink imprint of Landa’s hand. “Again.”

Another slap hit him, and Marilyn licked back to Landa’s balls, grazing his perineum and making the German hiss. After a second, he started to feel Landa throb, and popped off, standing up. Marilyn put a slender hand on his arm. He then leaned in, and connected their lips in a chaste kiss, gently working a little deeper until Landa's mouth was open and gasping. Marilyn pulled back, smirking down at him. "My lipstick looks good on you after all."

Landa ran his tongue along his bottom lip, and felt his cock throb. He didn’t want to ask it...

"What's on your mind?" Marilyn asked, voice soft and smooth as the green velvet cabriole he was lowering Hans onto. "Never slept with a man?"

"No," Landa said, "I have." They continued to kiss heatedly, and Marilyn wandered his hand down between the two, pressing on Landa's erection. When he snapped his hips down in a purely instinctual thrust, Landa dropped his head back, mouth falling open.

"You want me inside you," Marilyn realized, trailing his fingers down Landa's heaving chest. "Don't you? Hm? You wanna feel my big cock pounding your ass, don't you, you dirty motherfucker?"

"Ah, scheisse," Landa muttered again, and reached down to touch his aching erection. Marilyn slapped his hand away, and replaced it with his own.

"Nuh uh. That’s all mine." Marilyn stood, smirking. “This what you want?” Hans lay back against the couch cushions, eyes hooded as Marilyn snapped the fabric of his panties against that porcelain skin. “You want this cock, pretty boy?” He teased his thinly veiled erection in Landa’s face, rubbing himself slowly through the black lace. Landa wanted to reach out and touch it, but Marilyn danced his hips away every time he did. “Is this what you want me to do to you…?” Marilyn turned, as if giving Landa his own private strip show, and slid two fingers between his asscheeks, moaning a little as he played with his entrance for a second. “You want me to play with your hole like this, Herr Colonel? You want me to---ohhh--- touch you like this, fuck you like this?”

Landa could barely breathe. The sound of the taller man’s voice alone did things to him that no other had before. Marilyn turned back around to lightly bump his cock against the German man’s face, grinding it so close to his lips, daring him to try and touch. When the performer was good and satisfied with how well he had trained Landa, he smugly relented, crawling back between his legs.

Landa watched the man on top of him, watched his long lashes blink, his crimson lips part to make way for his tongue to swipe. He really was beautiful.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Marilyn whispered against his skin as he leaned in again, echoing Landa's unspoken sentiments, "I'm gonna wreck this body so hard." Landa let out a strangled moan, and Marilyn looked around. "Please say you have something I can lube up with. I have two morals. One, never make music that confuses strippers like me, and two, never go into a guy dry—the blood is impossible to get out of lingerie."

"The oil is over there."

"Mm." He grabbed the oil, and started to gently prepare Landa, watching him writhe. "You finger yourself often, Colonel? You get the girls you bring back here to fuck you with their fingers? Big strap-ons? Do they go running their mouths all over the place, telling everyone how Hans Landa the cockslut likes taking it up the ass?"

Landa couldn’t respond... he could only clench his jaw. Marilyn jerked his cock a few times, and used the oil to cover himself generously. He then turned Landa over onto his stomach, giving his ass a good smack before sinking into him.

"Take this dick, Landa," Marilyn growled, "You're a powerful man out there. But in here you're my little bitch, aren't you?"

"Oh," Landa moaned. He was already approaching his orgasm, golden hair matted to his forehead and lips pink and stained.

"Close already? Huh? Imagine if you were fucking me. Hm? You'd leave me hard, wouldn't you? You'd just cum in my ass right now, wouldn’t you?"

"I- I can't..."

"Useless. You're fucking pathetic, you can't even last five minutes."

Landa gasped, trying to contain his moans. He never mentioned anything about humiliation being something he was aroused by in bed, but Marilyn was right—intuition is a part of being good at this, and Marilyn was good at this.

“I’m…” Landa couldn’t finish his sentence. He stifled his next groan in his arm, breath hitching.

"Nah ah. I want you to moan like every bit of the slut you are. COME ON, let me heat it! I want all of Germany to know it.” Marilyn’s voice rose until he was practically screaming himself hoarse, tugging Landa’s hair back roughly. “I want the whole fucking world to know it, goddamnit, let me hear you!"

"Scheisse, scheisse, bitte!" Landa cried, feeling himself tip over the edge. With his brutal pace, the performer hit his prostate, and Hans finally came in Marilyn’s fist. Marilyn waited for him to finish, then pulled out, jerking off onto him with his fist a blur. Hans felt Marilyn's cum paint his back, and bit his fist. The performer then sat back on his heels, wiping his brow.

"All you military men have great asses."

Landa, regaining his usual confidence with his breath, scoffs at this. "And how would you know this beyond your experience with me?"

Marilyn gave him a look. "Dita, Tim and I have done nothing but drink and sleep our way around Berlin for the past few months. We have enough experience.”

Landa sat up, doing his shirt buttons up to his lower chest. "I thought you said all the other officers would beat you for 'seducing' them."

"Doesn't mean I can't look at their backsides after they beat me."

Landa shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "You really are something, Marilyn... eh, what was your last name?"

"That will remain a mystery. I’m not giving you any more than you need to know after... all that."

"It was a happy ending for the both of us," Landa protested.

"Sure, after a big fucking hassle. I don't even know if it was worth it."

"Remember," Landa growled, "I can still have you arrested if I choose to."

"Right," Marilyn whispered, sauntering over to him to help him do up the rest of his buttons, "While you’re feeling like a big man again, let's not forget who made you moan like the little whore your men think I am ten minutes ago." He kissed Landa's cheek tenderly, grazed his hand down to give the German's clothed cock a pat, and smirked as he walked off to Landa's bar in search of more absinthe.

“Well,” the Colonel sighed, smoothing his hair back to a respectable style, “What is that American expression? You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

Das Haus Des Gold would most likely be his nightclub of choice from now on... but next time, Landa would be sure to attend alone for, perhaps, a more private show.

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