fran !

frannie | fanfiction/hc & oneshot crackwriter. | a03: @liberatedveg | inglorious basterds & pacific rim mosty

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

introduction !!1!

about moi -

hihi!! i’m frannie, fran is also cool lmfao. I’m a relatively newgen fanfic writer, bear with my clichés and such. mostly x reader and x original character, and ignore the a03 account for now, it is absolutely empty. (i’m new! lol) obv a bigggg dark academia fan, so most fics will have that kind of twang.

fandoms -

will probably stray from these, but the fandoms i aim to write for are mostly pacific rim, inglorious basterds, all quiet on the western front, frankenstein, munich the edge of war, hannibal, army of the dead/army of thieves, occasionally dr who and such, etc. expect to see a lot of burn gorman, august diehl, felix kammerer, and christoph waltz content lol.

characters writing for -

Hermann Gottlieb / Newton Geiszler - Pacific Rim (2013/2018)

Heinrich Harlander / William Frankenstein - Frankenstein (2025)

Hans Landa / Dieter Hellstrom - Inglorious Basterds (2009)

Paul Bäumer - All Quiet on the Western Front (2022)

Franz Sauer / Paul Von Hartmann / Hugh Legat - Munich the Edge of War (2021)

Ludwig Dieter - Army of the Dead, Army of Thieves (2021)

and probably many more i forgot about -_-

requesting -

- i don’t write smut

- most fics use she/her (unless requested otherwise)

- requesting other characters from other fandoms is completely fine! just give me some time for researching the character.

- idk man if you want a fic in a different language or smth i speak english, german, and a bit of french

[snoopy-hollander]

“He burned my gorman until my wood torched” - my dad

[angelofmusik]

Never posted on this blog before but saw this headline and thought of him

[girlsoconfusedd]

[geiszleib]

so, i accidentally ruined this piece of fanart that i got in a newmann zine years ago. i was really upset when i found it, but the more i look at it, the more it's almost poetic because the closer they get to kissing, the more damaged it is... it's almost like an old relic that hermann keeps that reminds him how much newt has changed and how much their relationship is gone after the second movie's events...

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

bringing myself back to my wattpad roots holy shit, i just caught myself spam writing au’s in my notes app🥹✌️so uh prepare to see my burst of motivation come out in the form of mortician hellstrom or pianist landa

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

Save it for a rainy day. ( Hermann Gottlieb / Reader. )

| hermann gottlieb x reader

| a/n: I AM WRITING LIKE 4 THINGS SPONTANEOUSLY I AM ON SPEED

| context: rainy season in hong kong hits the shatterdome, some communication lines fail, power outages, etc. hermann isn’t too fond of this.

| tropes used: mutual pining, forced proximity, work rivals to sort of lovers?? idk man it’s 4:30 am

Rain, thunder, constant wind billowing. A few pieces of hail occasionally hit the large metal and safety-glass walls of the Hong Kong Shatterdome’s K-SCI sector. The power in the whole building was out at this time. Dim yellow-ish emergency lanterns brightened the hallway slightly in the chaos. Actually, this hallway was quite calm. All officers and rangers were at the control room—desperately trying to mend the communication lines.

Down that hall, in the K-SCI laboratory, sat a hunched over man. One who was as far away from windows as possible, and was trying to tune out the natural white noise with Schostakovich. A rather fast composition of the Russian man, one rapid enough to try and drown out the ‘nature’ outside.

Your shoes patter down the hallway—the one with faint angry classical music playing. Stopping into the laboratory, you see Dr. Gottlieb. Slumped over a notebook, earplugs in. You look over at what he’s writing. His usual neat equations now in a sloppy cursive.

“Hermann? What’s wrong?” You question, softly. He glares up at you, the dirtiest look he’s given you in a while. “Ach, sorry—Dr. Gottlieb.” He nods, leaning back against his swivel chair and looking up. The mans usual pale cheeks are dusted with a slight pink. “I’m fine, Dr. L/N.” He responds, curtly. Far more snappy sounding than he usually is.

“What’s the matter, Dr. Gottlieb?” You ask, once again trying to pinpoint if he’s just in a mood or if something is genuinely wrong.

“N—Nothing. I’m perfectly fine.” He says, very obviously caught in a blatant lie. He’s unfocused, snappy, flushed, and overall exhausted-looking. Thunder cracks against the window of the shatterdome, making him flinch a bit. One eyebrow of yours raises slightly out of intrigue.

“Is it the weather?” You shoot back, prying gently. Well, as gentle as one can be when speaking to somebody as difficult and curt as Hermann.

“I am honestly experiencing no discomfort. Your incessant badgering is getting on my nerves.” He mumbles. This infuriating dumbass, obviously something is wrong with him. He just doesn’t have the guts to say—Lovely.

You walk back to your own desk to try and clean up before heading back to your quarters, half-heartedly arranging the unorganized papers, sketches, and unlabelled specimens. Between the Waltz No. 2 and sounds of glass clinking from Hermann’s side, the room is eerily quiet. This silence is short lived, like all silence between you two is. You look over to Hermann, about to ask him something—But a loud crack of thunder from outside disrupts your train of thought.

The man flinches. Softly. Imperceptibly, hardly anything. One could pass it off as a shiver, but Hermann was wearing layers upon layers. A button-down, sweater vest, and a blazer. There was no margin for him to be cold. That was a flinch.

“Herms? You okay?” You ask him, for what seems like the hundredth time that night.

“Pay absolutely no attention to that. It was a slip-up of sorts. Caffeine jitters.”

You walk over to his desk, picking up about 5 half-finished mugs with the precision of a waitress at Oktoberfest. “Let’s cool it on the coffee, okay?” You remark, softly. He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t push back like usual. Placing the mugs in the same sink where you keep test tubes, you walk back to him. Dr. Gottlieb is flushed, sleepy, generally just sad looking.

“You should know by now that we can’t keep washing the cups in there.” He says, his usual air of pretentiousness coming back a bit. “Oh hush it you—I know that. But you’ve never gotten sick from it.” Mmh. Peak hygiene of two scientists. A physicist and a biologist who should know better.

“I’m gonna head out for the night, it’s getting late.” You say, patting his shoulder and preparing to walk outside. He nods, not saying anything. As you reach for the door handle of the lab, in almost comedic timing, theres an announcement on the loudspeaker.

“If all personnel on the top floor, left-wing could stay put while a maintenance crew fixes the comm. lines? Again, all personnel on the top floor, left-wing please stay put for the time being. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.”

You turn back to him and purse your lips into a soft smile. “I guess I’m staying here, then.” He nods in acknowledgement. Another crack of thunder happens outside, and a burst of lightning can be seen. He flinches, harder this time—Even with a small sound. You look at him, one eyebrow raised slightly in confusion. He tries as best as he can to play it off, adjusting his blazer and taking a deep breath.

“Was that you?” You ask, holding back a disbelieving chuckle. This man, this same man who rolled his eyes every time you so much as sneezed, made a little squeak in surprise.

“..Yes.” He murmurs. He shuts his notebook, taking off his glasses, and annoyedly pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just exhausted.”

“Then take a break, Hermann.” You say, plopping down on the laboratory couch and taking off your purse. The last thing you wanted was to stay here, especially with a grumpy Gottlieb. You grab the throw blanket on the back of the couch—The one you crocheted yourself in bright yarn to bring some form of colour to this drab environment.

“What are you doing?” The irritated man questions.

“Uh—Making myself comfortable? I was planning on going to my quarters and sleeping, Hermann. Something which you should be doing, too.”

“Nonsense, I don’t need a break.” Right as he says that, another crack of thunder comes from outside. They’re getting more frequent now, the worst of the storm seems to be taking its toll. He flinches, hard.

“I mean, if you insist.” He says, sighing, and sitting on the sofa next to you. Annoyedly leaning against the back of the couch and rubbing profusely at his temples. You turn to look at him. He reciprocates, rolling his eyes and stating;

“Yes, you were right. It is the weather.” You look at him in intrigue.

“But I thought you liked it gloomy.”

“Well, yes—But by that I mean cloudy and a bit dark. Not wet, cold, and loud.”

You put some of the blanket over him. He was always cold, so he was obviously even colder now. He looks at you, eyes softening. You smile softly at him. This romcom-esque moment is interrupted by more thunder. He flinches, coming closer and resuming the romcom-like environment. You decide to be bold in your slight exhaustion. You rest your head on his shoulder. Normal Hermann on an equation high would gently pry you off and mutter something about ‘PDA,’ even if you two were completely alone. This Hermann-? He leans on you aswell.

The rain pours down outside, hard, and the Schostakovich playing had long ceased. All that was left was the sound of both of you breathing in a semi-awkward quiet. He breaks the silence in his usual way. A random fact.

“On nights like this—When I was a child, I would cry. I would absolutely sob myself to sleep. It would anger my father, since his study was right next to my bedroom.” He remarked, chuckling. “But my grandfather always came to try and comfort me. He’d er—He’d sing this one song. A German one from the 30’s, Irgendwo auf der welt.”

“Somewhere in the world.” You mutter softly, translating the title.

“Yes, somewhere in the world.” He replies, sighing fondly. At this moment, he decides to be bold. Much bolder than normal. Really pulling out the ‘Carpe Diem’ sentiment in the back of his mind. He gently takes your hand in his. “Opa would say that somewhere in the world, there’d be someone who wouldn’t care that I was scared of something so trivial.”

Thunder cracks once more, he comes closer, eventually falling asleep on you. Newt finds the two of you on the couch the next morning and won’t live it down for a week.

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

“My country is very dear to me.” ( Franz Sauer x Reader. )

| franz sauer / journalist reader

| a.n: just rewatched munich the edge of war and i am hooked on sauer again 😋 really pulled this story out of my ass, so if it doesn’t make sense im sorry (imagine all the dialogue is in german if you wanna be realistic lmfao) also dangerously yours reference

| context: reader is a journalist/newspaper writer, and an old university friend of paul von hartmann’s.

| tropes used: fake dating, wartime risk, idk anymore bro

Walking down the streets of Berlin. Streets that bustled with market stalls, advertisements, and officers with that horrid insignia on their arms. A typical day in the world that was 1938 Germany. As an unruly group of the youth wearing brown uniforms pass you, causing you to hold your briefcase a bit closer to your person. In said briefcase, was a pile of documents, articles, and reference papers.

You were on your way to the train station, heels clacking on the floor. As you board the train and find your cabin, you enter. It’s wooden, with two bunk beds and an attached washroom. You plop down onto your bed and open your briefcase, surveying the documents inside.

There’s a newspaper on propaganda, and a few interviews on passersby who gave their opinion to you a few days ago on the decision. A knock on the door startles you, causing you to quickly shove most of the documents in—But sending the newspaper flying onto the floor.

“Just a minute!” You squeak out, caught off-guard. Opening the door, reveals a tall man in an SS uniform. A captain, at that. You step aside to let the man inside of the room, and he places his bag on the floor of the room.

“Good morning.” He says, his tone quiet but controlled. You reply with a soft “Morning.” He smiles, with a slight hint of something odd you can’t place. “I guess we’re sharing a room then.” He says, still smiling. “Guess so.” You remark. The man zeros in on the newspaper on the floor, picking it up. “Ah, well read. How lovely for you.” You nod softly and shake his hand. “Ada Rosenbluth.” You say, introducing yourself. He returns the gesture. “Haptsturmführer Franz Sauer of the SS.”

Your eyes flash with slight concern at his rank. Quite literally the enemy currently. You’re a journalist writing articles and newspapers for both the allied powers and Germany. Under different aliases, of course, but both parties nonetheless. For the allies, you’re Y/N L/N. For Deutschland, you go by Ada Rosenbluth.

The man looks at the paper a bit closer. “Münchener Post? I haven’t seen one since 1933.” He comments. “Yes—The Führer shut it down in ‘33, anti-national socialist.”

“Ah, I’d figured. They clearly weren’t scared to be bold on their views.” He scoffed. You nodded and went back to looking at documents on your bed. He stares at the various little snippets and advertisements on the paper. “Munich, huh? There’s a lot going on there nowadays.” You nod, acknowledging his rather rudimentary comment. ‘Yeah, duh.’ You thought to yourself. The two of you were quite literally on your way to Munich.

As he’s about to give back the paper, he spots an author name at the top. Ada Rosenbluth—Who wrote a small article on political commentary for the time. “Oh, you wrote this? For this paper?” He inquires. “I er—I wrote daily happenings for them before they shut down. Now I write for the Berliner Lokal-Anzeiger.” You reply, attempting to save face.

“Ah-! A writer. Journalist, too—I presume?” You nod. “Yes, sir. Journalist, writer, and civil servant.” He lets out a soft sound of understanding. “Civil servant, huh? My friend works as one. I just saw Paul a few days ago, actually.” That comment catches your attention. “Paul? Like Paul Von Hartmann?” You question.

“Yes! Do you know him?” The man asks, laughing. “I infact do, we share an office.” You reply. After exchanging a few more pieces of small talk, he places his bag down and gets onto his bed in your train compartment.

It’s obviously a bit awkward to be reading and researching anti-ideology papers with an SS officer sleeping above you, so you decide to just put it away until you arrive in München. You hide any and all sketchy paperwork that could get you into trouble under the washroom sink before going to bed.

The next morning, you wake up to someone going through your briefcase. “What are you doing?” You ask, groggily. He quickly puts your things back and shuts it. “Ah, excuse me. The officers just have orders to search any and all belongings.” You scoff quietly and get out of bed. He looks down at you.

“You do honest work. Neutral in politics, that’s rare to see in Germany.” He remarks, smiling fondly. “I choose to just give a summary of the current happenings, so people with any view can read it comfortably.” You reply. “How thoughtful. I’ve always appreciated neutral writing. The Führer isn’t too fond of it, though.” He says, before fixing his hair a bit and leaving. You groan after he shuts the door. One of those officers who tries to be seen as ‘a friend of the people.’ How exhausting.

A day or so later, at the Sudetenland Conference, you’re waiting in the common room outside where the leaders are speaking in the library. All extra advisors, journalists, and news reporters were asked to stay outside by the Führer. You sit there, scribbling into a notepad some opinions you took down earlier from civilians and other politicians on the agreement.

You feel the sofa dip a tad as someone sits next to you. Noting the light grey-ish green pants, you look over and see Franz. You nod softly and smile a bit. “Captain Sauer. Good morning.” You greet him. “Fraülein Rosenbluth, writing again—I see.” “I’m writing on the conference for the Berliner.” He lets out a soft “Mmh.” In agreement and peers over at your writing. Putting on a pleasant expression to seem normal in front of so many, you show him.

“It’s mostly just opinions and commentary for now, sir.” He was about to reply to your statement, but is quickly called away. You two just kept bumping into eachother. How odd. You weren’t even a political figure—Just a writer.

In your hotel room that night, you’re getting ready for bed. Putting your hair in an overnight style while looking over at documents you typed out from the opinions you took for the Berliner. As you clip a pincurl at the top of your head, theres a knock at the door. Followed by a soft “Fraülein Rosenbluth? May I enter?” Who could that be at this time of night, you thought to yourself before calling out. “Come in!”

A man walks into your room. Sauer. He’s taken off his hat, holding it under his arm. In the other hand, theres a paper. He hands it to you. “I know I shouldn’t be here right now, but you forgot this on the sofa this afternoon. The Führer’d have you chewed out if he found a paper like this.” You take your article from him. “Oh—Thank you.” You say, smiling softly. Maybe he’s better than he seems.

“I-I’ve read the page you left, it’s rather remarkable how you take opinions from every side. No biases at all.” You nod, still smiling. Slightly flattered at the compliment about your journalism skill. “Perhaps I could give you my opinion one time—Anonymous, of course.” He adds. You quickly take out a notepad. “Of course. I could take it right now, actually.” You replied, eagerly.

You both sit on the edge of your bed, and he talks your ear off about his political opinion—Which is actually a bit different than his uniform leads on. He has his own separate views on the matter, he’s surprisingly not that much of a stickler. By the time he’s finished, it’s late at night and you’re exhausted. What you two have failed to realize, however, was that your room was right next to another high-ranking officers room. There were two guards outside of it.

Both of those two guards clearly had some skeptical questions when a Captain came out a controversial journalist’s bedroom. You open the door for Franz and let him out of your room. He sees the two officers across the hall and turns to you with a slightly panicked expression. “Scheiße.” He mutters, before grabbing your face gently. “May I do something? To lower your chance of being interrogated?” He asks. You confusedly agree.

With that, he kisses you. It’s long and surprisingly enjoyable. As he pulls away, he tucks some of your hair behind your ear. “Goodnight, Schatz.” He says, just loud enough for the officers to hear and piece the fake puzzle together. “Meet me at the bar downtown tomorrow evening.” He whispers to you, before leaving.

At the bar tomorrow evening, he looks a bit worried. You sit in front of him. He orders a beer for himself, and a red wine for you. As you sip your drink, he looks at you. “I’m sorry about how forward I was being last night—I just needed to make sure we had a cover story for why I was in your room.” He says, sighing gently. You nod in understanding. “Ah, I see. The Führer and your colleagues aren’t fond of my writing, I presume?” You ask. “Correct. However, if they believe we’re involved, they’ll give you the benefit of the doubt that you aren’t an enemy of the Reich.”

“So what’s this about, then?” You inquire, since his two sentences he’s uttered so far could’ve been said somewhere else. “They now assume we’re romantically involved, so it worked. Slightly more alarming news—There’s a party in a Colonel’s house. They’d like me to bring the woman I’m with.”

Your eyes widen. How er—Risky. “Please, Y/N.” Your eyes widen even further. “H-How the hell do you know my name?” You ask, alarmed. “I know who you are. I read both your allied and axis papers.” You sit there, silently. Sipping your drink while being deep in thought. This is bad, quite bad. But it could give you great things to write about, since you’d be inside one of those parties with officers.

“..When is the party?” You ask, meekly. “7pm.” He replies. You continue to sit there, nodding softly. “I-I’ll have my mind made up by then. Meet me at my room tonight.” You say, before getting up and leaving. He follows after you, walking close by. “What are you doing, Franz?” You ask.

“Keeping appearances.” He replies. “Also, walking you back because I’d also like to read more of your articles.” That comment made you laugh a bit. “Ah! I’m growing on you!” He says, placing his hand on the small of your back as you two walk. Arriving back at your hotel room, you sit on your bed and he sits on the edge, reading more papers and documents you’ve written in absolute awe. This man actually enjoyed them. Interesting.

“..You read that, I’m taking a nap before the party.” You say, sleepily. He lets out a proud “Aha! So you’re coming!” You just scoff and shut your eyes. Before being annoyedly woken up to some touching your face. “The hell are you doing?..” You ask, as he continues wiping at your eyes and cheeks with a wet cloth. “Taking off your makeup. I’ve read it isn’t good to sleep with it on.” You look around confusedly. “You’re so goddamn creepy.”

“Is it endearing?” He asks. You laugh and fall back asleep. At about 6, he wakes you up. “Wake up, Schatz.” You groan once again, a common sound when you’re with someone exhausting like him. “We’re not with people—You don’t have to call me that.” He lets out a soft ‘tsk!’ and goes over to your mirror to adjust his dress uniform.

“Do I have to go-?..” You grumble. He looks back at you, pulling you off the bed gently by your arms. “Do you want to be exiled from Germany for treason and anti-national socialist propaganda?” You shake your head no, you were born here. You studied here, were raised here, had a job here. Too much to leave behind. You let him hold you for a good five minutes before pulling away and getting ready.

Brushing out those old hollywood-esque waves and putting on your makeup again, you see him just sitting on your bed again, waiting. “What’re you doing?” You ask, irritated from sleep. “Waiting for you. We need to leave together, Liebling.” Rolling your eyes, you just continue to get ready.

Opening your luggage 30 minutes or so later, you’re debating between a red dress or a black dress. They both shared the typical silhouette of the time, with an almost pencil-line skirt that hit below the knee, and a structured top. “The red one’d be nice. Black makes you seem like you’re going to a funeral.” He chimes in. You pick the red one, change into it, and you both leave for the Colonel’s house.

In the car, both of you are in the backseat as a lower-ranking officer drives. He’s leaning awfully close. Close enough for you to smell cigarettes and faint cologne. Still grumpy from being woken up, you glare at him as he takes your hand in his. He doesn’t stop, though. Just sighing until you eventually melt into him, falling back asleep.

That party was possibly one of the coolest things ever, though. You heard first-hand opinions from officers and men who’d been in direct contact with Chamberlain and the Führer. You had so much to write about when you got back to the hotel. You pulled an all-nighter, just writing. Franz had fallen asleep in your bed anyways—And there was no space for you to sleep even if you tried.

As you looked at his sleeping form, something shifted in you. Not annoyance for his political standing, not finding him slightly rude or arrogant, not thinking of him as overly flirty, something rather tender. Care? Affection? General admiring of his sleeping state? Who knows. All you do know, is that he’s distracting you and you can’t write for the life of you.

Staring at the typewriter, you misspell something. ‘Führer’ turns into ‘Fuhder.’ Goddamnit. You were never one to make mistakes when writing, so that hit you quite hard. Looking back over at the man in your bed, you sigh and head over to it. Maybe it is time to turn in for the night.

“Franz.” You say, shaking him. “Move over.” He rolls over a bit, allowing you to get in. Turning off the lamp, you shut your eyes and start to drift off, only to feel someone’s arm around your torso. He’s pulling you closer, breathing softly down your neck. Those defences he hid under an insignia and badges fade away, revealing a softer—Almost domestic side of him.

“Goodnight, Schatzi..” He mutters, before fully drifting off. You wake the next morning to him making coffee for you in the corner of the hotel room. He brings it to your bedside.

“Guten morgen.” He remarks, handing you the coffee and instinctively kissing your cheek. You pull away and look up at him. “We-We’re in private, you don’t have to keep that up.” You reply, wiping your cheek. “Ah yes—Instinct. Forgive me.” He says, apologetic with a hint of something different. Something slightly wistful.

You sip the coffee slowly, savouring the bitter taste. He sits in front of you, smiling gently. “I read the articles you’ve typed out last night. I quite liked them. And of course my anonymous opinion.” He says, softly. “Thank you, Franz.” You reply. “Y/N, I’ve been thinking for a bit-..” He says, meekly. “About what?” You shoot back, grumpy. “The er—Fake relationship. What if it we actually tried? What if it wasn’t fake?” He asks, slightly nervous. “Like dating? You and me?” You clarify.

“Ja. You and me, dating. Actually dating, not just a cover.” You sit there, slightly wide-eyed at his question. He takes your hand in his gently, even if those same hands have punched English diplomats and such. You nod softly, agreeing to give it a try.

Captain Sauer is surprisingly quite caring, almost to the point of fussing over you at every inconvenience. The two of you eventually head back to Berlin after the agreement is signed, hanging out in your apartment. One day, he’s lying in your lap, reading through one of your articles about to be published in the Berliner. Domesticity is what you two shined at for a while. Laughing over dinner, begging one another to stay the night, and sharing all petty little secrets.

A month or so later, it’s really just a normal afternoon. You’ve finished writing a section for the paper, and Franz is at work. You two had dinner at a restaurant planned that night—So he’d asked for you to wait for him to come home from work so you two could walk together to the restaurant.

He seemed different when he got home. Didn’t say hello. Didn’t kiss you and hold you tightly. Just placed his briefcase by the door and walked to the bedroom to take off his uniform.

You walk inside the bedroom and attempt to give him a kiss like usual. He pushes you away gently and shuts the door. “Y/N.” He says, tone serious, almost concerned. “Yes, Franz?” You reply, confused and also matching his concern.

“My superiors found your written issues of the Münchener Post last night, and your papers written for the allied powers.” He says. Fuck! You used your real name for the allied papers, and wrote possibly over a hundred anti national-socialist articles between them and the Münchener Post before switching to neutral summary for Berlin.

“T-They said that one more article published and it’s exile for you.” He says, tone shaky. Not composed like usual. Your eyes widen, and well with tears. “And what for you-?..” You ask. “Leave you, or I leave the SS.” He replies.

“Germany is my life, liebling—I can’t just leave.” He states, bluntly. “It’s mine, as well! This doesn’t just concern you!” You yell back to him, a tear already running down your face. He stands there, reaching out for you gently before enveloping his arms around you. He holds you gently against his chest as you cry angrily.

“..What did you choose?” You ask, crying. “T-that’s complicated, liebe. Very, very complicated for a man like me.” He replies, tone even shakier and more unsure than the last few sentences. “What did you choose.” You repeat, more stern.

“If I betray you, I betray myself. If I betray the SS, I betray my country—My country is very dear to me.”

“..Dearer than I?”

“No, no not dearer than you.” He says, before pulling you closer and kissing you—More passionately than that first time in Munich all those months ago.

This was just some star-crossed lover situation. A knockoff Romeo and Juliet. You two knew what you were getting yourselves into when this started. You knew who he was—How your careers’d clash. A journalist part of the resistance and an officer of the Reich. “I picked up something on the way home.” He said, reaching into his pockets.

He pulls out a small ring box, getting down on one-knee and opening it. “I know this isn’t under the best circumstance and it all seems fast—But verdammt. Y/N L/N, will you marry me?” He asks. You just stare at him, really getting a good look. Before muttering a soft, choked:

“..Yes.”

That same week, you two are on a train to France. From France you’ll go to England. Living in an allied country, starting over—Together. As you two sit in the traincar, he takes your hand in his, running his thumb over your wedding ring. He kisses your cheek and mutters soft words to you.

“Much dearer than Germany.” He remarks, as the locomotive starts to move along the track.

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

this is so hermann gottlieb core i can’t explain it

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

Hyeyey girl, when you have the time, can u plz write something for hans landa or hellstrom again?? when you got time, bye girl

There’s Something About Schmidt. ( Hans Landa / Reader. )

| hans landa / reader

| a/n: decided to finally do a landa fic mmh, christoph waltz. here you go, anon!

| tropes: friends to lovers, the boy/girl next door, idk bro secrecy, eventual finding out of said secret, slight non-edgy or non-angsty betrayal??

| context: reader is living in Nantucket Island, when a new man moves in across from her. (this is kinda like landa turning a new leaf in nantucket lol)

“Benedict Schmidt.” The man said, shaking your hand. His tone was calm, pleasant—Slightly accented with something you couldn’t name. “Y/N L/N. Just moved here?” You asked. Schmidt nodded. You offered to help carry in his boxes, items meticulously labelled, to which he disagreed. Thinking nothing of it, you go back home.

The next day or so, you’re going about as usual. Watering your garden plants, dusting the porch, hanging your clothes out to dry, et cetera. Benedict is sitting on his porch, reading the newspaper. He’s reading about the recent defeat of Germany in the newly-ended war. He’s shaking his head softly, moving some of the hair covering his forehead away. From your distance, you can see a faint scar. You dismiss it as an odd forehead wrinkle and continue sweeping.

Since he’s moved in, you find yourself constantly seeing Mr. Schmidt. He does live across your house, so that’s nice. You spot him in the grocery shop, the pharmacy, and even the police station. You’d just come in, absolutely distraught. Your cat, a fat orange tabby named Fishstick, has gone missing. You’re holding missing posters and are on the verge of tears. Barely holding back a sob, you hand your missing posters over to the detective and turn to leave.

As you’re about to leave, you lock eyes with Benedict. His own eyes widen with concern as he sees you. “Y/N?” He says, caringly. You look up at him. “Ah! Mr. Schmidt!” You reply. He tuts his tongue softly. “Don’t act all er—What’s the expression? Sunlight and shiny?” You let out a tearful giggle. “Sunshine and rainbows.” You correct him. “Oh, yes. Sunshine and rainbows. What’s the matter with you?”

You two walk out the station, and you absolutely break down about losing your fluffy friend. He’s keeping a hand on the small of your back as he guides you back to the neighbourhood. He invites you over for tea in his home, you agree. Walking inside, the place is incredibly organized and neat, with tastefully picked and elegantly understated furniture. He pours you a cup of tea and sits across from you.

“You’ll find your little cat soon, meine liebe.” He remarks, sipping from his own cup. You nod softly, picking up your cup. As you examine the tea, you can see it’s a different colour from other teas you’ve tried. Schmidt laughs softly. “It’s nothing poisonous, just a blend my friends’ve sent me from overseas.” You nod, sipping the tea, it’s a sweet blend—Almost floral.

“Thank you, Mr. Schmidt.” you say, smiling softly. The tears in your eyes have mostly subsided by now. He scoffs gently. “Call me Benedict. No need to be so formal with me, dear.”

Days pass, you unfortunately don’t find Fishstick, however—You do have a new friend. Benedict. Whenever your day is bad, you run across the street and flop onto his sofa. Even when your day is going fine, he still comes to your door with a basket of snacks and a small bottle of wine. One day, he goes so far to bring you out for a picnic to celebrate your birthday.

As he lays down the blanket, you notice some hair flying away from his forehead. He immediately straightens it out, even putting on a hat. You think nothing of it and sit with him. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” You ask, softly. He smiles back gently. “Yes it is, very sunny. However, my dear—There’s something I’d like to show you.” He replies, that piques your interest and you perk up a bit. Benedict opens the picnic basket and pulls out something.

An orange tabby cat. An orange tabby cat wearing a pink bell, with a collar that reads ‘Fishstick.’

You gasp softly, putting your hands over your mouth. You stare at the man in front of him, in utter shock and surprise—Before he pulls you into a tight hug. “Happy birthday, liebling.” He mutters. This event is what solidifies the romantic relationship between you. A soft moment in Benedict’s backyard garden, as your cat snuggles between you two. The sunlight filtering in through the trees, casting a warm golden light over you both.

This sparks what feels like a chain reaction of soft domestic moments. Him lying his head on your lap as he takes a short nap, you and Benedict holding hands on a park bench, discussing philosophy during Sunday dinner, anything you do—It’s together.

Benedict is lovely. Caring, thoughtful, intelligent—The whole package. You two are snuggled up in bed almost every night. The one time his demeanour changes from calm and sweet to frantic and disheveled is when some of his hair shifts away from his forehead. You had gone to brush it back into place, when he quickly stops you.

“Don’t do that!” He yelled, clearly ruffled. The suddenness made you flinch. He quickly fixed his hair, apologized, and rolled over. Not holding you, just rolled over and drifted off. You thought nothing of it. ‘Probably cranky.’ You convinced yourself.

The next morning, he’s apologizing profusely for his little outburst. You let him hold your waist in the kitchen as he runs his fingers through your hair, whispering apologies and terms of endearment. The little impasse fades, and you two go back to honeymoon-stage relationship bliss.

One day, Schmidt is quite sleepy. Frankly exhausted. You take the time to tidy up his dresser drawers a bit, which have been left in slight disarray as he searched something earlier that morning. While you’re cleaning, you find a passport. Completely normal, until under it, theres a German passport. Okay, also odd.

You open it in some instinctive curiousity, only to see a different name. Hans Landa. ‘Who the hell is Hans Landa?’ You think to yourself. Comparing the two passports, it’s very clearly the same man. However, in the Landa photo, you can finally see his forehead—Something Benedict always hid.

He stirs awake, seeing you holding the evidence of a life he’s left behind. Trying to play it nonchalant, he extends his arms and invites you back to bed.

“..Liebling, please.” He mutters softly, purposefully blinking in a way to seem endearing. You oblige, hopping in bed next to him and letting the man envelope his warm self around you. “Why do you have two passports, love?” You inquire gently.

“It’s nothing.” He responds back, a little too quickly. Much too quickly. He’s also a bit frazzled, probably a bit nervous. You pull away slightly, seeing his calm demeanour crumble. “Why do they have different names, darling?” You inquire again, much like a Little Red Riding Hood exchange.

“..Have you lied to me?” You ask, slightly hurt and confused. He shakes his head, fast—Profusely. This action gives him away. This is his version of holding up the American three handgesture infront of a German officer. As he shakes his head, the hair moves from his forehead, revealing it. That’s not an odd wrinkle—It’s a symbol. A horrible one. You stare at him, taken aback.

You stare at his head in utter shock. He stares into the distance. Clearly his desk has become quite interesting. “I wasn’t—I’m not-..” He tries to think of a defense, tries to cover up why someone had to give him that scar, but he can’t.

You push him off, sit up, and leave that damn house. (Taking Fishstick with you, of course.)

[vinylsoul]

this isn't the best made but i had to show @tehcherrya what was going on in my head EVERY TIME that goddamn scene played and i cant breatthergkebrgg

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

I’M CRINE, ELIZABETH’S PHOTO LOOKS LIKE A PROMO PIC, AND WILLIAM’S SO ERA ACCURATE 🥹🥹🥀🥀✌️✌️

[vivvresavie]

emscnpck

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

“THERES A WATER DROUGHT ON NANTUCKET ISLAND 🥺😡”

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

No pressure at all fran, but when you find the time, could you please write some domestic fluff (preferably as a husband/wife scenario) for either ludwig dieter or gottlieb? pretty please girl? plzpls

In a Sentimental Mood. (Hermann Gottlieb / Reader.)

| Hermann Gottlieb / wife reader

| a/n: you ask, and I deliver! i’m a d1 brainrotter, so i almost always have time girl don’t worry 😭

| context: you and Hermann have been married for quite a while, you both work at the PPDC.

The faint melodic tune of ‘In a Sentimental Mood’ by Benny Goodman was flowing through the living room as you opened the door to your home, the one shared with your husband. You had just gotten home from your shift at the lab, Hermann had taken the day off—He had a slight cold and frankly, was being a bit of a baby about it.

You wondered where the music was coming from, before your eyes zero in on the record player in the corner of the room. The various vinyls before consisted of Brahms, Frank Sinatra, and Schostakovich. You sighed. The man had spent all day listening to music and wallowing in his misery. How productive. But, where was this said unproductive man? The room seemed to be empty.

Shrugging and thinking nothing of it, you hang up your purse, kick off your shoes, and head to the kitchen to make a drink. ‘A cup of tea, or a glass of wine for tonight?’ You thought to yourself, before deciding on the first option. You needed Hermann’s help to get the wine bottle anyways. As the kettle brewed, you thought about the morning.

You remarked about how sleepy and adorable your husband was as he lied in bed while you got ready. Hermann was there, tucked in, wearing his pyjamas and holding a box of tissues as you buttoned your shirt. The normally early riser up at 5:45 was sitting there, pouting and sneezing every now and then.

“..Schatz, why can’t you just stay home? It’d be perfectly logical to accompany me!”

He whined, as he sat there, blowing his adorably red nose.

“Because, Hermann, I’m perfectly healthy and able to work. Therefore, I’m going to.”

The scientist rolled his eyes at your reply, before taking off his glasses and rubbing at the temples of his forehead. The man tried everything he could to keep you home with him, he never liked being wrong or others dismissing his ideas. Even with small, petty things like this. From pulling at your sleeve, purposefully trying to seem endearing, and flat-out begging, it was a long damn charade to watch.

You were snapped out of the little daydream as the kettle whistled, and the record ended. That must’ve been the last song. You quickly make some chamomile tea, and walk over to the machine. Being at the record player put you in eye-view of the armchair and sofa, which lets you spot Hermann. Sleeping, with a book on his chest, probably the one he was reading before drifting off into a deep slumber, his glasses dangling off his face, barely staying on, and a few crumpled tissues around him. ‘What a mess,’ You thought.

As you change the record to an Al Bowlly one, the slight irritation towards your husband from the morning dissipates as you get a good look at him. Sleeping so peacefully, so vulnerable, so goddamn cute. Hermann, being the ultra-perceptive man he is, notices the music change and stirs awake.

“—Oh, love.. You’re home-..” He muttered, before sneezing into his sleeve. He’d seemed to muffle it to the point it sounded like a squeak. You rolled your eyes, running a hand through his slightly disheveled little bowlcut. “Hi, baby.” You said, tenderly. He smiled sleepily, the soft kind that made his dimples show and your heart flutter. Hermann puts the book on a coffee table and puts his arms out, obviously asking for you to come to him.

You oblige, climbing into him. Both of you on the armchair. Him using it like a normal person ought to, you on his lap. The man buries his face into your neck, muttering something in a thick English accent and sighing contentedly. “You smell different.” He added. You just scoffed and played with his hair. “I was in a lab all day, Newt kept putting some weird ass samples around me.” You replied. Hermann tutted softly at your language and just held you tighter.

“So, what have you done all day?” You inquired, already knowing the answer. “Rather nothing.” He responded. “I took a nap or two, read some Hawking, listened to Schostakovich, and—Oh! Had a tea cake. Was quite nice.” You laughed at what he found ‘nice’ and continued to hold him. On the coffee table, there was a book of crossword puzzles. You picked it up and flipped through it—All finished. “Holy shit, Hermann, you just bought this.” You said, laughing. “Language. Also, I had some er—fun with it.”

“Your definition of ‘fun’ will never cease to phase me.” You added. The scientist, instead of speaking with you like a normal person, pulls you bone-crushingly close and starts planting soft little kisses across your face. Giggling quietly while doing so. How out of character for him.

“Oh! Hermann!” You exclaimed, trying to laugh, yet pull him off simultaneously. He pulls away eventually and looks up at you, eyes glimmering with a hint of mischief. “..Yes?” He replied, meekly. “What’s gotten into you?” You ask him. He pauses for a moment, before gesturing to the Benny Goodman vinyl in the corner.

“..In a Sentimental Mood.” He says, giggling—Obviously thinking the peak of humour is a jazz joke. You roll your eyes, kissing his cheek softly.

“God, you’re such a dork.” You reply.

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

“Oh, Ew—Whats happened to you?” (Dieter Hellstrom / Reader.)

| dieter hellstrom / a sick reader

| a/n requested any character taking care of a sick reader (y/n perspective,) hope you enjoy this, whoever you are lol. also, first ever fic!!

| context: dieter and reader have a very casual relationship, couple of dates here and there, etc.

September 12th, 1942. A very cold and rainy September 12th, actually.

The wind pattered against the fogged-over glass window, the one which was cold to the touch, covered in condensation that made you shiver, if that was even possible at this point. You were absolutely freezing. This random ailment that you’d’ve woken up to was not kind at all. Fever, chills, a nose that just couldn’t stop running, and a pounding headache.

It was hell, absolute misery. Nothing you tried helped, nor distracted you from your state. Sleeping it off, tea, reading, nothing. The reading made your headache worse, tea made you nauseous, and sleeping just wasn’t an option—Your annoyingly stuffy nose woke you up each time.

As you lie in bed, you reminisced about your week. Thought about a time where you were well and could breathe through your nose. A time where getting out of bed wasn’t painful. As you thought, the weird little situationship flashed through your mind. That odd Major fella—What was his name again? Dieterich? No! Dieter. Yeah, that dude. He was kinda cute to you? A bit abrasive, but better than the other guys roaming around Paris during these times.

You’d’ve gone on about 2 or 3 dates with the man. Always a dim restaurant or small cafe. He was acceptable, to say the least. Why was he popping into your mind so often? Shit! You had a date with him that day. He was also so goddamn specific about being punctual. Dieter wouldn’t appreciate you being late.

You glanced at the clock in your blurred vision, trying to make your eyes focus. Grabbing your eyeglasses, the clock finally focuses. 6:30 pm. You had a date scheduled thirty minutes before that. Not only were you late, but you were also absolutely not getting there at all. Letting out a soft, congested sigh, you leaned your head back against your pillow, shutting those tired eyes that just couldn’t drift off.

Minutes pass—You can feel yourself drifting off. Finally, some relief. This relief turned out to be short lived. A sharp knock from the front door of your little apartment echoes through the room. You hold your pounding head.

“..Just a minute!”

You slowly get out of bed, adjusting the cardigan you have on. Your hand extends to open the door. The eyes behind your glasses haven’t focused fully, so in your disheveled state, you see a figure in black swoopy leather. A voice pipes up, low, controlled.

“You didn’t show up.”

The voice replied as it looked as you. When your eyes focus, you notice it’s Dieter. He grimaces a bit as he takes in your appearance, instinctively backing away slightly. “Oh, ew! What’s happened to you?!”

You heard the slight disgust in his voice, even when masked by the sheer shock and arrogance in his tone. You sniffle—He backs away, brattily pushing your head away with his index finger. He examines your face while holding you in a manner that screams ‘Yuck.’ He ran a thumb over your flushed cheeks, but again—Backed away disgustedly when you sniffle again.

Hellstrom ushers you back inside, taking off his hat. He gestures to your bed, again with his usual bratty expression. “You look horrid.” He added, as he tucked your sickly frame back into your bed. Dieter scoffs at the amount of teacups on your nightstand, all half-finished. “Ach du liebe, what a waste!” He says, flicking your cheek softly.

You flinched at his tone, holding your pounding head and wincing. The Major mistakes this for you crying, and his demeanour softens a bit. He stumbles for a few beats, something Dieter never tended to do. He hesitantly reaches out, pushing your hair back away from your face, mistaking your flushed cheeks for you actually starting to tear-up.

“Oh—wait-! Fraülein-?” He interjected, meekly. You glance back up at him, your eyes tired, bags appearing under them. He sits on the edge of your bed, sighing softly. Before placing his hand to your forehead and checking for a fever.

As he checked your temperature and felt the heat radiate to his palm, he sighed gently. “You feel far too warm, Schatz.”

A pet name. That was new. No complaints from you, though. It felt nice to have someone care for your sorry ass. You’d been tossing and turning in your cold bed for about a day or so, wallowing in your misery. You sniffle again, curling into the blanket. The Major moves your head to face him again. You scowl at the interruption from your comfort and glare at the man.

“Leave me alone-!..” You reply, sleepily.

He shushes you gently, taking his handkerchief out of his pocket. “Shhh—Enough. You need to blow your nose. This incessant sniffling isn’t helping you, nor me.” Before you even have time to react, the man is literally wiping your nose for you. It’s humiliating, you feel like a child. But you can’t even protest! He just shushes you again.

Your constant protests throughout the exchange have clearly made the man a bit frustrated. He sighs, a bit firmer this time, before shedding his coat, and climbing into bed next to you. Anchoring his arms firmly around your waist.

“Dieter—What are you doing-?!”

You ask him, confused. He just shushes you again. By this point, both of you are grumpy and sighing firmly. But him holding you is quite warm. Comforting, even. “Holding you in place.” He mutters. You ask why, calling the action restricting. He blames it on not letting you get up and overexerting yourself. You just sigh, no point arguing with him.

After a sneeze or two, followed by the sound of someone elses annoyed grumble before they practically rub the damn handkerchief over your nose, you drift off. Being held by your situationship. The one who you forgot his name in your sleepy little state. You roll over and inhale a bit, recognizing the scent of somebody’s hairgel.

“Oh, Dieter-..” You say, finally finding the name from the tip of your tongue.

“Yes, liebe?” He responds, gently. Only to no reply, your sleepy outburst had one piece of dialogue and that’s it.

He lets out a sigh, but it’s soft this time. Not firm. In fact, he smiles softly—Glancing down at your sleeping self.

[schrodingers-brainrotter]

Hey!! Just found this account. Would you ever think of making caretaking oneshots or headcanons for any of the characters you’re writing for? No pressure though. Maybe when the reader is sick or tired? Thank yewww 😽

omgomg hihi! ^^ thats legit such a fun and cute idea (didn’t think i’d get a request that fast omgggg) will do! thank you, anon.