tired of singing the blues (dieter hellstrom x reader)
-> (gif not mine)
summary: "man who makes a beast out of himself got nothing to lose"; reader is a singer at a gentleman's club when she catches the attention of a certain officer
warnings: none?
word count: 3002
a.n: pelase someone take lana del rey's discography away from me. also again proofread past midnight so dont bully me if there's mistakes
~
"You know, sometimes I think God is playing a little game with me"
The last thing you wanted to do tonight was perform. The night-shifts were taking every last ounce of your energy, but with the war and rationing you needed every last cent you could get.
That's how you had ended up here. It had started as an occasional thing, standing in for your friend on odd nights when she was sick. You had gone to the same college together, and after she had pulled a few strings you found yourself earning a little cash on the side.
"Looking down from Heaven, laughing and trying to see how much I can take"
Before the war broke out, one or two nights a month had sustained you. It had allowed you to buy the occasional dress, not worry to much about the cost of your weekly groceries, keep your car full of petrol. But at the beginning of the war, it proved insufficient. Your day job had commenced a culling of workers, and within a couple of weeks you had found yourself laid off. With no means to pay your rent and no way to even feed yourself, you had sunk down to a depth you never imagined possible. A place had opened up at the gentleman's club you had been frequenting, a few hours each night singing to a crowd of the highest ranking members of the German army. Gentleman's was perhaps not the best description of the clientele, but a job was a job, and it beat getting groped in bars for free.
"Because the way things go, it's like a joke"
The job description had been simple: each night at eleven sharp you were to put on your nicest dress, doll yourself up and more or less act as background noise for the upper echelons of the Gestapo party. Toward the end of the night, if the tips had been especially slow, you would go out into the audience and try and personally entice a little more out of those cold hands; yes it was humiliating, but something so simple as putting on one of their hats could mean the difference between eating and starving that week. These were wealthy men, and by now you were numb to their touches, their filthy glances that let you know you were little more than flesh in their eyes. You told yourself it wasn't so bad: this was still a step above being an escort - though many of the less popular girls had had to resort to such measures. It was horrifying: so you played along.
"Nobody's had more shots at the moon and missed than me"
You put on a smile, were easy, flirtatious. You had managed to keep your job for so long after developing a character of your own, a sort of second skin you could retreat into each night to hide from yourself. She had spunk, she had grit, she still had some fight left in her. Everything you didn't.
But, now after three months of long nights and restless day-sleeping, you felt like a shadow of your former self, doubling the makeup under your eyes each night to hide the fact you hadn't had a good rest in days. Your stress levels had all but killed your appetite meaning your dresses hung a little looser and the alcohol the clients plied you with all night only got you drunk faster. You were running on autopilot.
To top it all off, that morning you had awoke to a thin, ehite envelope slipping under your door. An eviction notice. You had spent most of the day laid on the wooden floor of your one bedroom apartment, not even able to cry anymore. What downsizing meant from here you dreaded to think. It took every last nerve in your body to drag yourself to the club, having to take the tram in your work clothes, unable to fill up your empty tank. The looks you got cramped between bodies on the journey were the last straw.
"Man who makes a beast out of himself got nothing to lose"
This would be your last show. Your swan song. It wasn't even paying the bills anymore, and you had couldn't even recognise yourself anymore.
The lights in your dressing room seemed harsher than ever, and you could feel your stomach churn as you applied powder after powder, coating your eyes in layers of liner and mascara hoping to hide how red they were. It felt like putting lipstick on a pig, as though no matter how pretty you got, you were still rotten on the inside.
One last show, you told yourself, taking a deep breath in before your mirror and putting on your best smile. You knew most of them would be too drunk to care: it wasn't like they payed much attention to your face anyway.
"Sold my soul long ago, nothing left to choose"
The night was busy, as Saturdays always were. Most of the officers took the weekend off, half going home to their families and half coming to places like this, to watch you strip away what little humanity you had left. Even after months at the job, looking out into that crowd still made you nervous, seeing the swarm of men in uniform, a weapon tucked snugly away at each hip. The ever-present threat of death was enough to take you out of yourself, and you found the strength to start your song.
"I'm tired, tired of singing the blues"
The band was simple, after all, you were just white noise to accompany their conversations. You weren't supposed to be noticed, your small repertoire of quiet jazz and blues only meaning to fill awkward silences. As you sang, most of the men paid you no attention. That would've been a blessing, however with a lack of attention also came a lack of tips, and more than ever you were relying on the rolled up notes that would find themselves tucked into your bra. Your body was a commodity, and you planned at least on getting your money's worth.
"I'm tired"
After an hour or so of exercising your voice, you decided it was time to knuckle down and put on a show. Finishing off your drink, you detached your microphone from its stand and made your way down into the masses. Most of the officers were seated at candlelit tables, three or four grouped together, making their way through crystalline glasses of scotch and pints of beer. At this point of the night you hoped they would be a little more free with their cash.
As you'd hoped, the moment you stepped off the stage the heads began to turn. You had to admit it: you could make quite the scene when you wanted to. Every table you passed by you would run your hand along shoulders, lean down to whisper into ears, bend over the back of chairs and wrap your arms around uniforms. They loved it, feeling the touch of a woman twenty years younger than their wives, fooling themselves into thinking that you were in love with them. The game was easy enough, and by now you had mastered the art. You wove from table to table, sneaking sips of drinks as you went, watching them smirk at the lipstick residue on their glasses.
To you it was just a swarm of blank faces. It was their money you were after. That's all you needed them for, just as you were nothing more than a body to them, to have and to hold as they saw fit. It was only a happy coincidence that your voice was pleasing to their ears. You convinced yourself you were a singer, but at this point you were little more than a whore.
Then you saw him. For the first time in all your months at the club, one face stood on in particular. You had seen him before in here, but usually he hung around at the bar paying you little to no attention, or was tucked away in some corner drinking alone.
Dieter Hellstrom; the other girls had told you about him, how he had refused their attentions, how they knew he was one of the richest men in the room. In the flesh he lived up to all of their stories; his skin was soft but his expression was deep and serious, thin lips pursed into a perfect line, adorned either side by two small moles that almost gave the appearance of dimples. His brown hair was slicked back in a precise manner, not a single strand out of place: this was a man who prided himself on control. Two dark eyes watched you, unrelenting, as you passed from hand to hand, almost like he was giving you a warning. You had never been this close to him before, and as you grew closer to where he sat you felt your hands began to tremor a little about your mic, praying you wouldn't drop it in your nerves.
No-one made you feel nervous. Even if the Reichsmarschall himself had walked through the door, you wouldn't have batted an eyelid. But the way the major clenched his jaw, how he shifted in his seat every time you brushed your fingers over the arm of another man, almost made you want to avoid his table all together.
But tonight was to be your last night: you had nothing more to lose. What's the worst he could do to a girl who's already hurt?
Trying desperately to keep your voice steady, you approached his table, at first completely ignoring him, testing the waters almost. The other officers accompanying him were delighted by your attentions, but for all you touched them, you never broke eye contact with him, the two of you locked into a silent war. You remembered who you were tonight: you weren't the sad girl who couldn't pay her rent, you were an object of desire.
And desired you would be.
Still whispering out your song, you rounded the table, now finally standing before the major. Even from where he sat you could tell his height, long legs outstretched and spread toward you beneath the table. Whilst many of the other men had rid themselves of their work clothes in favour of shirts and slacks, Dieter sat still in his pristine uniform, presumably a reminder to those around him of his rank above them.
What possessed you to sit directly on his knee, you'll never know. It seemed to be the catalyst you were looking for, though, as his concentration finally broke, your touch eliciting a shaky breath. You allowed yourself a smirk, reaching out to run your hand over his shirt under his army jacket, feeling the way his chest rose and fell in response to your touch; the soft material of his trousers rustled below your bare thighs as he shifted you directly to sit on his lap. You sat a little above his head so he had to look up at you. His body was warm against you and a firm hand came to hold you in place. Though his grip was certain, you could tell by the look in his eyes you had won the battle. The control was slipping from him as you danced your fingers up his neck, tracing his Adam's apple above his collar to flutter past his strong jaw. His breathing was coming in shaky now, though you could only tell by how it rattled against your own chest.
You were lingering a little too long perhaps, but you were mesmerised. His hand felt almost protective against you, halfway to an embrace. The moment you'd made contact with him he seemed to have let out a sigh of relief. He looked at you like you were his only source of light.
It was only when you'd finished your shift, going out the back door for a smoke break, that you realised he hadn't slipped you a single note.
"Bastard," you muttered under your breath, dragging your fur coat up around your neck. The night was freezing, but you were so desperate for fresh air you'd braved it, grabbing one of the other girls' coats on the way out. You must've read him wrong. He didn't give a damn about you. He'd probably just been reeling off all the whiskey in his system.
"Cheap bastard," you grumbled again over your cigarette, rooting around in your purse for your lighter. Great, just great. You could see the thing sitting on your bedside table where you'd forgot to pack it in your hazy exit. "Fuck!"
You wanted to scream.
You just had to calm down. You just wanted to calm down. But you couldn't. Some fucking swan song: you hadn't even made enough to buy yourself breakfast.
"Here." At first you didn't even register his arrival, seeing only the flame dancing before your eyes. Without even looking up, you reached out your cigarette to the light inhaling quickly like a junkie. Your hands were still shaking, half from the cold and half from the stress and anger coursing through you. Now the very object of your hatred was stood before you, smug and warm in his militaria.
"Thanks." The last thing you wanted to do was thank him, but the glint of the pistol on his belt made you think twice.
"You shouldn't be out here, you'll catch your death." The alley was empty besides the two of you, and you had to admit you cut an interesting pair. Stood at his full height you felt small before him, but you weren't one to let go of grudges so easily.
"Don't worry, I'm a professional."
Dieter smiled at your comment, narrowing his eyes a little as he began surveying you.
"What, did you not get a good enough look earlier?" you all but spat.
"Perhaps," he laughed, though his hand came to wrap tightly around your wrist, "you have forgotten who you're talking to."
He was right. In all honesty, to make peace with your work you'd ignored how dangerous your clients were, all of the atrocities they'd committed.
"You know," he continued, voice scarcely above a whisper as he leaned down to your ear. You could feel his warm breath cutting through the night's chill, heat tickling just below your lobe, fanning out across your neck like a kiss. "You know, I don't buy your whole act. You walk around there like you own the place, as though you're the one in charge. You might've fooled the rest of the men in there, but deep down I know all you want is someone to tell you what to do."
Dieter took a step back before reaching out to take your cigarette from your trembling hands. He took a long drag on it, exhaling the smoke just past your head, before gesturing to place it back between your lips.
"You need someone to take care of you."
"How could you know what I need?" you protested, but your voice was weak before him, and Dieter could only laugh in response.
"Listen to yourself. You're just a little girl. You don't know what you're doing. Your life is a mess. Admit it. Everyone can tell." The humiliation had you bowing your head, unable to drag your eyes away from your feet. He was right. Of course he was right: how he could tell all that from such a brief encounter scared you.
"I-My break's over," you muttered. You put your cigarette out beneath your heel and made to go back, hoping to slip away back to your dressing room. Dieter's grip only tightened on your wrist, pulling you almost flush against him, your heart noticeably racing against his.
"Do you honestly think I'd let you go back out there, that I'd let them touch you again?" His eyes bore into yours with such an intensity you had never known. Your whole body was shaking now, but you didn't even try to tear away from him. "I know what they think. They're undressing you with their eyes. It's disgusting."
"You're right," you relented. Tears of pure shame were welling in your eyes. You hated that he could see through you so well. "I know it's disgusting. I know that I'm a whore, but what am I supposed to do? I've got no money, I've got no real job, and as of today I've got nowhere to live. What am I supposed to do?"
"You'll come and live with me." He said it as though it were obvious. His face showed no signs of mockery, grip loosening ever so slightly around your wrist. It would've been nice to laugh the comment off, but it seemed like a real offer. And, honestly, what better option did you have?
"Please don't make fun of me," you whispered. You had to test the waters just in case this was another play at embarrassing you; maybe that's how he got off.
A strong hand reached out to take your jaw, forcing your neck upwards, returning your gaze directly to his. Something about the way he looked at you made you want to give yourself to him, to tell him all of your secrets, to collapse into those strong arms. It seemed like a dream that someone like him would take you away from all of this, and now he'd brought life to your fantasies, given them a voice of their own.
He held you unflinchingly. "Do I look like a man who likes to make fun? I'm not asking if you'd like to come with me, I'm telling you you're going to."
He needed to say no more. You were putty in his hands.
Dieter leaned down so close your foreheads were all but touching and whispered like a promise, "The next hand I see touching you I'm going to cut off."