fic: broken jaw and all
broken jaw and all
inglourious basterds. two guys and a girl walk out of a bar; this is what happens next. bridget von hammersmark/archie hicox. rated nc-17. 2098 words. AU.
notes: LOL you guys I don't even know. i feel like anything and everything i write these days needs to be preempted with a disclaimer of just how shameless i've become in the writing department. HI I AM SHAMELESS. also, in the late night hours, three glasses of vino in, i stumbled upon the Inglourious Basterds kink meme. and have i mentioned i have no shame? the prompt in question was: "Bridget von Hammersmark/Lt. Archie Hicox, gunplay, talking dirty. Bonus points if Stiglitz watches." did you really expect me to resist THAT? that said, this has ZERO literary/fic/shame-free merit, and um, i still can't believe i wrote this?
Let’s be clear on one point: it was never supposed to turn out like this.
Things went bad, things went real sour at La Louisiane.
The Nazis had been there and Wicki bit it and everyone else enclosed in those four walls under the ground that wasn’t Bridget, or Hicox, or Stiglitz bit it too.
After, there was only one obvious thing to do: lay low. They were each a mess: Bridget had lost her hat and her hair had come undone. They all had varying degrees and sources of blood spattered across them.
In the end, they stopped at an inn. “I know the owner,” Bridget had said, and Hicox and Stiglitz exchanged glances behind her back but followed her anyway.
All of which has brought us to this:
Stiglitz pressed the blade to Bridget’s throat and she inhaled sharply.
“Now, Stiglitz,” Hicox said, “that’s hardly necessary. I’d say that’s enough of that.” He waved a hand. Stiglitz glared but after a moment he dropped his knife and stalked over to the armchair and took a seat. Hicox turned to Bridget. “Hardly gentlemanly behavior, now is it?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but there was the cocking of a pistol and Hicox had that same opaque grin on his face but he aimed the gun at her temple.
“Bridget von Hammersmark,” he mused. “I must confess. As big a fan as I myself am of your, well, considerable talents, we find ourselves at a bit of a crossroads here. See, one of our own took it right between the eyes as a part of your little planned rendezvous - ”
“In a basement,” Stiglitz grunted.
“Yes, old chap’s correct, isn’t he? Your planned rendezvous just so happened to be in a basement, swarming with none other than the enemy. I’m sure an intelligent woman such as yourself can imagine how suspicious this looks on the outside.”
Bridget sighed and her shoulders slumped forward. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “You think I set you up, yeah?” she snapped. She glared. “That would have been suicide. If I wanted you and your men dead, there are easier ways to go about it.”
“Given this a bit of thought, have you, dear fraulein?” Hicox asked.
She huffed. “I am now. Get that fucking gun out of my face.”
He pressed the metal into her cheek and she fought a gasp. Hicox leaned in close and his hot breath was a sharp contrast against the cold of the gun. “Darling. You are hardly in the position to make such demands,” he said quietly.
“I’m not lying,” she said between gritted teeth. “I had no idea, no idea at all. They weren’t supposed to be there! I don’t - I don’t know - what do you want me to say?” She raised her chin at the last question and aimed for something like defiance. The tip of the gun slid along her cheekbone; her palms were damp and she clenched her fingers into a fist.
Hicox clucked his tongue but he did not back away, he did not lower his weapon.
“What do I want you to say…” he drawled. “I’ve personally always been a proponent of the ‘actions speak louder than words’ school of thought, I’ll have you know. Words, well, words can so easily cloud the truth. But actions? Once witnessed, those are a touch trickier to deny, wouldn’t you agree?”
Bridget swallowed. “What are you asking me exactly?”
He smiled. He smiled and it was all teeth, wolfish and dangerous, and for the first time since meeting him Bridget took him seriously.
“Why, I’m asking you to show me, of course.”
Perhaps if she was a more proper woman, if she was the sort of woman the world assumed her to be, she would have gasped. She should have been shocked; his words belied an undeniable sexual undertone and any respectable woman would have balked at the proposition.
Bridget's not really that sort of woman; this would not explain what happened next.
Bridget’s hands were still clenched into fists at her side.
She punched him in the face. It caught him just along the jaw and he stumbled back. She took the chance and knocked the gun from his hand; it hit the floor and fired, a hole pierced in the side of a bureau. Bridget caught Hicox around the throat and held him against the wall. Her hair was in her face and although surprised Hicox was still smiling and they both were out of breath.
Stiglitz’s boots were heavy on the floorboards and they creaked under his weight. Both Hicox and Bridget turned to appraise him. His posture was casual, his knife unsheathed and what looked like a smile and a question on his lips.
“I believe I still have this under control, Stiglitz,” Hicox said. His voice sounded almost wheezy and Bridget pressed down harder against his throat. Stiglitz shrugged and returned to the chair, kicked his feet up, and watched the two of them at the wall out of the corner of his eye.
Bridget’s face was still turned to Stiglitz and the knife and the chair; the back of his head against the wall, Hicox’s face was turned to her. “You were saying?” he said tightly. Bridget caught his eye then. Hicox’s eyes were dark, narrowed, pupils blown, and it was stupid, but she liked that. She liked the effect she could have on a man, and what honest woman would dare to claim otherwise? But this was different. There was the gun on the floor and the bullet hole in the bureau, there was the collection of dead men in a basement tavern, the man with the knife who was watching them and there was her hand, his throat, and the beat and skip of his pulse against her skin.
She licked her bottom lip and Hicox swallowed. She could feel it inside her fist.
“This wasn’t what you had in mind, Lieutenant?” she asked, her voice pitched low, her voice pitched the way the cameras and the audience liked her best. “When you asked me to show you,” and this she said with dramatic disdain, “this wasn’t what you had in mind?”
Hicox smirked. “Similar concept,” he drawled, or however best a man can drawl when a woman wraps five fingers around his throat, “though a bit more favorable to my person in execution.”
“What,” she sneered. “You thought I’d suck your cock? Get down on my knees for your pathetic prick?”
“One could hope.” He still grinned and still was oddly unconcerned. It was unnerving.
Later, if asked (although, who would ask?) she would never be able to come up with a reason for what happened next.
She kissed him.
She caught his bottom lip with her teeth and Hicox sucked in a breath. She kissed him. Her hand was still tight around his throat and when her teeth nicked his bottom lip, when she swiped her tongue along the same path, met by his own, she felt his Adam’s apple bob beneath her hand as he sighed.
He did not touch her, he did not touch her yet and it amused her. She smeared her mouth wet over his and made a small keening, falling sound. This was apparently what he had been waiting for. This should have made her angry - this was what he expected to happen. Their mouths and their tongues met and she made the small keening, falling sound and Hicox finally touched her.
He grabbed her by the hips and his grip was tight as he pushed his own off the wall to grind against her. She gasped and pulled back.
“Hmm, you can dole it out, but you can’t take it?” he murmured and quirked a brow. He kissed her this time, his mouth just as sloppy and bitter as her own had been. She kissed back, of course she kissed back.
He did not bother with her blouse or her jacket, the line of buttons and the layers underneath. He clutched at her over her clothes, his hands rough against her breasts and it wasn’t enough. The medals that weren’t his that adorned a jacket that was not his scratched at her hands as she pushed back against his shoulders. He did not yield; he pushed forward with the momentum earned off the wall and her ass hit the high footboard at the end of the bed.
“Turn around,” he grunted, and she did. She complied without thought. One hand was under her skirt and the other was flat against her back, pushing her down.
He had her bent over the footboard. The edge of it caught her right below the ribs and it hurt but she did not try to move. She braced her hands, white-knuckled, along the wood. Hicox did not remove her knickers; he pushed them to the side and she could feel the rumble of his laugh as well as hear it as he leaned forward - his front pressed along her back. He smeared two fingers along her and her breath caught in her chest. “Enjoying this, darling?” He laughed again and Bridget released a shaky breath as his thumb skimmed her clit.
“Don’t answer that - I have all the proof I need.” His two fingers slid into her roughly, easily, and she grunted. Her hips bucked back against him. She cursed under her breath in German.
Hicox laughed softly again. “You know,” he said, and there was the jerk of his wrist and she bit her lip in a bid for silence; she failed. “My opinion of you has been greatly altered over the course of this evening we have shared.” His tone was completely light and even as he said it. The only things that gave him away were the sharp intake of breath at the end of his sentence and his hard cock pressed against her ass. His fingers picked up pace and a light groan escaped her.
“Here, I had spent all this time imagining you quite proper, a real lady. But,” and he paused; his fingers twisted inside of her and she clenched around him, “apparently all it takes is some violence, idle threats and a bout of physical altercation to part your legs.” He pulled his fingers completely out of her before driving them back in; she moaned, loud and long, despite herself.
“I mean, look at you,” Hicox said, “you’re positively dripping.” His fingers were immobile inside her and between that and his words it was too much, she was too close, it was too much.
“Oh god,” she moaned. “Please, please, just fuck me, I don’t even care, just fuck me.”
He chuckled. “As the lady wishes…” There was laughter from across the room; she had forgotten Stiglitz and she gasped. Hicox’s fingers had left her and there was the sound of the buckle of his belt come undone. She turned her head and Stiglitz was plainly watching the both of them, clearly amused.
“Jesus Christ,” she snapped, “make him leave.” Hicox did not answer at first; one hand was pressed in the middle of her back and the cloth stuck to her sweaty skin. He gripped his cock with his other hand and teased her before sliding partway in. Bridget breathed heavily through her nose.
“Don’t be rude,” Hicox said. His voice was labored and under her skirt his hand was trembling against the bend of hip to thigh. “Old boy’s earned himself a bit of entertainment as well. Besides. I thought you liked it when they watch.” On that, he thrust all the way into her and she let out a choked shout. Her hips banged against the wood and the footboard rattled in its frame. Hicox was merciless in the pace he set, the snap of his hips against hers, and it didn’t take long, it didn’t take long for either of them.
(She came first, practically sobbing for him not to stop, and he came only a handful of thrusts after that. He growled a yes that was predatory enough to make her shiver beneath her coat).
And after:
The color was high on her cheeks and a strand of hair lay misplaced over Hicox’s forehead.
Stiglitz sharpened his knife.
“I still think it was a set-up,” Stiglitz said and he shrugged.
“Are you kidding me?” Bridget spluttered, indignant, and Hicox laughed.
What did it matter? They were all dead within twenty-four hours anyway.
And for the record: that was not her fault.
fin.
inglourious basterds. two guys and a girl walk out of a bar; this is what happens next. bridget von hammersmark/archie hicox. rated nc-17. 2098 words. AU.
notes: LOL you guys I don't even know. i feel like anything and everything i write these days needs to be preempted with a disclaimer of just how shameless i've become in the writing department. HI I AM SHAMELESS. also, in the late night hours, three glasses of vino in, i stumbled upon the Inglourious Basterds kink meme. and have i mentioned i have no shame? the prompt in question was: "Bridget von Hammersmark/Lt. Archie Hicox, gunplay, talking dirty. Bonus points if Stiglitz watches." did you really expect me to resist THAT? that said, this has ZERO literary/fic/shame-free merit, and um, i still can't believe i wrote this?
Let’s be clear on one point: it was never supposed to turn out like this.
Things went bad, things went real sour at La Louisiane.
The Nazis had been there and Wicki bit it and everyone else enclosed in those four walls under the ground that wasn’t Bridget, or Hicox, or Stiglitz bit it too.
After, there was only one obvious thing to do: lay low. They were each a mess: Bridget had lost her hat and her hair had come undone. They all had varying degrees and sources of blood spattered across them.
In the end, they stopped at an inn. “I know the owner,” Bridget had said, and Hicox and Stiglitz exchanged glances behind her back but followed her anyway.
All of which has brought us to this:
Stiglitz pressed the blade to Bridget’s throat and she inhaled sharply.
“Now, Stiglitz,” Hicox said, “that’s hardly necessary. I’d say that’s enough of that.” He waved a hand. Stiglitz glared but after a moment he dropped his knife and stalked over to the armchair and took a seat. Hicox turned to Bridget. “Hardly gentlemanly behavior, now is it?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but there was the cocking of a pistol and Hicox had that same opaque grin on his face but he aimed the gun at her temple.
“Bridget von Hammersmark,” he mused. “I must confess. As big a fan as I myself am of your, well, considerable talents, we find ourselves at a bit of a crossroads here. See, one of our own took it right between the eyes as a part of your little planned rendezvous - ”
“In a basement,” Stiglitz grunted.
“Yes, old chap’s correct, isn’t he? Your planned rendezvous just so happened to be in a basement, swarming with none other than the enemy. I’m sure an intelligent woman such as yourself can imagine how suspicious this looks on the outside.”
Bridget sighed and her shoulders slumped forward. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “You think I set you up, yeah?” she snapped. She glared. “That would have been suicide. If I wanted you and your men dead, there are easier ways to go about it.”
“Given this a bit of thought, have you, dear fraulein?” Hicox asked.
She huffed. “I am now. Get that fucking gun out of my face.”
He pressed the metal into her cheek and she fought a gasp. Hicox leaned in close and his hot breath was a sharp contrast against the cold of the gun. “Darling. You are hardly in the position to make such demands,” he said quietly.
“I’m not lying,” she said between gritted teeth. “I had no idea, no idea at all. They weren’t supposed to be there! I don’t - I don’t know - what do you want me to say?” She raised her chin at the last question and aimed for something like defiance. The tip of the gun slid along her cheekbone; her palms were damp and she clenched her fingers into a fist.
Hicox clucked his tongue but he did not back away, he did not lower his weapon.
“What do I want you to say…” he drawled. “I’ve personally always been a proponent of the ‘actions speak louder than words’ school of thought, I’ll have you know. Words, well, words can so easily cloud the truth. But actions? Once witnessed, those are a touch trickier to deny, wouldn’t you agree?”
Bridget swallowed. “What are you asking me exactly?”
He smiled. He smiled and it was all teeth, wolfish and dangerous, and for the first time since meeting him Bridget took him seriously.
“Why, I’m asking you to show me, of course.”
Perhaps if she was a more proper woman, if she was the sort of woman the world assumed her to be, she would have gasped. She should have been shocked; his words belied an undeniable sexual undertone and any respectable woman would have balked at the proposition.
Bridget's not really that sort of woman; this would not explain what happened next.
Bridget’s hands were still clenched into fists at her side.
She punched him in the face. It caught him just along the jaw and he stumbled back. She took the chance and knocked the gun from his hand; it hit the floor and fired, a hole pierced in the side of a bureau. Bridget caught Hicox around the throat and held him against the wall. Her hair was in her face and although surprised Hicox was still smiling and they both were out of breath.
Stiglitz’s boots were heavy on the floorboards and they creaked under his weight. Both Hicox and Bridget turned to appraise him. His posture was casual, his knife unsheathed and what looked like a smile and a question on his lips.
“I believe I still have this under control, Stiglitz,” Hicox said. His voice sounded almost wheezy and Bridget pressed down harder against his throat. Stiglitz shrugged and returned to the chair, kicked his feet up, and watched the two of them at the wall out of the corner of his eye.
Bridget’s face was still turned to Stiglitz and the knife and the chair; the back of his head against the wall, Hicox’s face was turned to her. “You were saying?” he said tightly. Bridget caught his eye then. Hicox’s eyes were dark, narrowed, pupils blown, and it was stupid, but she liked that. She liked the effect she could have on a man, and what honest woman would dare to claim otherwise? But this was different. There was the gun on the floor and the bullet hole in the bureau, there was the collection of dead men in a basement tavern, the man with the knife who was watching them and there was her hand, his throat, and the beat and skip of his pulse against her skin.
She licked her bottom lip and Hicox swallowed. She could feel it inside her fist.
“This wasn’t what you had in mind, Lieutenant?” she asked, her voice pitched low, her voice pitched the way the cameras and the audience liked her best. “When you asked me to show you,” and this she said with dramatic disdain, “this wasn’t what you had in mind?”
Hicox smirked. “Similar concept,” he drawled, or however best a man can drawl when a woman wraps five fingers around his throat, “though a bit more favorable to my person in execution.”
“What,” she sneered. “You thought I’d suck your cock? Get down on my knees for your pathetic prick?”
“One could hope.” He still grinned and still was oddly unconcerned. It was unnerving.
Later, if asked (although, who would ask?) she would never be able to come up with a reason for what happened next.
She kissed him.
She caught his bottom lip with her teeth and Hicox sucked in a breath. She kissed him. Her hand was still tight around his throat and when her teeth nicked his bottom lip, when she swiped her tongue along the same path, met by his own, she felt his Adam’s apple bob beneath her hand as he sighed.
He did not touch her, he did not touch her yet and it amused her. She smeared her mouth wet over his and made a small keening, falling sound. This was apparently what he had been waiting for. This should have made her angry - this was what he expected to happen. Their mouths and their tongues met and she made the small keening, falling sound and Hicox finally touched her.
He grabbed her by the hips and his grip was tight as he pushed his own off the wall to grind against her. She gasped and pulled back.
“Hmm, you can dole it out, but you can’t take it?” he murmured and quirked a brow. He kissed her this time, his mouth just as sloppy and bitter as her own had been. She kissed back, of course she kissed back.
He did not bother with her blouse or her jacket, the line of buttons and the layers underneath. He clutched at her over her clothes, his hands rough against her breasts and it wasn’t enough. The medals that weren’t his that adorned a jacket that was not his scratched at her hands as she pushed back against his shoulders. He did not yield; he pushed forward with the momentum earned off the wall and her ass hit the high footboard at the end of the bed.
“Turn around,” he grunted, and she did. She complied without thought. One hand was under her skirt and the other was flat against her back, pushing her down.
He had her bent over the footboard. The edge of it caught her right below the ribs and it hurt but she did not try to move. She braced her hands, white-knuckled, along the wood. Hicox did not remove her knickers; he pushed them to the side and she could feel the rumble of his laugh as well as hear it as he leaned forward - his front pressed along her back. He smeared two fingers along her and her breath caught in her chest. “Enjoying this, darling?” He laughed again and Bridget released a shaky breath as his thumb skimmed her clit.
“Don’t answer that - I have all the proof I need.” His two fingers slid into her roughly, easily, and she grunted. Her hips bucked back against him. She cursed under her breath in German.
Hicox laughed softly again. “You know,” he said, and there was the jerk of his wrist and she bit her lip in a bid for silence; she failed. “My opinion of you has been greatly altered over the course of this evening we have shared.” His tone was completely light and even as he said it. The only things that gave him away were the sharp intake of breath at the end of his sentence and his hard cock pressed against her ass. His fingers picked up pace and a light groan escaped her.
“Here, I had spent all this time imagining you quite proper, a real lady. But,” and he paused; his fingers twisted inside of her and she clenched around him, “apparently all it takes is some violence, idle threats and a bout of physical altercation to part your legs.” He pulled his fingers completely out of her before driving them back in; she moaned, loud and long, despite herself.
“I mean, look at you,” Hicox said, “you’re positively dripping.” His fingers were immobile inside her and between that and his words it was too much, she was too close, it was too much.
“Oh god,” she moaned. “Please, please, just fuck me, I don’t even care, just fuck me.”
He chuckled. “As the lady wishes…” There was laughter from across the room; she had forgotten Stiglitz and she gasped. Hicox’s fingers had left her and there was the sound of the buckle of his belt come undone. She turned her head and Stiglitz was plainly watching the both of them, clearly amused.
“Jesus Christ,” she snapped, “make him leave.” Hicox did not answer at first; one hand was pressed in the middle of her back and the cloth stuck to her sweaty skin. He gripped his cock with his other hand and teased her before sliding partway in. Bridget breathed heavily through her nose.
“Don’t be rude,” Hicox said. His voice was labored and under her skirt his hand was trembling against the bend of hip to thigh. “Old boy’s earned himself a bit of entertainment as well. Besides. I thought you liked it when they watch.” On that, he thrust all the way into her and she let out a choked shout. Her hips banged against the wood and the footboard rattled in its frame. Hicox was merciless in the pace he set, the snap of his hips against hers, and it didn’t take long, it didn’t take long for either of them.
(She came first, practically sobbing for him not to stop, and he came only a handful of thrusts after that. He growled a yes that was predatory enough to make her shiver beneath her coat).
And after:
The color was high on her cheeks and a strand of hair lay misplaced over Hicox’s forehead.
Stiglitz sharpened his knife.
“I still think it was a set-up,” Stiglitz said and he shrugged.
“Are you kidding me?” Bridget spluttered, indignant, and Hicox laughed.
What did it matter? They were all dead within twenty-four hours anyway.
And for the record: that was not her fault.
fin.