Basterds Fic: Spiderwebs (Shosanna/Hellstrom/Landa/Charlotte), NC-17
Title: SpiderwebsPairings: Hellstrom/Shosanna, Landa/Charlotte, Hellstrom/Landa, past Shosanna/Charlotte, implied possibility of Landa/Shosanna. Also contains mentions of Shosanna/Marcel, as well as Zoller, Goebbles and Francesca.
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2853
Warnings: Dubcon, bloodyplay, sexual violence, other sorts of violence, swearing, AU, a slightly experimental style, and mentions of spiders.
Summary: Shosanna is tangled up in a spiderweb, and she can't escape.
Disclaimer: Inglourious Basterds belongs to Quentin Tarantino, I'm just borrowing the characters for nefarious purposes.
Notes: I do not recommend listening to David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars entirely too much while suffering from insomnia, because it leads to experimental plot bunnies, featuring bizarre pairings, that refuse to leave you alone. This is the result of such a plot bunny.
Spiderwebs
A spider crawls up her arm. Eight tiny legs, scuttling across skin prickling with nervous sweat. Shosanna’s hand longs to move, brush it off, but she stays still as the sound of boots echo on the floorboards above.
---
1, 2, 3, 4. Her feet dance across the ground, hitting the blades of grass four beats at a time, blood and sweat mingling so much that she can’t see, just runs blindly across fields and fields of grass. She doesn’t see Charlotte’s slender hand slapping a smirking face, doesn’t hear the click of handcuffs and the pleading sobs of a father. She just runs and tries not to think about the things she is leaving behind.
---
She never thinks of it, never lets it cross her mind, until that bastard takes her hand in his and presses his lips against her skin.
Stop, rewind. Play.
The room around her dissolves, burning into ashes from which her memories rise like a phoenix. She does not see the Gestapo officer smirk behind her back, does not see the smug grin on the Colonel’s face. For that moment, Emmanuelle Mimieux does not exist; it is just Shosanna, running across those fields. The fear, the panic. The vomit that always threatens to rear its ugly head.
---
There is a lot that Shosanna doesn’t see. A whole world spins around her, unknown people meeting, maybe falling in love, maybe beating each other into a bloody pulp. People giving birth, people dying. People winning awards and medals for their services to humanity. People rotting away in jail cells.
That is, until someone finds a use for them.
---
There is a girl that she used to know, a girl that she has not thought about in years (unless it was in the wake of dreams that she would rather forget). They used to know each other well, whispered exchanges they would never tell anyone else, do things together that they never really understood, that they just knew felt something close to right. She knew now that they would never have been able to share the world that they had built for themselves, where innocent kisses that perhaps went longer than they should, where hands touched in places that led to feelings neither really understood, where all of this would be of no consequence at all.
---
The invasion begins. Leather boots and expensive high heels walk across her floor, the sound of heavy footsteps echoing in the lobby, and she realises that this place will never be hers again. There are six of them. Goebbles and his French whore. Zoller and his love struck gaze. The Gestapo officer. Landa. And some girl she has never met before, clinging to his arm. She tries to look at her face, but it is hidden, the ridiculously over-sized hat masking her features in shadow.
She becomes their guide, directs them to the cinema hall. The unknown girl looks up as she passes the threshold, and pauses. The word forms on her lips, but no sound escapes. It is nothing, but it’s more than enough. “Mademoiselle Mimieux, you seem to have something on your back.” Landa circles, his eyes never leaving her until he is behind her back, his hand brushing against her shoulder blade for just a fraction too long.
“It was just a spider, nothing to worry about.”
The smile on his face says otherwise.
---
Her face is directed at the screen, but her eyes travel to two rows in front of her. To the Gestapo officer, to Landa. To Charlotte, who is too stupid to keep her eyes on the screen.
Landa and the Gestapo officer smoke, little beads of orange light glowing in the dark. The idea creeps into her mind, spreading through the crevices and into the darkest corners until it is all that she can see. It wouldn’t take much. She has the ammunition; all it needed was a flame.
---
“Because you love me. And I love you. And you’re the only person on this earth I can trust.”
Marcel says no.
She tries to act as if she isn’t hurt.
---
The number of glasses that have passed through her hands escape her. She can feel the wine on her teeth, but doesn’t let herself contemplate that it might be time to leave. A hand on her shoulder and before she can turn around she can see his face, his smile baring all of his teeth. “Fancy seeing you here, Mademoiselle.” Eyelids obscure her vision for a moment, and she struggles to lift them again.
“Why?”
“It’s just, behaviour like this...” He pauses, tsks at her. The s is dragged for too long, making the t and the k seem unimportant. Almost like a snake. “It’s hardly befitting for the latest conquest of Private Zoller to be seen in such a condition.” A smirk plays at the corner of his when the “such” passes through still-bared teeth. She straightens her back.
“What about you? I’m surprised Zoller let you off of your leash for long enough to go to a bar.” A slight slip of the smirk, and she cannot help but smile. Subtlety is far beyond her at this point.
“You know, you could get into a little trouble for addressing him as just Zoller. Did you not know? He’s a national hero now.” He doesn’t need to spit for her to hear the disgust dripping from the words national hero.
“I could get in to trouble for a lot of things.”
Hellstrom’s grin returns, and it is only then that she regrets drinking so much wine.
“You’re almost making this too easy…” A pause. She exhales a breath. “…Mademoiselle.”
---
At least it doesn‘t matter that Marcel refused anymore.
---
Her life is a movie reel, playing in a projector. It just became stuck. The projectionist hits the projector, and when it refuses to budge, he opens it up, tries to determine the problem. Quick thinking and skilled hands fix the reel as much as they can, but it does skip a few scenes. Still, can’t be helped.
---
The rough stone of the wall is the only thing that is stable as the world spins out of control. A streetlamp is shining behind a man who is standing near the corner of the road, making him little more than a silhouette. A silhouette of a leather trench coat, thick boots and billowing cigarette smoke. She closes her eyes, not quite believing that she was idiotic enough to believe that he would just leave her be.
“What do you want from me, Major?”
“Allow me to escort you home, Mademoiselle. You never know what could happen. Anyone could just walk up and take advantage.”
She can’t see his face, but she knows that grin is on his face, that grin which shows far too much teeth. Almost like a shark.
Dieter Hellstrom must be what happens when a shark and snake breed.
He walks towards her, grabs her arm. Her gaze travels from the long fingers gripping her just a little too tightly and up, seeing nothing but black until her eyes land on the red armband. The wine never happened, Marcel never happened. She is back in the cinema, watching Lucky Kids, and like the kid in your class who was always getting in trouble for setting things on fire; she just wants to see the world around her go up in flames.
She looks up into his eyes, a wry smile on her face. “Such a gentleman.”
---
A light switch is flicked on, off, then on again. She had realised that they weren’t walking in the direction of the cinema soon enough after they had left the bar, but she didn’t say a word. It is not like she is going to refuse. She wasn’t going to die until she could drag a cinema full of the Hun swine to hell with her. Her eyes adjust to the light, and she looks around the small apartment, arching an eyebrow. An old piano that had been played to an inch within its life. Open books, scattered on the floor. Empty coffee cups, filled ashtrays.
He does not apologise for the mess. She never expected him to.
He tosses his coat over the only empty chair and asks if she’d like a drink, not waiting for a reply as he pours red wine into two glasses.
He leaves her glass on the counter.
She walks over, picks it up. She looks at the window as she takes her first sip, watches as her lips become stained once more, before her reflection is hidden from view. She puts the glass back down.
A hand on the counter behind her, the other gripping her arm once more. Fingertips digging through material, almost, but not quite, caressing. The grip relaxes and his hand drifts up the side of her arm, brushing, almost scuttling, against her clothing. They meet exposed skin, move up her throat, lingering on an exposed mole before coming to a halt beneath her chin as they tilt her head up. The sight of that fucking grin meets her. He tastes her, lips brushing against hers for a split second. She can still feel the smirk.
She is pressed further against the bench, the hand at her throat circling, tightening, as his lips meet hers once more. He starts at the corner, light touches along her lower lip, before opening his mouth and sucking her lower lip in between his. Her mouth is forced open, but there is no tongue. Just his lips, almost caressing her own. This almost tenderness makes her want to bite him, teeth digging deep enough into flesh that she can taste blood. That is not an option though, so she does the one thing she can do. Lifts a hand to the back of his neck, pulling his face closer. Her teeth scrape against his lower lip, her tongue massages against his. She feels the hand at her throat let go, move down the side of her body to grip as he pushes her up against the bench. She digs nails into his hairline as he bruises her thighs. She bites as he gasps. He pulls away. She follows.
---
A stray beam of moonlight amidst the darkness, breaking through the small gap between two curtains. He turns around, grabs her hips. Fingers slip under her shirt, trace the curve of her stomach, tug on her waistband. A button becomes undone and she is being pulled towards the bed. His gaze lingers on her hips, but it does not feel right. A hand raises, grips his hair. She cannot help but wince at the feel of thick pomade against her fingers as she pulls his head back. A trace of amusement, a hint of something undefinable. Fingernails dig into scalp and she pulls his mouth against hers. There is no finesse, just the desire to taste, the need to cause pain.
His legs hit the bed and she pushes against him, his back hitting tangled sheets and a hard mattress as her body falls on top of his. Her hand leaves his hair, scrapes down the side of his face, along the stretch of his neck, until she has reached his shoulder. She pins him down, lifts her body from his for a moment to lower her loosened trouser. He ignores her slackened grip, sits up and a hand cups her breast, curving around the soft globe before squeezing hard.
Her head lowers until her mouth is hovering above his shoulder. She bites down as her hands move to his waistband, loosening a belt, tugging at zippers. He moves his hips upwards, rubbing against her, and he lowers his trousers. An experimental thrust downwards against him, and as his head falls back, her teeth move from his shoulder to his exposed neck, scraping along flesh.
---
In the darkness behind them, there is a muffled sob, followed by an annoyed groan.
---
Too much light floods the room. She turns her head towards the source.
Colonel Landa, sitting an arm chair. His hand rests on the shoulder of girl, sitting on the floor at his feet.
He grips Charlotte’s shoulder as a tear runs down her cheek, and she winces. She turns back, sees Hellstrom, a smirk on his face and his eyes lingering in Landa’s direction.
“Please, don’t let us interrupt. You will have to forgive Charlotte here. Excessive emotion is such an unattractive quality in a person.” His hand leaves Charlotte’s shoulder, and he stands. “She does seem rather taken with you though, Mademoiselle Dreyfus.” A smile as he moves closer, a hint of victory playing along his features. “It wasn’t until I had her whipped that she agreed to assist in this little… venture.”
He comes to a stop at the side of the bed. Hellstrom’s hands grab her hips, and if she was capable of moving, she wouldn’t be able to.
Landa’s hand rests against Hellstrom’s shoulder, moves up against his neck. A finger tilts Hellstrom’s face up, and Landa leans over him. A kiss on the forehead, a kiss that moves down as Hellstrom arches his neck further, allowing Landa access to his mouth. Lips move against each other, open. One tongue darting out, entwining itself with the other. The hands on her hips grip tighter as Hellstrom seeks out more. Harder. Deeper.
Then nothing.
---
Landa pulls away, straightens up, but his hand remains at Hellstrom’s throat.
“Please. Continue.”
---
Her mind floods with thoughts of the things she cannot do. Run away. Find a gun and shoots the bastards right between the eyeballs.
Neither of these actions will help. She straightens her shoulders, looks down at Hellstrom. Bats Landa’s hand away and grips Hellstrom’s jawbone, forcing those eyes to look at her instead of Landa.
There is only one option left to her if she wants to survive this.
---
Nails dig into skin, deep, but not quite deep enough to draw blood like she wants to. He pulls her face against his and bites down on his lower lip, loosening her grip on his neck and moving that hand to his shoulder, forcing him backwards. The fingers on her hip grip tighter and lift her up. Her mouth moves to his ear, whispers. “Just whose bitch are you?”
She can feel his smirk move against the side of her neck. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
---
His hand squeezes between them, his fingers pinch, and she is glad that she still has her shirt on. He moves his palm against her nipple, coarse fabric rubbing under his hand. The other one is around her, sliding against her naked thigh, too warm against skin that is prickling with goose bumps. Long fingers tracing shapes onto naked skin.
One of her hands grips his throat, the other rests on the pillow beside his head. Her body moves on top of him, hips moving up and down, and he meets her thrust for thrust.
---
She turns her head for a moment, for little more than a split second, but it’s enough for Landa to notice. It’s enough for him to squeeze his fingers harder against Charlotte’s head as it moves up and down his cock.
It’s enough for him to smirk as his gaze meets hers.
---
The hand on her thigh moves, slips against skin. His fingers move beneath her, slip between her folders, searching for, and then pressing against her clit. He rubs gently so that it is nowhere near enough, and she bites once more into his black coat to hide a disgruntled moan.
She looks up, sees Hellstrom watching her.
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you right back.”
She kisses him, tears at his lip, and when she can taste blood, she cannot help but smile.
His movements lose their finesse, and she lifts her chest away from his. Her hands moves up his face, two fingers playing in traces of blood. He parts his lips, sucks her fingers into his mouth. One last look at Landa, and at Charlotte sucking him off. She turns back and smirks as she thrusts her fingers deeper.
He comes while gagging on her fingers.
She comes a moment later.
---
She doesn’t spare a thought for Charlotte. She was a different person before this, they both were. There is no hate, no disappointment. Maybe some nostalgia, but that’s about it.
---
She ignores Landa’s wry remarks, the note of self-satisfaction in his voice as he congratulates Hellstrom on a job well done and makes promises of a reward.
She does not think about what he might do next.
---
She doesn’t think about Hellstrom.
She could almost love him, if she thought about it. In some ways, they were perfect each other, in some twisted perversion of the word perfect.
Nothing really seemed to matter to either of them. Not anymore.
---
But she does not think about that.
---
A spider crawls up her arm.
She brushes it away.