Fanfic
Title Blood All Over Your Hands
Fandom Inglourious Basterds
Pairing Lt. Aldo Raine/Sgt. Donny Donowitz/Bridget von Hammersmark
Rating X
Word Count approx. 4200
Summary An AU version of Aldo's interrogation of Bridget von Hammersmark. There was a metaphor; I made it not a metaphor. For this IB Kink Meme prompt.
Warnings This is a rape-fic. Seriously. I am not fucking around here. Also: torture, gunplay, bloodplay, double penetration.
Notes Oh my god, y'all, I am so sorry. Thanks to eternalhost for yelling at me to finish this.
Bridget knows where this is going the minute she feels Donowitz's gun pressed suggestively against the back of her thigh. She's just lucid enough, through the pain of the gunshot wound in her calf, to realize there isn't any reason for him to do that. Her back, her stomach, her head; all would make more sense than her thigh. Except, she realizes, that she's probably the first woman he's been in close contact with in months. Even with her hair sweat-stuck to her face, and her body covered in blood (some hers, some... not), she must look...
(And she has heard about the Bear Jew. Perhaps it is not in spite of those things, but because of them.)
Still, she stays calm. (As calm as she can, given the circumstances.) She isn't sure what to make of Aldo Raine, but the other two, the little one and the dark one, they don't seem half as mad as Donowitz, and she begins to plan how to use this to her favor.
There's the sharp sting of a needle in her calf, just below the hole in her flesh, and she's surprised she can feel a pain so slight there, that it's not overwhelmed by the fire radiating out from the bullet buried in the meat of her leg. Bridget keeps herself pushed up on her elbows, looking down at the veterinarian strong-armed into helping them, and that helps keep her calm too. Keeps her calm in spite of the movement of Donowitz's gun along her thigh. A line maybe five inches long, back and forth, and that side of her skirt is starting to pull up past her knee. His other hand is on her forearm, just below her elbow, keeping it pinned to the metal table. Like she could run away.
The twang to Aldo's voice makes him difficult to understand, though Bridget knows after a few moments she'll be more used to his brand of English. She's adjusted to Donowitz's well enough, and his English is nothing like the kind she learned years ago either. Aldo pulls the doctor (God, she's thinking of the veterinarian as a doctor now, which is not good) away from her, plucking the syringe from his shaking fingers. "Utivich, Ulmer, take the good doctor out front, and figure out what we need to get for our little lady here."
The dark one -- Ulmer? -- shoots a skeptical look at the little one, who doesn't seem to have any reaction to the order, just gets a hand on the veterinarian's elbow and leads him back out of his own operating room. One of the dogs in the furthest back room keens. Bridget agrees.
"Now," Aldo begins, and swings the door of the operating room shut behind his men. "You 'n' me need to have a little chat 'bout how I just lost three of my men back there, Miz von Hammersmark."
"I'm aware that the situation must look..." she stops, both to take a needed deep breath, and to search for the right word. "Odd," she says, finally.
As Aldo steps in closer, nearer her wounded leg, the muzzle of Donowitz's gun finally works its way under the hem of her skirt, and the feeling of warm metal against her thigh is not a shock, exactly. But even though it was expected, it still gives her a bit of a jolt. Not quite fear, but something like it.
She's breathing heavily to keep on top of the pain, and when she glances out the corner of her eye at him, Donowitz is staring unsubtly at the rise and fall of her chest beneath her blood-stained blouse. Bridget finds herself thinking that in any other situation, that would be comical, and then clings to that thought.
"See," Aldo begins, leaning in. He gets an arm on the table next to her leg. "In English, we got a word for that kinda 'odd.' It's called 'suspicious.'"
Aldo has a neat little mustache, and even though he's being sober and serious, there's an almost playful glint in his eye. There's a scar, thick and ugly, looped around his neck, just under the base of his jaw. Nothing about him is reassuring, from his heavy, dirty hands, to his confusing accent.
"If you will give me a moment," Bridget says, and she can hear the clipped tones in her own voice, her jaw tightening in response to the pain and her growing fear. It's not helping her cause in the slightest. "I will explain." She is supposed to be an actress, so of course she should be able to act the truth.
"Let's start with why you thought it'd be a good idea to have a fight in a basement."
Donowitz shifts and it's not the muzzle of the gun against Bridget's flesh anymore, but the backs of his fingers, his knuckles, rubbing skin on skin high on her thigh. There's a slight hitch in his breathing, and she glances out the corner of her eye at him. Big, brown eyes, pupils blown, and he's disgusting.
She looks back over at Aldo, and says, "We were only meant to be meeting there. There was not supposed to be a fight at all."
"Yeah," Aldo says, stretching out the word. "See, for some reason, I ain't buyin' it." Aldo is looking at Donowitz, who is looking back at Aldo, and Bridget gets the feeling they're having some sort of conversation she can't hear. Whatever it is, it's definitely not good.
For a brief moment, Donowitz's hand pulls back from Bridget's leg, and she braces herself for what she's certain is coming -- a slap, a punch, a grip as harsh as the one bruising her forearm. But when his hand comes back, it's flat-palmed, up along her thigh, pushing her right leg up, forward. Up obscenely high, along the curve where thigh meets ass, and
No. No, no, no, no, no, Bridget thinks, and where she had been riding atop the impending panic, this is the thing that's pushing her down, beneath the surface of it. She thrashes, and tries to squirm away from his touch, but the pain in her other leg and Aldo's presence prevents her from going anywhere. Donowitz's hand is still sliding up, and his palm is hot over the fabric of her underwear. His other hand is still clamped tight around her forearm, and that's starting to hurt too.
"This is all," she grits out, forcing herself up past the panic, "a big misunderstanding." She can do this; she can talk her way out of this. She wasn't double-crossing them.
But then Donowitz's fingers are pulling down her panties, and there's the sound of ripping fabric, and it all rushes back in. Think, Bridget. Think. You're not stupid. What does he need to hear?
"I sure as hell ain't 'misunderstandin' that place bein' absolutely swarmin' with German soldiers," Aldo says. The look on his face is... expectant.
She hears Donowitz spitting and barely has time to register what's happening before two of his fingers are at the cleft of her ass, sliding down, and pushing, trying to push in. He lets go of her arm (Bridget doesn't think about why), and one of his fingers pushes its way inside her ass and she's never, and it hurts.
"Just stop," she says, and it comes out more pathetic than she'd intended. It's not a command but almost a whine. She flings her arm out behind her, and the force of her arm connects hard with Donowitz's shoulder, but it's as though he doesn't even feel it. Digs her fingernails into the shoulder of his jacket, and of course he would be wearing leather.
Donowitz leans in, and keeps breathing against her ear. He says in his ridiculous accent, "So I heard all about what sorta weird shit you kraut bitches like. Don't worry; you're gonna fucking love this." And then the second finger pushes in beside the first, and a sob soars out of Bridget's throat.
Aldo's still looking at her expectantly while he rolls up his sleeves and no, no, please not--
She doesn't realize she's saying it aloud until Donowitz twists his fingers inside her, makes that same involuntary sob come out her mouth, and asks, "Not what?"
Bridget fights for clarity. Her leg hurts, and her ass hurts, and she is not the sort of woman who has ever enjoyed pain, but she reminds herself that she is alive in spite of everything.
This situation is not outside the realm of her knowledge, and she forces herself to stop thinking about her body. Cold, hard facts: she has not had sex with someone she actually wanted to in a very long time. She has not enjoyed sex in a very long time. It is a key, a weapon, giving her access to information, to distract those men from how much information she has. Some of them were hideous, and most of them were disgusting, and all of them were horrendous people. So this is not very different from anything she has done before, she tells herself. The only difference is that she had at least the appearance of a choice there, and that this hurts.
"It was a tragic coincidence," Bridget forces out, and her voice already sounds raw.
And that's when Aldo gets his face in closer to hers and pushes a finger into the gunshot wound in her leg. Bridget clenches her jaw tight and tries to twist away from the pain, but there's nowhere to go. Her entire left leg feels like it's on fire, sharp and hot and metallic. There's blood everywhere now, all over Aldo's filthy hands. Donowitz is panting in her ear, and when he pulls his fingers out of her, she can't even be relieved because her leg hurts so much.
She tries to bring her fist up to her mouth, to bite on her knuckles to focus the pain elsewhere, but Aldo catches her fist with his free hand and pins it down against the metal table.
The table skids a little on the floor, and there's a solid warmth at her back, and this time when she protests, it takes her a moment to realize she's fallen out of English and back into German. Donowitz is up here with her, and his hand is on her hip, and pulling her back, and Bridget can't believe she thought his fingers were so bad. He thrusts his cock once, twice against her ass before he lines himself up and forces himself into her.
Bridget beats her free hand hard against the side of Donowitz's thigh as he thrusts, deeper with each movement of his hips.
"I don't reckon this is very comfortable," Aldo says, almost conversationally, as he moves his finger in her wound. "An' I can't promise ya that you got a whole lotta blue skies ahead a ya, but I'd sure appreciate it if you'd stop actin' like we was born yesterday."
He punctuates each sentence with another jab of his finger against the bullet in her leg, pushing the metal hard against muscle tissue and flesh. Bridget won't scream. She won't. She won't give these crazy bastards the satisfaction.
Instead she bites down hard on her bottom lip and chokes back the sobs trying to bubble up. She can still do this. She can. She can get herself out of this. Somehow.
Takes a deep breath through her nose, and "You saw him," Bridget says, through the pain, and Aldo's face is so focused, barely even looking at her, just past her, that she thinks for a second that maybe she's spoken in German again by accident. "The German soldiers," she tries again. "They were only there because--" Donowitz thrusts into her hard and another sob falls out her mouth, interrupting her sentence.
"They were there 'cause it was a set-up," Aldo says, a terrifying certainty in his voice.
"No," Bridget says. It wasn't.
The Basterds don't take prisoners, she reminds herself. She's heard some of the stories. They kill you or they brand you. She doesn't expect they make any sort of chivalrous exception for women.
Donowitz's hand is rough on her thigh, pulling it up, back over his own as he fucks deeper into her. The pace itself is slow, each thrust hard, deliberate, brutal. Each slide of his cock inside her is horrible, intrusive; her body seemingly refuses to get used to it. He can't possibly last that long, Bridget tells herself.
"They were there because of -- Wilhelm. You talked to him," she tries again.
"You think 'cause you killed a Nazi foot soldier we're gonna believe you?" Donowitz asks, breath warm and stale on the side of her face. "Everybody knows you gotta break a few eggs," he adds, nonsensically.
His hand slides up along her thigh, pulling her skirt with it, higher and higher, his fingers callused and rough as he holds her thighs spread.
Aldo's finger lightens a bit on the bullet wound, and Bridget takes the moment to catch her breath. Unfortunately, Aldo is looking at where Donowitz is pushing her skirt up, where he's holding her spread wide, where the scrap of her underwear is lying limp around her left thigh.
I am not my body. I am not my body. Bridget tells herself. She can ride this out, and then explain herself, and she will be alive, and she will tell them about the changes in the plan, and everything will be fine.
But first, apparently, Aldo has to bring his free hand to his fly, unbuttoning quickly while he watches Donowitz fuck her. His expression grows sharper as he watches, and it's almost like before he hadn't even been paying attention to what Donowitz was doing. Even though he must have been.
"Jesus H. Christ, Donny," Aldo says. "That's a mighty fine idea you've got there."
He turns his attention from Donowitz to Bridget, and his fingers rub a little against the back of her hand. "Now ya do seem like the kinda adventuresome city type who's had two fellas rutting on her at once before," he says in that conversational way of his as he gets a knee up on the table. The table was not built to handle three people at once, but that doesn't stop Aldo from getting himself halfway up on the table, pressing her tighter back against Donowitz to make room. "Prob'ly ain't never had nobody like Donny here though, have ya?" Aldo asks conspiratorially.
It makes Donowitz let out this sort of breathy groan and his hand smooths along the inside of her thigh in a parody of a caress. Aldo moves in closer, and she can feel his cock hard against her thigh, and Bridget knows it's stupid, knows she shouldn't, but she spits in Aldo's face. She aims for the eye, but hits him more on the cheek.
In response, Aldo shoves his fingers, slick with her blood, into her mouth. She bites down hard, but Aldo doesn't seem to care, and focuses instead on pushing his cock into her cunt in one smooth movement, trapping her between them even further. Donowitz snuffles against the back of her neck and the pace of his thrusts speeds up. His fingers are digging into the meat of her thigh, bitten fingernails pricking at the skin, as he holds her in place.
"Didn't tell me she was wetter'n the goddamn Norris Lake," Aldo says as his own hips start working. Each of his thrusts jars her further against Donowitz, and she couldn't scream even if she wanted to (which she doesn't, she doesn't) thanks to Aldo's three fingers in her mouth, holding her tongue down. Bridget bites down around them, and finds herself almost grateful for their presence, even if they're effectively cutting off her ability to make them stop. At this point, she's not sure such a thing is possible anyway.
Donowitz's thrusts go ragged not long after Aldo joins in, and it's a good thing Bridget can't say anything right now because if she could, she would probably say something horrible. She can feel the play of their cocks inside her, feel how close they are, what little of her separates them, and at this point, she has no qualms in hitting below the belt. While she knows it wouldn't be smart, Bridget is almost sad she doesn't have the option open to her.
Aldo says something Bridget can't even make out, and whatever it was, Donowitz's next four thrusts are short, rapid-fire, and then he groans, low and loud, and then -- wet. He pulls out halfway through, and she feels more wetness across her ass. It doesn't stop the tightness of his hand on her thigh, and Donowitz's other hand catches in her hair and pulls, and then he sets his mouth just below her ear.
"Shit," Donowitz says, low and intimate. "It's a damn shame we're gonna have to kill you, baby. Never met a broad who'd let me fuck her ass before."
And then Aldo's rolling her onto her back and he's got his hand on her thigh, hiking her right leg up to his hip. "Now," Aldo says, almost conversationally, "You gonna admit you're double-crossin' us, or are we gon' have to keep havin' this conversation?"
Bridget isn't sure she's able to effectively convey maybe if you got your fucking hand out of my mouth with her eyes alone, but she gives it a valiant attempt.
The change in position alters the angle, and his cock hits her deeper, and Bridget tries to shift her hips a little, just to adjust. Donowitz, who is only half on the table now, who moved when she wasn't paying attention (and god, she's more than a little woozy), snickers at that. Says something about her wanting more of Aldo's cock.
Bridget's hand darts out and cracks hard across Donowitz's face, which only makes him laugh harder.
Aldo pulls his hand back from out of her mouth to brace his other arm against the metal of the table. Bridget didn't think he could fuck her any more roughly, but it turns out that she was very, very wrong. She feels crushed by Aldo's weight (he's only halfway holding himself up now), and she hurts so much everywhere that his cock's brutal assault on her cervix every third thrust doesn't make her whole body twinge nearly as much as it usually would.
It's almost funny how Bridget can't even work up the energy to fight back at this point. Maybe it's some of whatever the doctor injected into her leg starting to kick in. Or maybe she's just dizzy from all the pain. Either way, she finds herself lying mostly still, eyes closed as though that will help. Aldo keeps talking, but the combination of the fuzzy feeling in Bridget's head and his ridiculous accent makes it difficult for her to keep too much track of the thread of his chatter. What she can make out is about half commentary on her -- her body, her Germanness, her supposed betrayal -- and half some rambling story about the past she's fairly sure doesn't make any sense to native English speakers either. Sometimes her hips seem to shift with Aldo's thrusts of their own accord, which makes Aldo's pace speed up a little bit for a few moments every time. And every time Donowitz has to laugh at her about it.
At one point, Bridget blinks her eyes open, and Donowitz (pants refastened, standing where he was before this all started) has his gun back, but doesn't have it fully aimed on her yet.
Bridget looks up at the lights on the ceiling and thinks about ways to get Donowitz's gun off him before he's realized he needs to be paying attention. But Bridget is not trained for that sort of thing. She can shoot and she can lie, but she suspects she wouldn't be very good at forcibly disarming someone. And she's pretty sure she couldn't pull it off right now anyway.
She moves again, trying to readjust her position enough that the pain in her calf doesn't hurt quite so much, and apparently that was what was needed to set Aldo off. One of his hands comes off the table, down to her bad leg, pulling it up along his own. The pained noise escapes her before she realizes it, and then Aldo is coming with a low groan, his fingers slipping through the blood on Bridget's leg, and her leg falling back out of his grip to the table.
The movement of Donowitz out the corner of her eye is what snaps Bridget back into focus. Aldo's still on top of her, his softening cock still inside her, and Donowitz has his gun pointed straight at her head.
Think. Think. Think.
What comes out is the thing that seems most likely to at least make them stop to hear the story, even if they think it's a lie. "Der Führer will be attending the premiere," Bridget says in a rush.
There's a brief moment of pause before Donowitz asks, "What?"
"The premiere is moving to a new location, and Hitler will be there," Bridget says, then adds, "you idiots."
Donowitz doesn't shoot her for the insult, but he does say, "We can't trust her."
Aldo, for his part, looks down at her, an expression of almost lazy curiosity on his face. And after a moment he slowly says, "Tell us why we should trust you ain't leading us into another trap, Miz von Hammersmark?"
Bridget takes a deep breath and collects as much of what remains of her dignity around her. "As I was trying to tell you earlier," she begins. "The German soldiers were only there because Wilhelm's wife had a baby. That was purely coincidence. If it was coincidence that they were there, it couldn't have been a set-up." She forces herself not to tear her eyes from his when she says it. Thinks, for God's sake, believe me.
For a long moment, Aldo considers, his mouth scrunched up on one side. Bridget has to look away from him then. The entire time, Donowitz rubs the muzzle of the gun slowly against her hair where it's matted at her temple.
Bridget spends the wait fantasizing about pulling that gun from Donowitz's hands. She'd shoot Donowitz in the testicles (Hicox may have been a little dim, but that was a good idea), shoot Aldo in the stomach, and watch them bleed out for as long as she could stand before she shot them both, point-blank through the forehead. She would hunt down the little one and the dark one and make them watch her kill them, for letting this happen instead of doing something.
She is in the middle of trying to decide what to do to the little one, more complicit than Ulmer in her mind, when Aldo pushes himself off of her. He kneels between her spread legs, and pulls his pants back up, tucking himself back in. When his pants are fully buttoned again, Aldo looks down, tries to force eye contact, but she can't. She can't do it. And finally, finally, he says something. "I am mighty sorry about our little mix-up here, Miss."
Which is just about the understatement of the century.
Donowitz, for his part, squawks, "What?"
And Aldo says "We're gonna trust her. You can lower your weapon."
It takes a long time for Donowitz to almost grudgingly pull the gun back from her head in response to Aldo's statement (order). During the wait, Aldo reaches forward, and Bridget twitches and tries to pull away, but the wound in her leg is screaming and her ass is definitely bleeding and her thighs feel more like noodles than thighs. So she can't get out of the way of Aldo's big hand pulling the fabric of her skirt back down to cover her thighs. The sudden shift in his demeanor is terrible, just piling on on top of everything else, and there's a moment where Bridget is pretty sure she's going to vomit.
When Donowitz finally gets his gun put away, Aldo asks, almost painfully sincerely, "So. Can you still get us into this shindig?"
Bridget isn't sure what to point out first: that they're asking her to work with them after all that, that she's probably going to wind up losing her leg, or that she's pretty sure none of the remaining Basterds speak any language other than English and couldn't be sneaked into the premiere anyway. But the horrible thing is that she knows if she has a chance to make this plan work, even if it means she has to work with Aldo and Donowitz (a thought that makes her want to cry, or maybe laugh hysterically, but she won't), she will probably take it.
Fandom Inglourious Basterds
Pairing Lt. Aldo Raine/Sgt. Donny Donowitz/Bridget von Hammersmark
Rating X
Word Count approx. 4200
Summary An AU version of Aldo's interrogation of Bridget von Hammersmark. There was a metaphor; I made it not a metaphor. For this IB Kink Meme prompt.
Warnings This is a rape-fic. Seriously. I am not fucking around here. Also: torture, gunplay, bloodplay, double penetration.
Notes Oh my god, y'all, I am so sorry. Thanks to eternalhost for yelling at me to finish this.
Bridget knows where this is going the minute she feels Donowitz's gun pressed suggestively against the back of her thigh. She's just lucid enough, through the pain of the gunshot wound in her calf, to realize there isn't any reason for him to do that. Her back, her stomach, her head; all would make more sense than her thigh. Except, she realizes, that she's probably the first woman he's been in close contact with in months. Even with her hair sweat-stuck to her face, and her body covered in blood (some hers, some... not), she must look...
(And she has heard about the Bear Jew. Perhaps it is not in spite of those things, but because of them.)
Still, she stays calm. (As calm as she can, given the circumstances.) She isn't sure what to make of Aldo Raine, but the other two, the little one and the dark one, they don't seem half as mad as Donowitz, and she begins to plan how to use this to her favor.
There's the sharp sting of a needle in her calf, just below the hole in her flesh, and she's surprised she can feel a pain so slight there, that it's not overwhelmed by the fire radiating out from the bullet buried in the meat of her leg. Bridget keeps herself pushed up on her elbows, looking down at the veterinarian strong-armed into helping them, and that helps keep her calm too. Keeps her calm in spite of the movement of Donowitz's gun along her thigh. A line maybe five inches long, back and forth, and that side of her skirt is starting to pull up past her knee. His other hand is on her forearm, just below her elbow, keeping it pinned to the metal table. Like she could run away.
The twang to Aldo's voice makes him difficult to understand, though Bridget knows after a few moments she'll be more used to his brand of English. She's adjusted to Donowitz's well enough, and his English is nothing like the kind she learned years ago either. Aldo pulls the doctor (God, she's thinking of the veterinarian as a doctor now, which is not good) away from her, plucking the syringe from his shaking fingers. "Utivich, Ulmer, take the good doctor out front, and figure out what we need to get for our little lady here."
The dark one -- Ulmer? -- shoots a skeptical look at the little one, who doesn't seem to have any reaction to the order, just gets a hand on the veterinarian's elbow and leads him back out of his own operating room. One of the dogs in the furthest back room keens. Bridget agrees.
"Now," Aldo begins, and swings the door of the operating room shut behind his men. "You 'n' me need to have a little chat 'bout how I just lost three of my men back there, Miz von Hammersmark."
"I'm aware that the situation must look..." she stops, both to take a needed deep breath, and to search for the right word. "Odd," she says, finally.
As Aldo steps in closer, nearer her wounded leg, the muzzle of Donowitz's gun finally works its way under the hem of her skirt, and the feeling of warm metal against her thigh is not a shock, exactly. But even though it was expected, it still gives her a bit of a jolt. Not quite fear, but something like it.
She's breathing heavily to keep on top of the pain, and when she glances out the corner of her eye at him, Donowitz is staring unsubtly at the rise and fall of her chest beneath her blood-stained blouse. Bridget finds herself thinking that in any other situation, that would be comical, and then clings to that thought.
"See," Aldo begins, leaning in. He gets an arm on the table next to her leg. "In English, we got a word for that kinda 'odd.' It's called 'suspicious.'"
Aldo has a neat little mustache, and even though he's being sober and serious, there's an almost playful glint in his eye. There's a scar, thick and ugly, looped around his neck, just under the base of his jaw. Nothing about him is reassuring, from his heavy, dirty hands, to his confusing accent.
"If you will give me a moment," Bridget says, and she can hear the clipped tones in her own voice, her jaw tightening in response to the pain and her growing fear. It's not helping her cause in the slightest. "I will explain." She is supposed to be an actress, so of course she should be able to act the truth.
"Let's start with why you thought it'd be a good idea to have a fight in a basement."
Donowitz shifts and it's not the muzzle of the gun against Bridget's flesh anymore, but the backs of his fingers, his knuckles, rubbing skin on skin high on her thigh. There's a slight hitch in his breathing, and she glances out the corner of her eye at him. Big, brown eyes, pupils blown, and he's disgusting.
She looks back over at Aldo, and says, "We were only meant to be meeting there. There was not supposed to be a fight at all."
"Yeah," Aldo says, stretching out the word. "See, for some reason, I ain't buyin' it." Aldo is looking at Donowitz, who is looking back at Aldo, and Bridget gets the feeling they're having some sort of conversation she can't hear. Whatever it is, it's definitely not good.
For a brief moment, Donowitz's hand pulls back from Bridget's leg, and she braces herself for what she's certain is coming -- a slap, a punch, a grip as harsh as the one bruising her forearm. But when his hand comes back, it's flat-palmed, up along her thigh, pushing her right leg up, forward. Up obscenely high, along the curve where thigh meets ass, and
No. No, no, no, no, no, Bridget thinks, and where she had been riding atop the impending panic, this is the thing that's pushing her down, beneath the surface of it. She thrashes, and tries to squirm away from his touch, but the pain in her other leg and Aldo's presence prevents her from going anywhere. Donowitz's hand is still sliding up, and his palm is hot over the fabric of her underwear. His other hand is still clamped tight around her forearm, and that's starting to hurt too.
"This is all," she grits out, forcing herself up past the panic, "a big misunderstanding." She can do this; she can talk her way out of this. She wasn't double-crossing them.
But then Donowitz's fingers are pulling down her panties, and there's the sound of ripping fabric, and it all rushes back in. Think, Bridget. Think. You're not stupid. What does he need to hear?
"I sure as hell ain't 'misunderstandin' that place bein' absolutely swarmin' with German soldiers," Aldo says. The look on his face is... expectant.
She hears Donowitz spitting and barely has time to register what's happening before two of his fingers are at the cleft of her ass, sliding down, and pushing, trying to push in. He lets go of her arm (Bridget doesn't think about why), and one of his fingers pushes its way inside her ass and she's never, and it hurts.
"Just stop," she says, and it comes out more pathetic than she'd intended. It's not a command but almost a whine. She flings her arm out behind her, and the force of her arm connects hard with Donowitz's shoulder, but it's as though he doesn't even feel it. Digs her fingernails into the shoulder of his jacket, and of course he would be wearing leather.
Donowitz leans in, and keeps breathing against her ear. He says in his ridiculous accent, "So I heard all about what sorta weird shit you kraut bitches like. Don't worry; you're gonna fucking love this." And then the second finger pushes in beside the first, and a sob soars out of Bridget's throat.
Aldo's still looking at her expectantly while he rolls up his sleeves and no, no, please not--
She doesn't realize she's saying it aloud until Donowitz twists his fingers inside her, makes that same involuntary sob come out her mouth, and asks, "Not what?"
Bridget fights for clarity. Her leg hurts, and her ass hurts, and she is not the sort of woman who has ever enjoyed pain, but she reminds herself that she is alive in spite of everything.
This situation is not outside the realm of her knowledge, and she forces herself to stop thinking about her body. Cold, hard facts: she has not had sex with someone she actually wanted to in a very long time. She has not enjoyed sex in a very long time. It is a key, a weapon, giving her access to information, to distract those men from how much information she has. Some of them were hideous, and most of them were disgusting, and all of them were horrendous people. So this is not very different from anything she has done before, she tells herself. The only difference is that she had at least the appearance of a choice there, and that this hurts.
"It was a tragic coincidence," Bridget forces out, and her voice already sounds raw.
And that's when Aldo gets his face in closer to hers and pushes a finger into the gunshot wound in her leg. Bridget clenches her jaw tight and tries to twist away from the pain, but there's nowhere to go. Her entire left leg feels like it's on fire, sharp and hot and metallic. There's blood everywhere now, all over Aldo's filthy hands. Donowitz is panting in her ear, and when he pulls his fingers out of her, she can't even be relieved because her leg hurts so much.
She tries to bring her fist up to her mouth, to bite on her knuckles to focus the pain elsewhere, but Aldo catches her fist with his free hand and pins it down against the metal table.
The table skids a little on the floor, and there's a solid warmth at her back, and this time when she protests, it takes her a moment to realize she's fallen out of English and back into German. Donowitz is up here with her, and his hand is on her hip, and pulling her back, and Bridget can't believe she thought his fingers were so bad. He thrusts his cock once, twice against her ass before he lines himself up and forces himself into her.
Bridget beats her free hand hard against the side of Donowitz's thigh as he thrusts, deeper with each movement of his hips.
"I don't reckon this is very comfortable," Aldo says, almost conversationally, as he moves his finger in her wound. "An' I can't promise ya that you got a whole lotta blue skies ahead a ya, but I'd sure appreciate it if you'd stop actin' like we was born yesterday."
He punctuates each sentence with another jab of his finger against the bullet in her leg, pushing the metal hard against muscle tissue and flesh. Bridget won't scream. She won't. She won't give these crazy bastards the satisfaction.
Instead she bites down hard on her bottom lip and chokes back the sobs trying to bubble up. She can still do this. She can. She can get herself out of this. Somehow.
Takes a deep breath through her nose, and "You saw him," Bridget says, through the pain, and Aldo's face is so focused, barely even looking at her, just past her, that she thinks for a second that maybe she's spoken in German again by accident. "The German soldiers," she tries again. "They were only there because--" Donowitz thrusts into her hard and another sob falls out her mouth, interrupting her sentence.
"They were there 'cause it was a set-up," Aldo says, a terrifying certainty in his voice.
"No," Bridget says. It wasn't.
The Basterds don't take prisoners, she reminds herself. She's heard some of the stories. They kill you or they brand you. She doesn't expect they make any sort of chivalrous exception for women.
Donowitz's hand is rough on her thigh, pulling it up, back over his own as he fucks deeper into her. The pace itself is slow, each thrust hard, deliberate, brutal. Each slide of his cock inside her is horrible, intrusive; her body seemingly refuses to get used to it. He can't possibly last that long, Bridget tells herself.
"They were there because of -- Wilhelm. You talked to him," she tries again.
"You think 'cause you killed a Nazi foot soldier we're gonna believe you?" Donowitz asks, breath warm and stale on the side of her face. "Everybody knows you gotta break a few eggs," he adds, nonsensically.
His hand slides up along her thigh, pulling her skirt with it, higher and higher, his fingers callused and rough as he holds her thighs spread.
Aldo's finger lightens a bit on the bullet wound, and Bridget takes the moment to catch her breath. Unfortunately, Aldo is looking at where Donowitz is pushing her skirt up, where he's holding her spread wide, where the scrap of her underwear is lying limp around her left thigh.
I am not my body. I am not my body. Bridget tells herself. She can ride this out, and then explain herself, and she will be alive, and she will tell them about the changes in the plan, and everything will be fine.
But first, apparently, Aldo has to bring his free hand to his fly, unbuttoning quickly while he watches Donowitz fuck her. His expression grows sharper as he watches, and it's almost like before he hadn't even been paying attention to what Donowitz was doing. Even though he must have been.
"Jesus H. Christ, Donny," Aldo says. "That's a mighty fine idea you've got there."
He turns his attention from Donowitz to Bridget, and his fingers rub a little against the back of her hand. "Now ya do seem like the kinda adventuresome city type who's had two fellas rutting on her at once before," he says in that conversational way of his as he gets a knee up on the table. The table was not built to handle three people at once, but that doesn't stop Aldo from getting himself halfway up on the table, pressing her tighter back against Donowitz to make room. "Prob'ly ain't never had nobody like Donny here though, have ya?" Aldo asks conspiratorially.
It makes Donowitz let out this sort of breathy groan and his hand smooths along the inside of her thigh in a parody of a caress. Aldo moves in closer, and she can feel his cock hard against her thigh, and Bridget knows it's stupid, knows she shouldn't, but she spits in Aldo's face. She aims for the eye, but hits him more on the cheek.
In response, Aldo shoves his fingers, slick with her blood, into her mouth. She bites down hard, but Aldo doesn't seem to care, and focuses instead on pushing his cock into her cunt in one smooth movement, trapping her between them even further. Donowitz snuffles against the back of her neck and the pace of his thrusts speeds up. His fingers are digging into the meat of her thigh, bitten fingernails pricking at the skin, as he holds her in place.
"Didn't tell me she was wetter'n the goddamn Norris Lake," Aldo says as his own hips start working. Each of his thrusts jars her further against Donowitz, and she couldn't scream even if she wanted to (which she doesn't, she doesn't) thanks to Aldo's three fingers in her mouth, holding her tongue down. Bridget bites down around them, and finds herself almost grateful for their presence, even if they're effectively cutting off her ability to make them stop. At this point, she's not sure such a thing is possible anyway.
Donowitz's thrusts go ragged not long after Aldo joins in, and it's a good thing Bridget can't say anything right now because if she could, she would probably say something horrible. She can feel the play of their cocks inside her, feel how close they are, what little of her separates them, and at this point, she has no qualms in hitting below the belt. While she knows it wouldn't be smart, Bridget is almost sad she doesn't have the option open to her.
Aldo says something Bridget can't even make out, and whatever it was, Donowitz's next four thrusts are short, rapid-fire, and then he groans, low and loud, and then -- wet. He pulls out halfway through, and she feels more wetness across her ass. It doesn't stop the tightness of his hand on her thigh, and Donowitz's other hand catches in her hair and pulls, and then he sets his mouth just below her ear.
"Shit," Donowitz says, low and intimate. "It's a damn shame we're gonna have to kill you, baby. Never met a broad who'd let me fuck her ass before."
And then Aldo's rolling her onto her back and he's got his hand on her thigh, hiking her right leg up to his hip. "Now," Aldo says, almost conversationally, "You gonna admit you're double-crossin' us, or are we gon' have to keep havin' this conversation?"
Bridget isn't sure she's able to effectively convey maybe if you got your fucking hand out of my mouth with her eyes alone, but she gives it a valiant attempt.
The change in position alters the angle, and his cock hits her deeper, and Bridget tries to shift her hips a little, just to adjust. Donowitz, who is only half on the table now, who moved when she wasn't paying attention (and god, she's more than a little woozy), snickers at that. Says something about her wanting more of Aldo's cock.
Bridget's hand darts out and cracks hard across Donowitz's face, which only makes him laugh harder.
Aldo pulls his hand back from out of her mouth to brace his other arm against the metal of the table. Bridget didn't think he could fuck her any more roughly, but it turns out that she was very, very wrong. She feels crushed by Aldo's weight (he's only halfway holding himself up now), and she hurts so much everywhere that his cock's brutal assault on her cervix every third thrust doesn't make her whole body twinge nearly as much as it usually would.
It's almost funny how Bridget can't even work up the energy to fight back at this point. Maybe it's some of whatever the doctor injected into her leg starting to kick in. Or maybe she's just dizzy from all the pain. Either way, she finds herself lying mostly still, eyes closed as though that will help. Aldo keeps talking, but the combination of the fuzzy feeling in Bridget's head and his ridiculous accent makes it difficult for her to keep too much track of the thread of his chatter. What she can make out is about half commentary on her -- her body, her Germanness, her supposed betrayal -- and half some rambling story about the past she's fairly sure doesn't make any sense to native English speakers either. Sometimes her hips seem to shift with Aldo's thrusts of their own accord, which makes Aldo's pace speed up a little bit for a few moments every time. And every time Donowitz has to laugh at her about it.
At one point, Bridget blinks her eyes open, and Donowitz (pants refastened, standing where he was before this all started) has his gun back, but doesn't have it fully aimed on her yet.
Bridget looks up at the lights on the ceiling and thinks about ways to get Donowitz's gun off him before he's realized he needs to be paying attention. But Bridget is not trained for that sort of thing. She can shoot and she can lie, but she suspects she wouldn't be very good at forcibly disarming someone. And she's pretty sure she couldn't pull it off right now anyway.
She moves again, trying to readjust her position enough that the pain in her calf doesn't hurt quite so much, and apparently that was what was needed to set Aldo off. One of his hands comes off the table, down to her bad leg, pulling it up along his own. The pained noise escapes her before she realizes it, and then Aldo is coming with a low groan, his fingers slipping through the blood on Bridget's leg, and her leg falling back out of his grip to the table.
The movement of Donowitz out the corner of her eye is what snaps Bridget back into focus. Aldo's still on top of her, his softening cock still inside her, and Donowitz has his gun pointed straight at her head.
Think. Think. Think.
What comes out is the thing that seems most likely to at least make them stop to hear the story, even if they think it's a lie. "Der Führer will be attending the premiere," Bridget says in a rush.
There's a brief moment of pause before Donowitz asks, "What?"
"The premiere is moving to a new location, and Hitler will be there," Bridget says, then adds, "you idiots."
Donowitz doesn't shoot her for the insult, but he does say, "We can't trust her."
Aldo, for his part, looks down at her, an expression of almost lazy curiosity on his face. And after a moment he slowly says, "Tell us why we should trust you ain't leading us into another trap, Miz von Hammersmark?"
Bridget takes a deep breath and collects as much of what remains of her dignity around her. "As I was trying to tell you earlier," she begins. "The German soldiers were only there because Wilhelm's wife had a baby. That was purely coincidence. If it was coincidence that they were there, it couldn't have been a set-up." She forces herself not to tear her eyes from his when she says it. Thinks, for God's sake, believe me.
For a long moment, Aldo considers, his mouth scrunched up on one side. Bridget has to look away from him then. The entire time, Donowitz rubs the muzzle of the gun slowly against her hair where it's matted at her temple.
Bridget spends the wait fantasizing about pulling that gun from Donowitz's hands. She'd shoot Donowitz in the testicles (Hicox may have been a little dim, but that was a good idea), shoot Aldo in the stomach, and watch them bleed out for as long as she could stand before she shot them both, point-blank through the forehead. She would hunt down the little one and the dark one and make them watch her kill them, for letting this happen instead of doing something.
She is in the middle of trying to decide what to do to the little one, more complicit than Ulmer in her mind, when Aldo pushes himself off of her. He kneels between her spread legs, and pulls his pants back up, tucking himself back in. When his pants are fully buttoned again, Aldo looks down, tries to force eye contact, but she can't. She can't do it. And finally, finally, he says something. "I am mighty sorry about our little mix-up here, Miss."
Which is just about the understatement of the century.
Donowitz, for his part, squawks, "What?"
And Aldo says "We're gonna trust her. You can lower your weapon."
It takes a long time for Donowitz to almost grudgingly pull the gun back from her head in response to Aldo's statement (order). During the wait, Aldo reaches forward, and Bridget twitches and tries to pull away, but the wound in her leg is screaming and her ass is definitely bleeding and her thighs feel more like noodles than thighs. So she can't get out of the way of Aldo's big hand pulling the fabric of her skirt back down to cover her thighs. The sudden shift in his demeanor is terrible, just piling on on top of everything else, and there's a moment where Bridget is pretty sure she's going to vomit.
When Donowitz finally gets his gun put away, Aldo asks, almost painfully sincerely, "So. Can you still get us into this shindig?"
Bridget isn't sure what to point out first: that they're asking her to work with them after all that, that she's probably going to wind up losing her leg, or that she's pretty sure none of the remaining Basterds speak any language other than English and couldn't be sneaked into the premiere anyway. But the horrible thing is that she knows if she has a chance to make this plan work, even if it means she has to work with Aldo and Donowitz (a thought that makes her want to cry, or maybe laugh hysterically, but she won't), she will probably take it.