Cultural Liaison
Aldo Raine x british!actress!reader - Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Summary: A world-famous actress and an American lieutenant walk into a Nazi party pretending to be together. Unfortunately, the act starts working.
Warnings: 18+ SMUT, Enemies-to-lovers ish, war, fake dating, forced proximity, slow burn, alcohol, smoking, eventual smut, unprotected p in v, oral (fem rec), strong af accent, possessive/protective behaviour, mutual pining, Aldo Raine accidentally acquires a wife-shaped problem, (everyone totally thinks they're fucking)
A/N: just LOOK at this man's ARM i wanna bite it and/or use it as a pillow
CURRENT WIPs - MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 7.3k (its long im srry)
Rain follows you all the way up the hill.
Not the romantic sort of rain they put in films, either. It's cold, mean rain, the kind that turns dirt to sludge and seeps through wool.
By the time the truck finally rattles to a stop near the treeline, your shoes are ruined.
You stay seated for a moment anyway, gloved fingers still curled around the handle of your case while the driver hops out into the mud. Voices carry through the downpour outside, loud American accents, rough laughter, boots against wet ground.
“Miss?” the driver says, poking his head back in. “We’re here.”
“So I gathered.”
He gives you a strange look, somewhere between amused and nervous, before climbing back down. You exhale once through your nose, straighten your coat, and step out into the rain.
Mud immediately threatens your ankles.
Ahead, half-hidden among the trees, sits a miserable little cluster of military tents and dim lantern light. Men move through the camp carrying rifles and crates, broad shapes blurred by weather and smoke.
Several heads turn toward you at once.
You are used to being looked at. Crowds outside theatres, cameras flashing, journalists hanging onto your every expression like starving dogs. You know exactly what people see when they look at you.
But this is curiosity sharpened by boredom; a woman in a camp full of soldiers might as well be a meteor crashing through the trees.
One of the men lets out a low whistle. Another says, “Well, hell.”
You ignore both, instead starting toward the largest tent without waiting for instructions. Rain taps against your shoulders in a relentless hiss.
The flap opens before you can reach it, and the man standing there is taller than you expected.
Broad-shouldered. Uniform worn like he doesn’t particularly care what regulations say about it. A knife at his hip. Another tucked into his boot. There’s a scar along his neck disappearing beneath his collar, pale against sun-browned skin.
And the accent, when he speaks, is pure Appalachian drawl.
“Well now,” he says slowly, eyes dragging over you with open assessment. “Ain’t you a sight.”
So this must be Lieutenant Aldo Raine.
You had expected someone older, somehow. Or cleaner. Or at the very least less obviously dangerous. Instead he looks like a man who would bite someone during an argument.
Your gaze flicks once to the cigar between his fingers. “You’re smoking indoors.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re late.”
“You’re in a forest.”
Behind him, several men hover with all the subtlety of schoolboys eavesdropping through a doorway.
Aldo doesn’t look away from you.
“You always this friendly?”
“Only when I’m cold.”
Then, unexpectedly, his eyes drop briefly to the suitcase in your hand.
“You carried that yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
You are not sure why that seems to interest him but rainwater slips down the back of your neck before you can think too hard about it.
“Are you going to invite me inside,” you ask, “or continue staring at me like you’re deciding whether I’m armed?”
Another twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Still decidin’.”
The rain does not let up for the next two days.
Everything smells faintly of damp wool, cigarette smoke, and mud. The camp itself exists in a permanent state of somewhat organised chaos; soldiers moving in and out of tents at all hours, voices carrying through the trees, bursts of laughter loud enough to make you suspicious of whatever terrible joke prompted them.
You are beginning to understand why military intelligence warned you about the Basterds in the same tone one might use for unstable explosives.
At the moment, most of them are crowded into the command tent around a scarred wooden table, arguing over cards.
You stand just outside the flap for a moment, listening.
“I’m tellin’ you that is not a real rule.”
“It absolutely is.”
“You made that up because you’re losin’.”
“I’m winnin’, actually.”
“You’re cheatin’, actually.”
“You are from Iowa. That means your opinion does not count.”
A chorus of overlapping insults follows; you push inside before it escalates into violence. The reaction is immediate. Conversations stumble, one man straightens abruptly in his chair, another nudges the soldier beside him hard enough to nearly knock him over.
You pretend not to notice.
Aldo sits at the head of the table with his boots propped on a chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a cigar balanced between two fingers. Unlike the others, he does not look surprised to see you.
His gaze lifts slowly from the map spread in front of him.
“Well,” he drawls, “look who decided to join civilization.”
“I was informed there would be coffee.”
“There was.”
You glance toward the empty tin mug near Donny's elbow. Aldo gestures lazily toward the empty seat beside him. “C’mere, sweetheart. Briefin’s startin’.”
The nickname catches you slightly off guard.
Not because of the word itself, men call you sweetheart constantly, but because of the ease with which he says it. Like he’s testing how it sounds directed at you specifically. You refuse to let that show on your face.
Instead, you remove your gloves and sit beside him, close enough to smell tobacco and rain on his uniform.
The room settles.
Aldo taps ash carelessly into a tray before speaking. “Alright, listen up. We got ourselves a party.”
Groans immediately break out around the table.
“Aw, hell.”
“I hate parties.”
“You hate bathin’ too, but sometimes sacrifices gotta be made.” A crumpled paper ball flies across the tent. Aldo ignores all of it.
“Three nights from now,” he continues, pointing toward the map, “Colonel Dietrich’s hostin’ a private reception at a château outside Paris. High-ranking officers, diplomats, industrialists. Real fancy evil sonsofbitches.”
You lean forward slightly despite yourself. The château is circled in pencil.
“The colonel’s been movin’ information through these gatherings,” Aldo says. “Names, schedules, supply routes. British intelligence wants copies before the bastard relocates.”
“And that,” another soldier mutters, “is where the movie star comes in.”
Several eyes slide toward you.
You lean back in your chair. “How thrilling.”
Aldo continues before anyone else can speak. “Colonel Dietrich’s wife is apparently a fan.”
You blink once. “Oh, dear.”
“Yeah,” Aldo says, sounding entirely too entertained. “Turns out Nazis love the pictures.”
A few snorts circle the table.
“One of the ladies invited to the reception fell ill,” he goes on. “British intelligence intercepted the replacement request and slipped your name in.”
“So I attend the party,” you say slowly. “Smile politely. Charm fascists. Try not to get murdered.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“And you?”
Aldo’s grin is small and dangerous. “I’m your escort.”
The table goes suspiciously quiet. You turn toward him fully for the first time since sitting down. “My escort.”
“Mhm.”
“You?”
“Try not to sound too excited.”
You study him for a long moment.
“I’m British,” you say. “And you are the most American person I have ever met in my life.”
Around the table, several men immediately start grinning like they’ve just smelled blood in the water.
Aldo only raises an eyebrow. “That right?”
“You sound like you were raised entirely on whiskey and violence.”
“Now hold on-”
“And unless I’ve misunderstood the current geopolitical situation rather severely,” you continue, “how exactly are we meant to walk into a Nazi party together without someone noticing we’re standing on opposite sides of a world war?”
Aldo leans back slightly in his chair, entirely too relaxed under your scrutiny.
“That’s the beauty of it,” he says. “We ain’t.” He reaches over, flips open the file in front of you, and taps the forged papers inside.
“British actress travels through occupied territory under diplomatic protection for cultural relations work,” he says. “Public morale, artistic exchange, maintainin’ communication for the preservation of art or something similarly mushy."
Aldo is watching you now instead of the room, eyes narrowed slightly with that same unreadable amusement you noticed when you first arrived.
“We gotta look natural together,” he says. “Comfortable. Affectionate, even.”
“Affectionate.”
“Might need dancin’, too.”
You stare at him. “You dance, Lieutenant?”
“Sweetheart,” he says, low and easy, “I got all kinds’a hidden talents.”
The men around the table groan loudly enough to shake the tent.
The gramophone crackles somewhere near the back of the tent.
Not loudly. Just enough for the music to drift through the room in warm, wavering strings while someone adjusts the needle with visible skepticism. The space itself has been cleared as much as possible, crates shoved aside, chairs stacked crookedly near the walls, muddy bootprints still visible across the wooden floorboards.
A makeshift ballroom in the middle of a military camp.
Ridiculous.
You pause just outside the tent flap anyway, smoothing a hand unconsciously down the front of your dress before stepping inside.
Several heads turn at once and you have to resist the urge to sigh.
The dress itself is simple by your standards; dark silk, long sleeves, practical enough for wartime shortages, but compared to rough uniforms and muddy boots, it may as well be couture.
And these men have clearly not seen a woman in months.
Your gaze flicks across the room until it lands on Aldo.
He is standing near the center of the cleared floor in shirtsleeves, suspenders hanging loose at his sides, a cigarette caught between his fingers. For once, he has gone strangely still.
Something unreadable passes across his face before he takes the cigarette from his mouth.
“C’mere, sweetheart.”
The music skips softly as you cross the room.
Up close, you can smell tobacco and soap and the faint trace of whiskey on him. His hair is still damp from rain earlier, curling slightly at the edges.
“You actually know how to dance?” you ask.
He looks mildly offended. “Course I know how to dance.”
“Ballroom dance.”
A pause.
“I know enough.”
You hum knowingly. “That bad, then.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“Careful. Hurt my pride in front’a my men.”
Behind you, someone mutters, “Too late.”
You ignore them and hold out your hand.
Aldo looks at it for a moment before taking it carefully, like he is uncertain whether this is a trick.
“Alright,” you say. “Show me. Lead.”
The first attempt is catastrophic. You barely avoid stepping on his boots.
“Lieutenant,” you say patiently, “if you shove me across the floor any harder I’m going through the wall.”
A few soldiers snort loudly.
Aldo shoots them a dark look before turning back to you. “You said lead.”
“Yes. Lead.” You reposition his hand lightly against your back. “Not manhandle.”
His hand stills.
So do you, briefly.
The warmth of his palm presses through the silk between your shoulder blades, broad and steady. Closer now, you become acutely aware of just how large he is. Not merely tall, but solid. Built with the kind of physical confidence that comes from years of surviving dangerous situations.
For the first time since arriving here, you understand very clearly why people follow him.
You step back before the thought can settle too deeply.
“The point,” you continue smoothly, “is to make me look comfortable with you. Safe and relaxed.”
Aldo raises an eyebrow. “Safe.”
“Yes.”
“That gonna be difficult?”
“Extremely so.”
That earns another laugh from the room. You ignore it and move his arm again, gentler this time.
“You’re thinking too much about where your feet go,” you say. “You should be thinking about me.”
His eyes flick up to yours. “That so?”
“Yes. If you lead properly, I’ll follow naturally.”
For once, he doesn’t make a joke.
You guide him through the first few steps again. Slowly this time. At first he still hesitates, movements slightly stiff beneath your hands. Waltzing requires control in a very specific way, not dominance through force, but confidence. The ability to guide someone without making the guidance visible.
Not a skill men like Aldo Raine are usually taught.
“You’re watching your feet again,” you say quietly.
“Well I don’t wanna break your damn ankle.”
“You won’t.”
“How you know?”
“Because I’m better at this than you are.”
A pause.
Then, begrudgingly, “Alright then.”
Gradually the tension leaves his shoulders. The rhythm settles into him piece by piece until the movement stops looking rehearsed and starts looking instinctive.
Aldo’s hand steadies at your back. His grip shifts from uncertain to assured. He turns you cleanly through the next step without needing instruction, guiding rather than pushing now.
You feel the difference immediately.
Something changes in his expression, the concentration sharpening into confidence as the dance finally clicks into place beneath his feet.
“Well, look at that,” he murmurs.
You look up at him.
He looks down at you.
For a brief moment, the rest of the room seems to fade strangely at the edges. The music crackles softly through the tent. Rain taps faintly overhead. His hand remains warm against your back, your fingers curled loosely in his, bodies moving together with an ease that feels unexpectedly natural.
You catch the exact second the others notice it too.
The shift in atmosphere is almost tangible. Someone mutters, “Oh, hell.” Donny is openly grinning now, leaning back against a crate with the smug expression of a man watching a prediction come true in real time.
Aldo either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
He turns you once more across the floor, smoother this time, and when you settle back into place against him his gaze flicks briefly toward your mouth before returning to your eyes.
“You learn fast,” you say quietly.
A slow grin pulls at his mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low enough that only you hear it, “I got a real strong motivator right about now.”
By the following evening, the rumours had become a genuine problem. A loud, relentless, deeply embarrassing problem.
It starts small, like when you walk into the mess tent just as one of the Basterds says, “Nah, I’m tellin’ you, there ain’t no way they practice dancin’ that long without somethin’ happenin’ after.”
The second they notice you standing there, the entire table goes silent.
You narrow your eyes immediately.
“What.”
“Nope,” Donny says quickly, staring down into his drink. “Ain’t sayin’ a word.”
“Mm.” You glance between them. “That usually means someone absolutely should.”
Aldo, sitting near the end of the table, suddenly develops an intense interest in cleaning his knife. You point at him. “What did you tell them?”
His head lifts slowly. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“I ain’t told ‘em nothin’.”
You feel suspicion beginning to crawl up your spine.
Unfortunately, before you can press further, someone asks, far too casually, “So who made the first move?”
The table erupts instantly. “Oh, definitely her.”
“No way.”
“She looked at him one time and this man forgot how feet work.”
Aldo's increasingly defensive voice joins in, “That ain’t true.”
“You walked into a chair.”
“It was a small chair.”
You stare at them in disbelief, then slowly turn toward Aldo. “You let them discuss me like this?”
Aldo finally looks up from his knife, not remotely apologetic. “Sweetheart, I ain’t got the authority to stop stupid.”
Another soldier leans forward onto his elbows, openly fascinated now that you are trapped here. “So what’s it like?”
You blink. “What.”
“You know.” He gestures vaguely between you and Aldo. “Him.”
Several men nod immediately.
“You all realise I’m sitting right here,” Aldo says.
Donny points at him without looking away from you. “That’s why we’re askin’.”
“So is he actually smooth with women or does he just stand there lookin’ dangerous until they decide that’s attractive?”
You choke slightly on your drink. Everyone starts talking over each other immediately after that.
“I bet he’s possessive.”
“No, no, he’s probably quiet.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You kidding? Look at him. Man probably talks through the whole thing.”
Aldo finally exhales sharply through his nose. “Jesus Christ.”
Donny turns to him, “You’re sittin’ over there actin’ mysterious while sleepin’ with a movie star. We deserve details.”
“I ain’t sleepin’ with nobody.” The denial comes too late and with far too little conviction. The table goes dead silent.
Then, “That’s a guilty voice.”
“Real weak defense there, Lieutenant.”
Aldo points his knife vaguely around the table. “Every single one’a you needs hobbies.”
He looks deeply unimpressed by the entire conversation, sprawled lazily in his chair with one boot hooked over the rung beneath him. But there is something dangerously close to amusement lingering around his mouth.
Another man points between you both. “See? This is what I’m talkin’ about. Y’all keep lookin’ at each other like you already know what the other one sounds like at three in the mornin’."
Aldo laughs this time, a low rough sound, head tipping back briefly before he drags a hand across his mouth. “Alright,” he says. “That’s enough.”
“No wonder the chemistry’s good.”
You set your cup down carefully. “There is no chemistry.”
Every single man at the table stares at you in open disbelief. Then one of them says, with complete sincerity, “Ma’am, we watched y’all dance.”
The mission is less than twenty-four hours away when the mood in camp finally changes.
Until now it's all felt strangely theatrical. Arguments over pronunciation and forged documents and whether Aldo is capable of wearing a tuxedo without looking like he’s about to threaten someone with a shovel.
But the night before the operation, the performance drops away.
You sit alone just outside your tent with a cigarette balanced between your fingers, watching fog drift through the trees.
The dress for tomorrow hangs inside behind you.
Black silk. Elegant enough for a Nazi officer’s reception. Carefully altered to conceal a small blade against your thigh.
You try not to think about that too much. The cigarette glows softly in the dark as you inhale.
“You smoke when you’re nervous.”
Aldo’s voice cuts through the quiet before you hear his footsteps.
You glance sideways as he approaches through the trees, jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows. He looks tired tonight. Less sharp around the edges somehow.
“You’ve known me four days,” you say.
“Mm.” He stops beside you. “Still right, though.”
You exhale smoke slowly. “I wasn’t aware I’d become so easy to read.”
“That ain’t what I said.”
Aldo lowers himself into the chair beside yours with a quiet groan.
“You always this tense before missions?” he asks.
“I’m not usually included in missions involving Nazis.” You glance at him, “You?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t sleep much beforehand.”
“No?”
“Nah.”
His voice is lighter than the words themselves.
You study him quietly in the dim light. Without the constant presence of the others around him, Aldo feels different. Still dangerous, certainly. That never disappears. But quieter now. More watchful than loud.
It occurs to you suddenly that he probably carries responsibility in very lonely ways. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower.
“You’re better at that than most soldiers I know.”
Something in your chest tightens unexpectedly.
You look down at the cigarette instead of at him.
“You know,” you murmur after a moment, “when they recruited me for this, they told me you were unstable.”
That earns a genuine laugh. “Did they now?”
“They also implied you were difficult to control.”
“Now that,” he says, “is just hurtful.”
You smile despite yourself, and this time the silence that follows feels easier. Aldo leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Truth is,” he says after a while, “I hate operations like this.”
“Why?”
“Because soldiers know what they signed up for.” His jaw shifts slightly. “Civilians don’t.”
For all his roughness, there are moments when glimpses of something gentler appear beneath the surface so suddenly they catch you off guard. Not softness, because Aldo Raine is not a soft man. But care, maybe?
Care buried under violence and swagger and cigarettes and absolutely terrible flirting.
“Lieutenant!”
The moment snaps cleanly apart.
Aldo closes his eyes briefly like a man being tested by God himself. A second voice follows immediately after.
“You better not be romancin’ out there!”
You stare straight ahead.
Slowly, Aldo drags one hand down his face. “You know,” he says calmly, “I have considered shootin’ every single one’a them.”
The château glows like a jewel against the dark.
Golden light spills from towering windows across the gravel drive, catching against polished cars and damp stone and the glittering movement of people ascending the front steps in silk and military dress. Somewhere inside, an orchestra plays softly enough to drift through the open doors in fragments.
It is beautiful in the way dangerous things often are.
You step from the car and immediately feel Aldo’s hand settle against the small of your back. The touch sends a brief pulse of awareness through you before you can stop it.
“Easy,” he murmurs without moving his mouth much. “You look nervous.”
“I am nervous.”
“Good.” His thumb shifts once lightly against your spine. “Means you ain’t stupid.”
You glance sideways at him as attendants move around the cars nearby and decide that he cleans up infuriatingly well. Dark jacket fitted cleanly across broad shoulders, hair combed back enough to expose the hard line of his jaw, bow tie slightly imperfect in a way that somehow makes him more attractive instead of less.
People are already looking at him.
Not because they recognise him, of course. Because he walks like a man entirely unafraid of any room he enters.
His hand presses lightly at your back again.
“C’mon, sweetheart.”
The front doors open before you reach them.
Warmth spills over you immediately along with music and conversation and the rich scent of champagne and expensive perfume. Crystal chandeliers gleam overhead. Marble floors reflect gold light beneath the movement of uniforms and gowns.
The room shifts the moment you enter.
Faces turn. Conversations falter. Someone says your name quietly near the staircase.
You soften your expression instinctively into something poised and effortless, the familiar social performance sliding into place like muscle memory.
Beside you, Aldo adjusts seamlessly.
The swagger remains, certainly, but refined now into something smoother. Controlled confidence instead of open menace. His hand remains steady against your back as he guides you naturally through the crowd like he belongs there.
Like he belongs beside you.
A German officer pauses near the entrance, visibly startled by your appearance.
“Fräulein,” he says immediately, bowing over your hand when you offer it. “What an unexpected honor.”
You smile politely.
“You’re very kind.”
His attention shifts toward Aldo. “And this is-?”
“American escort,” Aldo says smoothly before you can answer, his accent softened just enough to pass beneath the music and chatter around you.
The officer nods. “Ah, yes. Cultural relations.”
“Important work,” Aldo says solemnly.
The officer continues politely, “It is reassuring to see American and British interests maintaining such close communication despite… circumstances.”
Aldo’s fingers flex once against your back.
The officer's gaze returns to you. “And how are you finding Paris, Miss?”
“Complicated,” you answer lightly.
Aldo hums beside you. “She says that about every city.”
The familiarity in the interruption is so natural that the officer immediately smiles.
A couple.
Over the next half hour, the performance settles around you both effortlessly.
Aldo keeps close without hovering, always near enough for contact. A hand at your waist guiding you through crowded spaces. Fingers brushing your elbow when someone stops you too long in conversation. Leaning down slightly whenever you speak to him, as if your voice matters more than the dozens surrounding you.
At one point, a French diplomat laughs at something you say and lets his gaze linger too long down the line of your throat.
Aldo appears beside you almost immediately.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says pleasantly, though there is something dangerous beneath the smile now. “Need to steal her for a moment.”
The diplomat backs off instantly.
You glance sideways as Aldo guides you away through the crowd.
“That was unnecessary,” you murmur.
"Mm. If ya say so, darlin'."
The orchestra begins another waltz as you reach the edge of the ballroom. Without hesitation, Aldo sets down his drink and turns toward you.
He holds out his hand.
You give him yours.
And then he pulls you into him, hand settling at your waist, and suddenly the entire ballroom seems to sharpen around the edges.
Aldo guides you onto the floor with an ease that would have felt impossible three nights ago. Couples move around you beneath the chandeliers in a blur of silk and medals and candlelight, but the second he pulls you into step, attention follows.
Because the two of you look good together.
Alarmingly so, in fact,
“You’re starin’,” he murmurs.
You blink once before realising you are.
“I’m assessing.”
“Sure you are.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
The next turn brings you closer for half a second, your dress brushing lightly against his legs before he guides you back out again with practiced precision.
Too practiced.
“You’ve improved,” you say quietly.
“Mm.” His gaze remains on you rather than the dance floor. “Got a good teacher.”
The compliment lands lower in your stomach than it should and you glance briefly around the room before he can notice.
Colonel Dietrich stands near the far end of the ballroom speaking with two officers. The study lies beyond the western corridor exactly where intelligence suggested it would be.
And tucked neatly inside Aldo’s jacket, hidden beneath the clean lines of the tuxedo, rests a stolen key.
“You got it?” you murmur.
Aldo doesn’t look away from you. “Mhm.”
“How?”
“Colonel’s aide got distracted.”
You narrow your eyes. “Distracted by what.”
His thumb shifts once against your back.
“You.”
A passing officer smiles knowingly as he and his wife drift by. Aldo nods politely back.
“How are we lookin’?” he asks softly.
You force yourself to focus.
“No one suspects anything yet. The colonel’s wife adores you.”
“She should.”
“Your confidence is alarming.”
“Sweetheart, she watched you stare at me through dinner like you wanted me naked.”
Your step falters slightly, the bastard looks pleased with himself.
“That,” you say carefully, “was acting.”
“Uh huh.”
“You were the one touching my knee under the table.”
“Had t'sell it.”
“You are enjoying this far too much.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “You ain’t?”
The orchestra carries you both through another sweeping turn. Candlelight catches against his eyes when you look up at him, warm amber beneath the chandeliers.
Your gaze flicks briefly to his mouth before you can stop yourself.
His hand tightens once at your waist.
When the music finally slows to a stop, applause ripples politely through the ballroom.
Neither of you lets go immediately.
For one suspended second, Aldo’s hand remains firm at your waist while you stand close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him through layers of silk and wool. Around you, couples begin drifting apart beneath the chandeliers, conversations resuming in low elegant murmurs.
But Aldo is still looking at you.
He smiles lazily and leans down toward your ear, close enough that his mouth nearly brushes your skin.
“Ready to scandalize some Nazis?”
The low scrape of his voice against your ear sends heat down your spine in a way that feels deeply inconvenient.
“Lead the way.”
That, apparently, is all the confirmation anyone nearby needs.
A woman standing beside the dance floor lets out a knowing little laugh as Aldo’s hand slides low against your back again. An officer across the room raises his brows toward another man with obvious amusement.
One of them actually smirks and mutters something in German about Americans.
“See?” he murmurs as he guides you toward the doors. “Told you they’d buy it.”
You stay tucked against his side while the crowd parts naturally around you. Every now and then his thumb brushes absently against your waist, subtle enough to look unconscious, intimate enough to turn heads.
A perfect picture of a couple slipping away early for reasons no one wants to explain.
The hallway beyond the ballroom is quieter, lit only by soft golden sconces along dark panelled walls. Music drifts faintly behind you now, muffled by distance.
Aldo’s posture changes almost immediately.
“The study’s through there,” he murmurs without looking at you, nodding almost imperceptibly toward the western corridor ahead.
You keep your expression relaxed as another couple passes nearby.
“And our room?”
“End of the hall.”
Your pulse kicks slightly faster.
The plan had sounded simple back at camp. Now, walking through a Nazi officer’s private residence while pretending you are on your way to sleep with Aldo Raine, it feels considerably more insane.
Footsteps echo somewhere nearby.
Without warning, Aldo catches your wrist gently and pulls you into a darkened alcove just off the corridor.
You collide lightly against his chest.
The movement is smooth enough to look intimate from a distance, but your breath still catches slightly from surprise. Aldo braces one hand against the wall beside your head while the other remains firm at your waist.
A pair of officers rounds the corner moments later, laughing quietly between themselves.
Neither pays you any real attention, and they continue past without even slowing.
Your heart pounds annoyingly hard against your ribs.
His face is inches from yours now, shadows cutting sharply across the lines of his jaw. Up close, you can smell whiskey faint beneath soap and smoke.
“You alright?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Ya sure?”
“No.”
He gives you a ghost of a smile, and then straightens, stepping back just enough to breathe properly again before offering you his arm like nothing happened at all.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says lightly. “Let’s go commit espionage.”
The study door unlocks in less than three seconds. Aldo opens the door immediately, one hand already moving to the small of your back to guide you inside.
Dark wood shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with books and polished military awards. A fire burns low in the hearth. On the desk near the window sits a half-finished drink beside stacks of neatly organised papers.
Aldo closes the door softly behind you.
“Three minutes,” he murmurs.
You nod once and move immediately.
You cross to the desk while Aldo moves toward the filing cabinet near the wall. Drawers slide open softly beneath practiced hands. Your pulse beats loudly in your ears while you scan documents, searching for shipment routes, coded schedules, names.
Outside, footsteps pass once down the hallway.
Both of you freeze instantly.
Silence.
The footsteps continue.
You exhale quietly and keep moving. “There,” Aldo says lowly a moment later. He holds up a thin folder stamped with German military markings.
You help quickly, replacing papers in precise order while Aldo wipes down the desk and cabinet handles with calm efficiency. Within another minute, the room looks untouched.
“Alright,” he says quietly. “Now comes the difficult part.”
You glance toward the door. “Leaving?”
His mouth twitches.
“Nah. The opposite.”
Realisation dawns slowly.
“Oh.”
Because, of course. People saw you leave the ballroom together. Saw the way he touched you, the way you danced. No one expects you to reappear after ten minutes looking perfectly composed.
Thankfully, the corridor remains empty.
Together, you walk toward the suite at the end of the hall with measured, unhurried steps. A couple disappearing for the night.
The room itself is elegant in the suffocatingly wealthy way the rest of the château is. Gold curtains, crystal decanters, a fireplace crackling softly near velvet chairs.
And one bed.
You stop short just inside the doorway.
Aldo closes the door behind you with a quiet click before noticing your expression. Then his eyes move toward the bed.
A pause.
“Well,” he says finally, voice rough with amusement, “reckon we committed a little too hard to the cover story.”
He loosens his bow tie slightly as he crosses the room, though you notice he keeps his movements careful now, measured in a way they usually aren't around you. Like he is aware of the tension too.
“You can take the bed,” he says after a moment. “I’ll manage somewhere else.”
Your gaze flicks toward the small velvet sofa against the wall.
“You absolutely will not.”
“I slept in worse places.”
“I’m sure you have. You’re still not sleeping folded in half like a traveling salesman.”
A grin tugs briefly at his mouth. “You got a better idea?” he says, glancing toward you again, slower this time.
The tuxedo jacket is gone now, sleeves rolled slightly, bow tie loosened at his throat.
"It's a big bed," you reply after a moment of silence.
He studies you, then seems to make up his mind. “We shared a dance floor in front of two hundred Nazis,” he says softly. “Maybe we can survive a mattress.”
Your eyes catch briefly on the line of his throat where he’s loosened the collar, and when you look back up, he notices.
Of course he notices.
“Well,” you say carefully, setting your gloves down beside the dresser, “try not to flirt with me too much, Lieutenant.”
The grin he gives you this time is slow and devastating.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “little late for that now.”
He crosses the room slowly enough for you to stop him if you want, but you don't, and by the time he reaches you, your breathing has already gone uneven.
“Darlin',” he says softly, gaze fixed on yours, “tell me to back off and I will.”
The fact that he asks nearly undoes you more than the flirting ever did.
You shake your head once, and it seems that’s all it takes.
Aldo’s hand slides carefully along your waist before settling at your back, pulling you toward him in one smooth motion. The kiss lands hot and immediate, all restrained tension finally snapping loose at once.
It is nothing like the polished fake intimacy from downstairs. This is rougher, hungrier.
You grip the front of his shirt instinctively as he kisses you deeper, one broad hand firm against your spine while the other catches briefly at your jaw.
Aldo kisses like he does everything else, intensely, thoroughly, and like he’s been thinking about it longer than he will ever admit.
His mouth drags from yours just long enough for both of you to breathe before he kisses you again immediately, slower this time but somehow worse for it. Your fingers slide into his hair without thinking, loosening it from the careful styling of earlier.
A low sound escapes him at the feeling.
“Aldo,” you murmur against his mouth, half warning, half something else entirely.
“Yeah,” he says roughly, like he barely remembers language at the moment.
The back of your knees bump lightly against the edge of the mattress before you realise he’s been guiding you backwards across the room the entire time your mouth has been locked with his.
His hand moves lower to your hip as he kisses you again, slower now, almost disbelieving beneath the urgency.
He guides you down, and the mattress dips beneath you a second later as Aldo catches himself with one arm braced beside your head, careful despite the obvious strain in his composure.
For a moment, he just looks at you.
Hair dishevelled now. Lips slightly swollen from kissing. Tuxedo beyond saving
You lean up to kiss him again, slow and deep. He draws the dress up your legs, slowly, taking his time. Eventually, he pulls it completely off, and his hand finds your waist, thumb stroking bare skin.
"We shouldn't," he murmurs against your mouth while his hands slowly drag each socking down, fingers smoothing along your calf as he goes.
"Uh huh." You nip at his bottom lip. "But I don't care."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's heat in his eyes but also something infinitely softer. "If we do this, we're doin' it slow, real slow. I won't rush this, not you. Understood?"
Your stomach flips. "Yes."
"And if anythin' hurts, like really hurts, you tell me immediately."
"I will."
He searches your face, then nods. "Scoot over then, sweetheart."
While he watches you move up the bed Aldo pulls the loosened bow tie free with one sharp tug and tosses it somewhere over his shoulder without looking. The shirt comes next, buttons abandoned halfway through, before he simply yanks the thing free and sends it to join the growing pile on the floor. His suspenders snap loose a second later.
Then he follows you up the bed, settling comfortably between your legs with careful precision. His mouth trails down your neck, pressing soft kisses all over.
A low sound emanates from his throat, and you feel him hardening against your thigh. But he doesn't rush. Just keeps kissing you, working his way down your body with a patience that makes you ache.
When he reaches your breasts, he's so careful. Tongue circling your nipple slowly, hand cupping the other with just enough pressure to make you arch into him.
"You're beautiful, sugar," he murmurs against your skin. "So fuckin' beautiful."
Your hands roam his back, tracing the scars there. He shivers under your touch, and you file that away, the knowledge that you affect him just as much as he affects you.
He kisses down your stomach, and you tense.
"Aldo wait, you don't have to-"
"I wanna." He looks up at you from between your legs. "Hell, baby, I've wanted to taste you since you walked into my camp, but only if you can handle it."
You're nervous, probably too sensitive to be with a man like him, but the way he's looking at you makes you nod. "Gentle?"
"So gentle," he promises, letting his lips press against your stomach, and you nod, letting your head fall back against the pillows.
When his mouth is finally on you, it's exactly that. Long, slow strokes of his tongue that build the heat in you. He's reading your body, adjusting to every hitch in your breath, every small movement.
It's not the intense, almost violent pleasure you'd imagined. This is something sweeter. He's making love to you with his mouth, and it's somehow more intimate than you could've imagined.
"Oh my god, Aldo," you breathe, hands fisting in his hair. "That's-"
"Good?"
"So good. Don't stop."
He doesn't. Just keeps that steady, gentle rhythm until you're trembling, pleasure building slowly and inevitably.
When you finally come, it's soft. A warm wave rather than a crash, rolling through you in pulses that make you gasp his name.
He works you through it, then kisses his way back up your body, finally finding his way back to your lips.
"Okay?" he asks.
"More than okay." You wrap your legs around his hips carefully, feeling him hard and ready against you. "I want you inside me."
"Baby, we don't have to if you don't want to-"
"Aldo, shut up and fuck me already."
His eyebrows jump up, but he doesn't have time to be surprised before you're fumbling with his belt, pulling it off and moving to the zip on his trousers. He helps you, and soon he's gloriously and fully bare above you.
“This,” he whispers, a little breathless, “is probably a terrible idea.”
“Yeah,” you murmur against his mouth. “Probably. But like I said before, I don't care.”
A grin flickers briefly across his face before he leans down to kiss you again. "Alright, baby."
He reaches between you, positioning himself, and pushes in slowly. So slowly. Inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, to breathe through the stretch.
"Fuck," he grits out. "You're so damn tight."
"Hurts a little," but you're pulling him deeper with your legs.
"I know. I've got you." He bottoms out and stills, forehead pressed to yours. "Just breathe."
You do, and gradually the discomfort fades into something better.
"Move," you whisper. "Slow, but move."
He does. Long, slow strokes that make you feel every inch of him. It's deliberate and tender, each thrust measured and careful.
"Is this okay?" he asks, voice strained with the effort of holding back.
"Yes. God, yes."
His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling gently. The added stimulation makes you cry out, hips rolling to meet his careful thrusts.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Takin' me so damn well, darlin'."
You keep chasing the pleasure while he maintains that steady, gentle rhythm. He's perfect, the way he's holding himself back for you, making sure you're okay, taking care of you even now when you've stopped playing a role.
"You feel so good, Aldo," you tell him. "So good inside me."
He groans, his hips stuttering slightly before he regains his relative composure. "You can't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm trynna to be gentle, and you're makin' it incredibly difficult."
He marks the statement with a particularly deep thrust, prompting a startled moan from you which he captures with his mouth. The kiss is deep and slow, his hips still moving in that careful rhythm, and the pleasure builds again gradually, a slow burn rather than a wildfire. You can feel it in your core, spreading through your limbs.
"I'm close," you breathe against his mouth.
"Yeah?" His fingers press a little harder, circle a little faster. "Come for me. C’mon, sweetheart. Lemme feel it"
It builds and builds, and then you're coming, clenching around him with a whine. The orgasm is long and rolling, deep.
He follows you over, thrusts becoming less controlled as he spills inside you with a groan. But even in his own pleasure, he's careful not to crush you, keeping his weight on his forearms.
For a long moment, you just breathe together. His forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling with aftershocks.
"You good, darlin'?" he finally asks.
You hum against him, nodding slightly while stroking his back gently. You both wince when he pulls out, then he collapses onto the bed next to you with a tired groan and draws you against his chest automatically, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You rest your cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat gradually slow beneath your ear.
For once in his life, Lieutenant Aldo Raine appears completely relaxed.
His fingers drift lazily up and down your spine beneath the sheets, slow enough to make your eyes heavier by the second.
“Are you alright?” you murmur after a while.
“Mm.” His voice comes rough and sleepy. “Better’n alright.”
The southern drawl slips thicker when he’s tired. Softer too, and you smile faintly against his skin. Then he shifts just enough to press a kiss against the top of your head.
The gesture is so unexpectedly tender it nearly undoes you.
“You should get some sleep,” he says quietly.
“What about you?”
“Thinkin’ I might stay like this awhile.”
You glance up at him again.
The firelight catches warm along the lines of his face now that all the sharpness has eased out of it. Hair messy. Mouth slightly swollen from kissing you. Eyes heavy-lidded and softer than you’ve ever seen them.
Dangerous men should not be allowed to look this gentle.
“Lieutenant,” you murmur softly.
“Mhm?”
“You’re staring again.”
A slow, lazy smile appears.
“Can’t really help it, darlin’.” His fingers brush lightly along your spine once more. “Got a real pretty thing in my arms.”
arghhhh this man bro
