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averagewriter-inthedark · 2 years ago

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Can You Keep Up? 🔪 | Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz Imagine

Takes place during the events of Inglorious Basterds

Inglorious Basterds Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz x female basterd!reader (romantic), the Basterds (platonic)

Content Warnings: profanity, light angst, war, murder, blood, violence, n*zis, hate crimes | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 2.7k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: Sgt Hugo Stiglitz had a reputation long before becoming a member The Basterds. Killing Nazis and ending the war were the only thinks he cared about….until a new basterd entered the picture. One who had her own reputation in America that rivaled even some its most notorious gangsters.

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“You should tell her,” Wicki mumbled in German, which would do nothing to hide their conversation since the person they were referring to spoke German. Had she been closer to the pair they surely would’ve been found out.

Hugo groaned, pitting a glare to the Austrian, “No.” Wicki rolled his eyes.

“One of these days the others are going to notice how you’ve changed in the last few weeks.”

“I have not changed!” The German defends, whisper-shouting while checking to make sure she wasn’t in their proximity. Eyes locking on her figure, he found Y/n scalping her latest kill. Quickly he turned away, the image of her tackling the Nazi down from a tree branch appearing in his mind, the stoic expression he wore faltering. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen a person do and boy did it make him feel things.

But then again, Y/n L/n was not an ordinary soldier. Hell, she wasn’t even a soldier.

A native of the city that never sleeps, the cards of a promising life were not in place for Y/n. At a young age petty crime was her ticket to surviving. Pickpocketing off of unsuspecting tourists, stealing cars from junkyards, and making quick cash by taking whatever opportunity presented itself. That was her life from childhood to the end of adolescence.

Right around the age of 21 in 1930, the midst of prohibition, Y/n found herself at the bar of a speakeasy owned by one of the most notorious mob bosses in the city. Now when one thinks of organized crime and all its associates, women never have a place amongst the ranks. It’s just how things worked—patriarchy and sexism in all.

Y/n had already garnered herself a reputation in the underground world of New York. Known by only the name, The Rose, due to the red inked rose tattoo on her neck, Y/n was listed on the top ten most wanted in the city. Doing jobs ranging from burglaries to ‘get rid of them, leave nothing behind’ as they came to her as long as they paid well. And by well, we’re talking Y/n couldn’t have a bank account open for they would be suspicious of the depositing amounts.

No eye witness had ever been able to give a detailed description for the NYPD to develop a composite drawing. Y/n was a ghost among the living. Making her dangerous and a myth to many who refused to believe a woman could be capable of the crimes she committed. A lot of the hits she was responsible for had the police believing it was rival gangs. Nothing was traced back to her save for burglaries where a witness reported, “whoever it was, I think it was a woman. There was something about their physique and voice in the few words they spoke that had me thinking it wasn’t a man.”

So yeah, Y/n was a professional criminal at the ripe age of 21. A literally hit woman who was damn good at making things appear as an accident. Becoming an associate of a mob boss was not what she envisioned, but leave it to a man who’s also a ghost to the public eye able to uncover a fellow one.

“How’d you know who I was?” The vodka from her martini hit her tongue as she took a sip. Eyebrows raised at the man beside her, dressed in an expensive pinstriped suit, she noted the two men in suits flanking him. That in itself was enough to piece together he was someone important. Then he got to talking and before long Y/n formally introduced herself knowing the jig was up.

“A man like me has his ways.”

“And I’m assuming a man like you is someone who likes to keep his presence quiet. Yet, you took a risk by approaching me. Why is that, Mr. Falcone?”

“I’ve got a job for you.” This has her tilt her head, intrigued by the proposal.

“What kind of job?”

“I’m aware one-and-done is your style,” he starts, removing his glasses and placing them in his pocket only to remove a Manila colored envelope. “But I’m willing to offer you something more permanent. It means you’ll have to stop any and all business with competing employers,” he was referring to rival gangs and families. Basically Y/n would be an associate in his ranks. “But I can assure you,” the envelope slides over to her, Y/n immediately taking it into her hands to peek inside. “any and all needs would be provided. I’m sure you’ll find the pay more than sufficient than what you’re normally accustomed to.” Inside was at least $20,000. Twenty wads of ten $100 bills stacked together. The man was right in his assumption of money Y/n obtained on a job—ranging between $3-7k depending on what needed to be done.

Y/n was quiet for a moment, finishing her martini before turning back to Falcone. “Forgive me for being so blunt, Mr. Falcone. Your offer is gracious and tempting, but I thought women have no place in the mob. Why would you want to work with me?”

“Because you’re good at what you do,” he stated the obvious, motioning for the bartender for two glasses of whiskey. “You’ve managed at such a young age to turn the boys in blue upside down over your looming presence. And they still have yet to uncover how deep your ledger bleeds in this city. They only believe you’re responsible for all those bank heists and the last person the mayor’s God awful son was seen with.” Y/n withheld the smirk threatening to form.

“But I know from whispers in the dark the number of people you’ve successfully indisposed. And I know you’ve managed to accumulate that many because you know how to work with men’s weaknesses. How they are so captivated by the rose before them, they fail to see the thorns. Why wouldn’t I want to work with someone of such talents?” Passing over one of the whiskeys, Falcone lifted his own. “What do you say, Miss. L/n? Do we have a deal?”

The clinking of glass signaled the signing of the unwritten contract penned beneath the dim lights of Falcone’s speakeasy. From that moment on Y/n was an official member of the Falcone crime family. Their hitwoman to be exact where she maintained her double life for nearly twelve years. Bathing in the riches, living the high life. All while keeping a low profile where Falcone’s dirty work was never traced back to her and vice versa.

Unfortunately, mistakes happen. Costly ones where everything crumbles in the blink of an eye.

Well it didn’t all crumble. Technically the FBI was only able to prove Y/n was responsible for one count of federal racketeering. Any other crimes—nearly 50 to be exact��they believed she did had no hard evidence.

Let’s face it, they damn well knew it was her. But Y/n was really good at her job. Only reason she got caught was her getaway driver fucked up by turning left instead of right where a squadron was waiting for them. One look at her tattoo and the feds were busting down the doors of the police department.

But dragging her ass to Alcatraz to become the first female prisoner was not the plan the feds had for Y/n. At the turn of the new year in 1942, America had entered World War II following the attack on Pearl Harbor. Troops were sent off to Europe each week, nurses deployed, and supplies to aid the allies.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Y/n choked on the smoke from cigarette, handcuffed by the wrists and staring at the agent like he was insane.

“Not in the slightest,” he blew out his own smoke. Placing his bud in the tray, the agent leaned his elbows on the table, “listen, Miss. L/n, it’s either this or prison. As much as my colleagues hate to admit it, you’d make a great spy. We’re offering your freedom—full pardon and all—in exchange for your cooperation with the OSS for however long it will take for us to win this war. The Army already agreed.”

Y/n stayed silent, deep in thought while finishing her cigarette. Go to war, become a spy for America, and try to not to die before it ends. Or waste away in a prison located on an island with no chances of escaping and remain there until she dies. “Fuck it, guess I’m going to Europe.”

Touching down in France Y/n was hauled to the OSS base camp, still chained by the wrists and ankles, where she was introduced to the General. From there the rules and regulations of her position were relayed on top of being assigned to the squadron deep behind enemy lines known as The Basterds.

One could imagine the reaction the squad had when their newest comrade was revealed to them. The only warning they got was, “bring her in,” before a smirking chained Y/n waltzed in with two soldiers flanked beside her.

“Hello, boys.”

Donny just about swallowed the toothpick in his mouth. The younger basterds wide eyed and mouths agape while Hugo and Wicki appeared confused. Then there was Aldo who was visibly flabbergasted, “What the hell is this?” It wasn’t everyday one saw a woman in handcuffs guarded by armed escorts. But despite her innocent demeanor, there was something sinister lying behind her gaze. “Who is she?”

“Your new mercenary,” the general plainly states.

“This pretty little thang?” Donny wants to laugh, earning an amused smirk from Y/n. Aldo shushes him a glare at the same moment the general does.

“This pretty little thing could make your death look like an accident, Donowitz.” The comment had Y/n roll her eyes. Now that has the Basterds intrigued…and a little concerned. Their reaction made her chuckle.

“Believe me gentlemen, it wasn’t my idea to join you on the front lines. But, the FBI said it was either this or Alcatraz.”

“Alcatraz?!” Smitty gasps. Off to the side Hugo leans closer to Wicki, whispering in German, “What is Alcatraz?”

“It’s a federal prison in California located on an island where they send the worst of the worst criminals. They say no one can escape once they’re locked within its walls.”

So, from what Hugo observes, this woman happens to be one of the worst criminals in America.

Aldo, just as appalled, follows up with, “Now what on earth did you do that would have the feds sending you to the Rock?”

“My job,” she shrugs in response.

“Which was?” There were dozens of ‘jobs’ with a one way ticket to Alcatraz. Mostly gang members and mafia bosses. Serial killers and bank robbers. Its most famous residents being Al Capone, George Kelly Barnes, Robert Stroud, and Alvin Karpavivz.

The general slaps down the file in front of Aldo, “killing people for money, money laundering, blackmail and extortion of politicians on behalf of the New York’s mob, robbing almost every bank in the city, and bombing the Wall Street Journal.”

“Now general,” Y/n tsks, receiving horrified expressions from everyone in the room. The metal from her handcuffs clanked as she held palms up, “That’s a little far-fetched, don’t you think? After all those are only accusations. None of which can be proven,” her nonchalant tone combined with the not-so-innocent smile gave indication the general spoke the truth. “Except for the blackmail one. That I did do.”

The Basterds were pretty much hesitant of Y/n up until the first time they saw her in action. Not only did she lure a patrol of Nazis to them, but she took down six of the ten with. One for each bullet in her pistol. All the Basterds were beyond amazed, but none more than Hugo.

It was like he was seeing the female version of himself when Y/n invoked her talents with a blade on a Nazi. Effortless when sneaking up behind or jumping from a branch onto their shoulders. Never missing her target when firing her pistol. The fear she produced when a Nazi recognized the tattoo on her neck. Word got around quickly among the German army of the female basterd who looked as delicate as a rose but possessed thorns unlike any other.

Hugo, a man of few words, couldn’t help but be curious of the American. Y/n noticed it too with how many times she caught him staring at her. Finally she had enough of his staring and confronted him one night when they were on watch, “Penny for your thoughts, Stiglitz.”

“You speak German?” His tone was of surprise, making her smirk.

“I speak many languages. German, Italian, Spanish, French, even Gaelic. It’s sorta a necessity for the job I do—interacting with people from all parts of the world.”

“Job….” Hugo repeated under his breath, “you are a professional criminal? That is what Donowitz was saying.”

“Oh so you believe gossip now?” She teased, though making no motion to deny the accusation. “Good to know you boys talk about me in your free time.”

“Is it true?” Hugo persisted, making Y/n straighten her posture, no longer finding humor in the conversation. The tone had shifted to a serious one.

“Will you look at me differently than you already do if it is?” Was her challenge. Not waiting for his answer she continued, “I’m only guaranteed my freedom once this war ends for the things they caught me for, Hugo. Confessing to you the ones they didn’t…..well why would I admit guilt? A smart criminal would never.”

To be honest Y/n technically confessed to Hugo she was in fact responsible for all the crimes the general had informed them of. Though vague with her words, Y/n spoke with her eyes. Showing Hugo her true nature without voicing the truth.

From that moment on there was an unspoken connection between the two. A mutual respect and understanding for each other that was different from the other Basterds. Hugo could rely on Y/n to have his back and vice versa. Never did they question the other’s decision or actions even if the Basterds disagreed. While it took a few months, they eventually considered them friends instead of mere comrades.

He didn’t know when he started to see Y/n in a different light. Maybe it was when he watched her dance in a tavern with Omar and Aldo. Or maybe it was when she shot at the nazi sneaking up behind him from her sniper's den. He found peace in the moments they would sit by the fire and not say a single word. Admiration in the way she didn’t give a fuck about what people thought of her. Held her ground and owned her mistakes. Maybe it wasn’t full blown love Hugo felt for Y/n, but there was a deep fondness for her.

Whatever it was, Wicki seemed to catch on.

Like right now when he spotted the blonde observing Y/n scalping her latest kill. Trying to get Hugo to man up and confess his feelings to their fellow Basterd was like teaching a toddler simple manners. “I don’t see what you are so afraid of, Hugo. You two are friends. And from what I’ve seen when you’re not looking, I think she feels the same.”

Hugo couldn’t ignore the slight skip in his heart at the assumption. Still stoic, the German shrugged his shoulders, “We’ve got a job to do, Wilhelm. There’s no time for—.”

“No time for what?” The two men jump at the sound of Y/n joining their conversation. Neither noticed she had moved from her spot.

“Nothing,” Hugo sputters out, placing his knife back in its holster. In his head he was hoping to whatever God she didn’t hear what they were saying. So much as catching the word ‘she’ Y/n would know it was her given she was the only woman in miles.

Tilting her head, Y/n keeps her expression neutral. “Wicki, can you give Hugo and I a moment alone.”

“Of course,” the man excuses himself, bidding a glance to Hugo on the way out. Once he was a good distance away and none of the other Basterds were in sight Y/n approached Hugo. He waited for her to speak, but instead was left stunned at the feeling of her lips pressing to his cheek.

“Wh-what was that for?” A smirk is her response.

“I think you know,” she throws a wink. “You and Wicki’s forget your voices carry.” Red flares on Hugo’s cheeks, but he manages to calm it down. Y/n only widens her smile, “Don’t worry about saying what you feel,” she gives another kiss, though this time on the corner of his lips. “I can see it in your actions.”

Spinning on her heel, Y/n starts making her way back to the others when Hugo calls out to her, still shocked by what had taken place, “What does this mean then? For us?”

“Whatever you desire, darling,” Peering over her shoulder the woman gives a cheeky smirk, “think you can keep up?”

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