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Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The incessant repetition of the clock’s monotonous ticking never ceased to end itself, trapped in an all-consuming cycle of circulation and infinity. The heavy beat the clock provided gave Landa something to imitate as he tried most earnestly to match his breathing pattern to that of the mechanism hung onto the wall before him. And although his eyes grew sore from continuing to gaze into the black abyss that was ‘his’ room, he still bore his eyes into the vague outline of his own hand in front of him, watching in a distracted marvel as the shadows engulfed it. The moonlight dared to seep in through the curtains; however, while a faint illumination could be detected, the enclosed space was still obsidian in nature.
Landa couldn’t sleep.
That should’ve been a given, but that doesn’t take away from the mind-numbing cruelty of his present situation. It had been hours since he decided to tuck himself in, sleep pestering the corners of his mind for hours prior to this, but when the time finally arrived, his brain seemed to be working a mile a minute, which came most begrudgingly to him.
Irritated, Landa hid beneath the covers, hoping the encapsulated, controlled, claustrophobic presence could do something to ease his insomnia. In earnest, he clamped his eyes shut, brows furrowed as he did so, although somewhere in his subconscious, he knew it was futile, having practised this exact motion plenty of times before this.
Behind his closed eyes, he envisioned sheep herding, sheep one hopping the fence, then sheep two, stopping before he realised how cartoonish this was in nature. Was he a petulant child whose mother whisked him off to bed far too early?
The wind howled almost daringly outside, the curtains fluttering from the seizing pressure of the ghastly breeze. Landa shuddering at the slight chill from beneath his duvet, despite always leaving the window slightly ajar every night, Landa couldn’t help but recognise that the slight cold was keeping him awake in a near-exhilarating fashion.
For a short moment, Landa attempted to imagine the life beyond these four walls, how the tree’s branches twisted and turned almost as if they were emaciated human arms dancing in the crisp night’s air, how the owls and birds screeched and hooted, teetering on the borderline of human speech, but an impenetrable force blocked their will. He envisioned the animals scurrying back to their respective homes and shelters, watching as the twilight soon melted into dusk and the dangers of the night soon lurked behind them, ready to attack.
His visions soon morphed into something—or someone—more familiar, bright blue eyes deep in colour gazing into his own. So rich, it felt as if Landa was staring into the clearest of skies, or the isolated lakes back home in Austria, free from human interference, representing a desolation that Landa could take solace in. The eyes were soon accompanied by a face, a smug face, with a cigar in his mouth, lit up. The other man was breathing the smoke directly in Landa’s face; the heavy scent of tobacco and incense infiltrated his dream before he groaned and forced his eyes open, emerging from his cacophony of blankets as a moth would from its chrysalis.
Aldo.
This was all his fault.
Aldo had left him all alone tonight, which, truth be told, shouldn’t have presented itself to be too much of an issue. And it wasn’t, at least, Landa had thought it wouldn’t be.
It had been two weeks ago when Aldo first received the call, praising him for his bravery during the war-effort, and asking him to drive out all the way to—somewhere—(Hans still wasn’t entirely too sure where all these American states were, only being familiar with the comfortable silence that Nantucket provided for him and Raine, in their makeshift creation of domesticity.) And receive a medal for his courage and heroism for his ‘great nation’.
However, Landa should provide more leniency to Aldo; the other man had asked him repeatedly if he was okay with being left on his own, understanding this would be Hans’s first time being left alone in the States, and offered for Landa to join him in his accommodation. But Landa couldn’t help shake the awkwardness at that ideal, conceptualising the idea of attending a commemoration service to award the man he was directly opposing during the war, and said man was only acting in opposition to his own cruelty and barbarism.
“No, Aldo, you should go; I don’t want to burden you. This is a moment of celebration for you, after all.” He had told him, a pleasant, passive smile decorating his face as he averted eye contact, gazing intently into his book. Suddenly, the subtle pain on his forehead began to burn as his scar felt that ever more so permanent. “It’s really all right with me, you needn’t worry.”
He didn’t even need to look directly at Aldo to sense his concern, the worry palpable in his presence. But he was too engrossed in this odd moment of self-pity to notice Aldo’s sudden presence beside his own. Those rough, calloused fingers gently lifting his chin up, Aldo gulping as they made eye contact, noticing how Aldo’s gaze slowly lingered on his throat, only to be matched back up with his eyes before Landa could even process the minute action. Aldo’s eyes stared into his, his eyebrows slightly furrowed in disquietude. Words clearly on the tip of his tongue, but apprehension serving as the barrier for them. Mere seconds, which felt like hours prolonged as the two continued this strange limbo before Aldo finally began to speak up, “Are you sure, Kraut, this is new territory for you, and I don’t want you to lie to me because you think this medal means more to me than you do.”
Landa flushed at the words, a slight warmness growing in his abdomen at the acknowledgement of the unorthodox affection both parties had for each other. But, stubborn as he ever was, his stance still persevered.
“Yes, I’m sure, Aldo, I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
Aldo sighed, clearly dissatisfied with this answer, yet not stubborn enough to put up a fight. Discontented, he let go of the tender grip he had on Landa and walked away. Giving up on his subtle resistance.
“Whatever you say, Hans.” He grumbled as he walked away into the kitchen, leaving Landa flushed at the use of his first name instead of ‘Kraut’ and the attention the Apache had given him.
Landa now, however, could only shake his head in retrospective regret; the soft friction of the pillow he was lying on provided a gentle touch, much like the feeling of the American’s hands on his body. If Landa knew he would be left like this, he would’ve accompanied the other man, or better yet, he would’ve begged Aldo not to go, clinging onto him like a dog to its master.
Aldo had left this morning, kissing Landa softly on the forehead, right above the scar that still carried the phantom pain of his guilt. “I’ll be back by tomorrow morning,” He had whispered into Landa’s ear, tickling the slight hair on his neck, “Or if I’m lucky, tonight.” He murmured before squeezing the Austrian’s waist and pulling him into a tight embrace.
And in the blink of an eye, before Landa could even process what was happening, Aldo had stepped into the van and began to drive off, waving goodbye as he did so. And Landa, muddled from the disorientation, could only mimic the action as he leaned against the doorway, wishing the Apache a goodbye also.
The day hadn’t been so bad without Aldo, Landa reasoned. And it really hadn’t. Landa had kept himself busy the entire day, whether he had been painting the woodland beyond the cabin on their porch. Or reading one of the few books Aldo actually owned and kept in his home, Landa had come to the realisation that as long as he kept himself pre-occupied and busy, at the very least on a mental level, then he wouldn’t be distracted by his thoughts of Aldo.
As supper approached, and the sunset began to linger, transforming the colours of the sky into a mirage of vermillions and lilacs, Landa realised that now should be a good time to cook up some dinner.
Normally, both Landa and Aldo would cook together, again in their own makeshift bubble of domesticity, they had begun to appreciate these small moments of life, like cooking together. However, with Aldo gone for the evening, Landa had prepared to make Alsatian Rolls, finally deciding on them after tediously looking through his German cookbook—one of the few things he still owns from that chapter of his life. The aroma of the food while cooking reminded him of his time in Vichy, France.
Yet, his thoughts of Aldo really began to chip away at his sensitivity by the time he sat down to eat. While Lando could handle cooking without him, they always ate together, and to sit on the desolate dinner table, with such a hearty meal in front of him, on his own, the unsettling nature of his isolation had begun to take a toll on him.
Landa could hardly stomach eating without him, taking only a few meagre bites from his food before throwing the rest of his dish away, the wastefulness of this gesture further rattling his head even more so, and whisking himself off to get ready for slumber.
And as he brushed his teeth, he closed his eyes just hard enough to imagine the other man standing behind him, copying his movements, as they both often did in the little routine they had created for themselves, the other man, taller in stature, providing an odd sort of comfort with the height difference the pair had. Allowing in simple moments such as these, he could revel in the insignificance of himself, how small and weak he could be compared to someone like Aldo.
And that leaves Landa to this very moment, tucked beneath sheets of duvets and covers, with Aldo’s shirt lying beside him, so at the very least he could imagine his presence to be there with him.
Disgruntled with his current predicament, Landa pulled Aldo’s discarded wife-beater towards him, having fished it out from the laundry hamper in a moment of desperation, hoping the scent would formulate his own incarnation of the Apache.
As he clutched Aldo’s shirt closer to his chest, the lingering scent of the other man clearly proved to be more than just a linger. The thing reeked with the sweat and musk of the American. Landa was almost disgusted with the state of it, chastising Aldo for not putting it in the hamper earlier, in his head.
Almost.
He was almost disgusted by it.
See, he would be fully disgusted by it, had there not been a tightness growing in his groin. Ashamed, he pulled the wife-beater closer to his face, and in an ugly moment of desperation, he sniffed it.
God, it smelled so fucking bad, but that couldn’t stop the moan that erupted from his mouth. In a moment of shame, he was about to clamp his mouth shut, before realising the true extent of his isolation; no one was here, no one was here to watch how depraved he could get without his Aldo.
The tightness at the hem of his trousers grew even stiffer, as a warmness encapsulated his very being, and again he sniffed the reeking piece of fabric. He could hardly control himself this time, a hand shooting down to palm himself over his loose trousers as he continued to smell the musk of Aldo Raine.
He couldn’t stop; he felt so dirty and sinful, but he couldn’t stop. Another moan was torn from him as he imagined it was Aldo palming his cock, with his mannish hands cupping the poor thing. Screaming into the pillow, Lando felt his hair stick to sweat on his forehead as he continued to envision Aldo there with him.
It was Aldo palming his cock, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, his hot breath leaving a tingling sensation on his neck, as he continued to inhale the scent of the wife beater. The vision became stronger and stronger each time he did so.
‘God, that’s it, baby, so fucking horny for me, aren’t ya?’
Landa practically screamed at that, the sounds coming out of his mouth no longer having any semblance of control.
But this wasn’t enough for him. He needed more; he needed something stronger. Strong like the muscular fortress Aldo’s body provided.
Unabashedly, Lando reached for the pillow in front of him, all shame gone now as the only cohesive thought left in his carnal mind was: Aldo, Aldo, Aldo. He positioned himself over the pillow, arching his back as if Aldo was behind him, fucking him from the back as if he was a ragdoll, the ghostly feeling of being lifted up and pushed around as if he was nothing made him feel dizzy with delight.
Frustrated with the fact that he was struggling to find the correct position, he whined like a pathetic mutt, incapable of doing anything on his own, other than moaning for his master to come home. But finally, finally, he managed to get himself up just right, just right enough for the friction of his pathetic cock against the soft casing of the pillow to feel divine.
He howled like a goddamn animal as he continued to chase this depraved high.
When he closed his eyes hard enough, he could just about imagine it was Aldo beneath him, holding him there with little effort at all, his piercing glare watching him with innate fascination as he moaned and whimpered like a desperate bitch in heat.
Maybe that is what he was.
Tears began to form in his eyes as he continued to sniff Aldo’s shirt and hump the pillow even harder, the sheer pathetic nature of his situation beginning to chip away at him. But it wasn’t enough; he still wanted more, he still needed Aldo like he needed water, or air, or oxygen, or any of the irrelevant things that kept him sustained that weren’t Aldo.
“Aldo…” He whined, the tears welling in his eyes beginning to stream down his face. The heat in his face made him feel as though he was burning from the inside out.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Landa heard faintly, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Aldo’s, but he just assumed it was yet another figment of his imagination as he continued to moan and grind into the pillow. Until he heard that all too familiar whistle of appreciation.
With a gasp of shock, or perhaps need, Lando frightfully turned his head, only to be met with Aldo—his one and only—arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe, his stature tall and proud as he observed Lando in his desperate state. The remaining light from the corridor illuminated his features from the opaque darkness clouding the rest of his face, leaving Lando to see only a smug smirk and those sharp blue eyes, observing him as a hunter would its prey.
Aldo made a sickly sweet, almost mocking noise of sympathy as he approached the older man, “Aw, was my baby missing me?” He chuckled, the faux sweetness making Landa’s skin crawl and face flush as he moaned into the now ruffled sheets. But Aldo wouldn’t allow that, and that gentle grip from two weeks ago returned to lift Landa’s gaze into his own, “So fucking horny you had to hump a pillow and sniff this rag—” he lifted up his used wife beater, acknowledging it with a smug fascination before discarding it onto the floor as though it was nothing, “—All because ya missed me, huh?” And if Landa didn’t know any better, or if he had any coherent thought left at all, he would say Aldo almost looked delighted, if not pleased.
Landa began to lean into the warm touch of the calloused hand, rubbing his head up against it as if he were a cat purring up to its owner. And Aldo obliged this as he stroked the drying tears away from Landa’s face, a soft hum emitting from his mouth, “Just look a’ the state of’ya,” he drawled, eyeing the way Landa sighed at the sound of his voice, “if I’d known you’d turn out like this, I never would have left in the first place.”
But Landa could hardly focus on words anymore; he was past that. All he could think in that feverish brain of his was ‘mein Gott, Aldo is finally here, Aldo, my Aldo’, the same three phrases repeating in his mind like a mantra.
He was so lost in the sensations that he hardly noticed Aldo beginning to undress, until he retracted his hand, leaving Landa panicked, and whining for the touch to return, finally opening his eyes to see Aldo’s half-lidded gaze and now shirtless frame, before he could even begin to process the sight before him or what was about to happen to him, Aldo had pushed him onto the mattress, Landa’s muddy blonde hair spilling over the white sheets, as Aldo leered over him, and again that half lidded gaze raking over him as though he were an art piece, something worth buying and storing forever, never to be seen or touched by anyone else ever again. The intensity of the stare made him whimper yet again, and he was about to close his eyes to hide from the fascinated scrutiny, before he realised just how utterly gorgeous the man in front of him was.
Aldo stood before him, leaning over him as he shrugged the rest of his shirt off, leaving him only in his trousers, and no matter how many times they’ve done this before, Landa could never help but stare, mesmerised, at the American’s frame. His muscular stature and tanned skin littered with scars of war and pain contrasted Landa’s own pale, untouched skin, making him feel even smaller and weaker than he already was.
The American must have noticed him staring, as he began to chuckle, “Like what’ya see there?”
Landa could only nod and let out a stuttered moan. Yes, he did like what he saw, immensely.
Before he could even think of what could happen next, Aldo lunged towards the older man’s mouth, hurriedly, as if Landa would run away if he left him distracted for too long. His tongue plunges deep into the other man’s mouth, claiming every last nook and cranny as if it were his property, not letting Landa forget that. But Landa could only lie there, practically slack-jawed, barely able to compete with the younger man's passion and intensity, just placid and barely lucid as he continued to moan and whine into the open-mouthed kiss.
They continued like that, leaving Landa so distracted, he didn’t even notice Aldo unbuttoning his shirt until he drew his mouth away, causing Landa to stammer out a whine at the loss.
Aldo dipped down to his, gently chewing on the sensitive skin and cartilage as he whispered, “Shush, princess, we haven’t even gotten started.”
Landa could hardly handle the nickname, his breath hitching and face flushing an even brighter red.
Then, Aldo began leaving open-mouthed kisses across his neck and collar, sucking and biting, marking his territory. The kisses and bites just high up, that they could peer through his collar, and when it would just be the two of them, Aldo would love to just dig his finger at the rim of his collar and poke and prod at the marks he had made, enjoying the way Landa would squirm and blush at the sensation.
Aldo continued this till all of Landa’s neck area was littered with hickies, bruises and love-bites, Aldo even going over all the old ones that had barely begun to fade and heal.
“There we go, all nice and marked up for me now, aren’t ya?” He murmured, admiring the artistry he had created, ruffling Landa’s hair, messing it up even further.
The waistband of Landa’s trousers was already beginning to slip, leaving his pelvic region slightly exposed, Aldo eyeing the area as if it were a tantalising piece of meat, before pulling off the remaining fabric, leaving Landa only in the flimsy shirt clinging to his shoulders.
“No underwear, huh?” He chuckled as he leaned in further down towards Landa’s now fully exposed cock, watching with slight amusement as it sprung up in the air and began to graze the older man’s pale stomach, “my little slut’s all nice and prepared for me tonight,” and without a moment of hesitation, Aldo enveloped the cock in his mouth, leaving Landa gasping on air, moans and whines being punched out of him from the sheer—all encompassing pleasure Aldo’s wet, hot, mouth provided.
Landa was never a big man, down there especially so, and that had always been a source of subtle shame for him. But Aldo had always treated his cock with such delicacy, as if it were fragile in nature. Yet, watching Aldo take him fully, without a moment's hesitation, made him feel like something else entirely.
And Aldo’s mouth was divine. Landa began to feel as though his whole world was collapsing, a dizzying feeling as his abdomen began to tighten up, and a strange tingle began to crawl up his body.
“St-stop, ah! I’m about to cum!”
Aldo’s piercing blue eyes met his own as he popped his mouth off, wiping off the remaining precum on the side of his mouth with the back of his wrist, and a smirk on his face.
Tears began to well up in Landa’s eyes once again, cursing himself for being so sensitive, and Aldo began to lean in and lick the tears straight off his face. “Shh, baby, it’s okay, I’m here for ya, don’t have to worry ya pretty little head ‘bout anything at all.”
Landa could only respond with broken gasps and hitched breaths as Aldo flipped him over, as if he weighed nothing, his hands gripping the sides of his hip as he positioned Landa’s back to arch, as if the older man weighed nothing at all. Muffled moans erupted into the pillow as Landa revelled in the treatment.
The cold night’s air crawled up behind him, causing him to shudder as he patiently waited for Aldo to scurry out the olive oil they kept buried away in their desk drawer, faintly hearing the sound of Aldo unzipping his own trousers and scurrying out of them, Landa envisioning the visage of Aldo’s cock, the size of it, the weight of it on his tongue. He was so distracted in his thoughts and salivations over the other man’s manhood that he hardly even noticed that Aldo had now poured the olive oil richly over his finger, ready to push in. The scent of the oil perspiring in the air, leaving it hot and thick, merging nearly grotesquely with the scent of sex and sweat, laying heavy in the atmosphere.
“I’m gonna push the first finger in now, alright, sweetheart?” Landa could hardly process those words, however, as Aldo’s finger had already begun to breach his walls.
The strange feeling of a foreign entity down there—in there, had always made him feel strange in there; however, he soon began to relax into the sensation of fullness as Aldo soon began curling his finger in on itself, sighing. Landa leaned into the pillow and arched his back even further, enjoying the simple pleasure of Aldo’s focus.
Then Aldo hit that all too familiar spot, that bundle of nerves that never failed to drive him crazy. And a torrent of moans and curses were torn out of him, “Verdammt! Verdammt, Aldo! Ah – so gut, so gut!”
“Hmm? What was that, baby, you like that?”
Landa was so foregone that he couldn’t even think to reply in English, only babbling incoherently in German, “Ja! Verdammt nochmal, Aldo! Wahnsinn, einfach wahnsinnig! Ah!”
Aldo chuckled in response, amused at the Austrian’s lack of cohesion, before pulling his finger out to coat the second one. Landa whined at the loss.
“Shh, shh, don’t worry, doll,” he murmured into Landa’s ear, licking the base of his nape, causing the hairs that reside there to stand on their ends. As he did so, he proceeded to plunge two fingers in. Landa moaned at the shock of the intrusion and the fullness it provided.
Aldo followed the motion of his first finger, in almost a technical fashion, except this time scissoring both fingers through and through, leaving Landa a gasping, writhing mess beneath him.
“Don’t worry, my sweet thing, almost done.” He muttered, but he was clearly distracted in his concentration, pulling out yet again to coat the third finger.
Landa was left in a daze at this point, barely able to hold coherent thoughts in English, let alone comprehend whatever Aldo was talking about. At this point, he was just a vessel for receiving pleasure; nothing else mattered to him anymore, all he could think of was, ‘more’ and ‘Aldo’.
Three fingers began to push into him, and he just leaned back and sighed for more, content with the state of his being, and as the three fingers began curling in on themselves, going even deeper, soon they hit that spot once again, and Landa began to scream out once again.
“Ah! Fuck, oh my god, Aldo! Meinn Gott!”
But this time, instead of retreating back as Aldo had done before, he had begun to poke and prod at the same time, leaving Landa practically screaming at the pleasure, toes curling and spine arching at the sensations, “Ah! Ngh—Aldo!” He could only chant over and over again, like a mantra, like a prayer. Praying to Aldo, praying for more, praying for pleasure and release, praying for Aldo.
Soon, his stomach began to tighten once again, and he could hardly gasp out the words, “Ohhh—I’m”—he gasped, breath hitching as tears began to form in his eyes once again, crying out—“I’m-‘bout to cum!”
Aldo didn’t slow down, however, almost appearing to be unconcerned with the state of Landa’s desperation. Yet, his internal monologue couldn’t help but salivate over the sight of Hans coming undone at just the sight of his fingers alone.
“Ahh! Ah! Aldo—ngh, I’m gonna—”
And with that, his eyes twitching and rolling back, as if he were possessed by a will not of his own, a collapsing, near mind-numbing stream of pleasure washed over him like a tsunami or a windstorm, leaving him practically limp, only being held up with the strength of Aldo’s grip.
They stayed like that for about a minute, but the minute stretched out for hours as Aldo patiently waited for Landa to chase his breath. Fluttered gasps escaping from the older man’s mouth every now and then, his body burning and blood rushing, he felt as though he were about to faint.
The minute could’ve been stretched out longer, however, as it wasn’t too long before Aldo picked up Landa with minimal—if not no—effort at all, as though he were a fleck of dust or a crisp leaf flying through the air.
Landa didn’t even realise what was happening till he found himself clinging to Aldo’s shoulders, resting his head in the crook of the Apache’s neck. It took a few seconds for him to realise that he was placed onto Aldo’s lap. And before he could even process the intimacy of the position, he felt Aldo’s cock slowly breaching his walls.
He gasped, already overstimulated, the incoming pressure of Aldo’s length causing him to only breathe out, scratched out, ragged breaths, as though he were wheezing for his life. It had been a while—too long—to the point he had almost forgotten the sheer size of that behemoth.
“Shh, shh, just breathe, baby, breathe,” Aldo began whispering such sweet nothings into his ear, licking his nape and leaving open-mouthed kisses as he did so, “I know it hurts, doll, it’s gonna be okay,” he muttered, pushing even more of his length in.
A stammered gasp got caught in Landa’s throat as he closed his eyes at the fullness, ‘Mein Gott, this is nothing compared to his fingers,’ he thought, probably his first coherent thought of the night.
“There we go, baby,” the American began to reach up and comb through his mangled, sweaty locks of hair, which were stuck to that (in Raine’s mind, gorgeous) scar on his forehead, as though he were comforting a stray animal, “It’s all in now, do you want me to wait for ya, sweet thing?”
Landa only mewled in response, nodding his head like a pathetic mutt incapable of words, which he practically was at this point.
No words were shared between them in that fleeting moment of peace in their unorthodox, twisted form of intimacy; they didn’t need any, they were beyond the borderline and limitations that mere words could provide for them, they were liminal, merged as though they were one being.
His face now impossibly red, Landa broke that beautiful silence before nodding his head into Aldo’s neck, “You can-you can move now, Aldo.”
Aldo only whispered one word before he began his torturously passionate, slow onslaught, “Beautiful.”
Once Aldo began, Landa couldn’t control the moans and screams being torn, no—ripped, out of his mouth. Any semblance of control and decorum was lost for the both of them, as Aldo gritted his teeth, moving his way inside the Austrian as though he were moulding the very insides of the man to be suited for him.
“So—so fucking tight for me,” Aldo all but groaned, the slight hitch of his breath left Landa spiralling, “It’s like you were made for me, made to take cock up your ass like a bitch in heat.”
The cruel words paired with the gentle nature of his thrusts made Landa tear up, once again, “Don’t—“ he sobbed, hiccuping on his breath, so broken to the point of depravity that he couldn’t even breathe, “Don’t say that—“
Amused at the defiance, Aldo picked up his pace, causing Landa’s eyes to shoot open, and a scream erupting from his mouth, Raine thanking God that they were in some isolated cabin, so no one could he his Hans’ mewling and moaning like a sex crazed animal, he was almost sure the sound of sex, bed creaking and Han’s moaning, could be heard for the next five mile radius.
“Why not, darlin’?” The pet name, which normally felt endearing and tender, now felt mocking and cruel under Aldo’s accusatory tone. Suddenly, Landa felt his hair being clutched and his head being ripped away from the comfort of the crook of Aldo’s neck, being forced to stare into the deep intensity of Aldo’s gaze, the rough pace still continuing as the American all but growled, “ Ya saying, you’re not made for me, huh? That you’re not mine?” Landa could barely keep up with the questioning; the only focus on his mind was Aldo—his Aldo and pleasure, “Like you weren’t sniffing my beater like a damn mutt, humping my pillow, couldn’t even stand one night away from me, pathetic.”
Landa cried loud at the degradation, sobbing at the cruel words, but God, his cock had never been harder in his entire life.
The grip on his hair tightened, clearly expecting an answer from him, “Ja! Ja! Mein Aldo, I’m yours, I’m yours!”
Aldo’s gaze softened at the words, as though he had fully realised that state he was leaving his beloved in, and with that, he let go of his primal grip on the light brown hair, allowing the Austrian to fall back into that space between his shoulders, as though he were hiding himself from the shame—the pleasure, the obscenity of it all.
It was too much for Landa; the torrent of moans and screams couldn’t stop, as though he were a wolf howling into the night. Littering Aldo’s back with deep scratches, as he clung onto him, mind reeling from the pleasure.
Then, that all too familiar feeling washed over him, the way his cock scratched between the bodies of both men, and how Aldo simply wouldn’t stop the onslaught of that spot, allowed for that almost comforting tightness and tingle to take over him.
He was close.
And from the slight stammer of Aldo’s thrusts, he could tell the other man was too.
It wasn’t long before Aldo muttered the order in his ear, “C’mon, babe, cum for me, I know you want to.”
And with that, an electricity of stimulation came over him as he spasmed on Aldo’s cock, his orgasm quite literally shocking the life out of him, leaving his vision white, animalistic sounds being torn out of him as he could feel the Apache’s cum coating the inside of his walls, too far gone to even care anymore, his mind simply reeling from the pleasure.
Before he knew it, everything went black.
Raine lay there on their shared bed, watching the Austrian lightly snore through his slumber, a cigarette hanging from his mouth as he took it out and exhaled. A knowing smirk decorated his face.
Once Hans had unsurprisingly passed out, like he always did, God, he was always so damn sensitive. Raine had gotten out of bed and began to unceremoniously clean him up with a freshly wetted washcloth, although he knew Hans would probably just take a shower come dawn, this would have to do for now.
But the reason he sported that knowing smirk was because he knew the little Kraut would get like this. Though nothing could’ve expected him for that delightfully depraved sight of Hans humping his pillow, he knew Hans would’ve missed him terribly. He didn’t even want to go receive his medal; he mainly just went as a test, just to see the extremities of Hans’ reaction.
Disgruntled, he sighed, before he pushed his cigarette into the ashtray on his bedside. ‘This is an issue that could wait till morning,’ he reasoned with himself, as he tucked himself in, clutching his Hans’s waist as though he would disappear in the morning if he wouldn’t.