Known to Cross Lines - Inglourious Basterds Fic
Title: Known to Cross Lines
Fandom: Inglourious Basterds
Rating: NC-17 (but only for one little part)
Summary: Hirschberg survives the war and doesn't know what to do with himself and his trauma... so he goes to visit Aldo.
Notes: I LOVE HIRSCHBERG, I'M SORRY. I blame napalmiris for making me start this way back in December. :D Follow-up fic mayyybe?
The first time Gerold Hirschberg was in the newspaper, it was in his obituary in the Hartford Courant.
Four months later, he made headlines.
M.I.A MEMBER OF OPERATION KINO FOUND ALIVE
After months upon months of hearing only French (and understanding very little of it), England was a welcome change for Gerry. He soon found himself on the same military base where this had all began: Aldo barking out the objectives of their mission, each man knowing they weren't going to come back home again, but damn proud anyway. It turned out most of them were right, as he soon found out- the first reporter to get to him was a rare familiar face.
“I can't believe you're alive,” Smitty smiled, eyes watering a little. “We thought everyone else was gone for sure... What about Kagan?”
“Long dead.” A shudder ran through Gerry as he recalled the blurry memory. “Who's we?”
“The lieutenant and I. Uh, if I could--”
“Is he here?” asked Gerry quickly, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. Smitty laughed.
“He went home a long time ago. What about you? Have you made any plans?”
“I'm flying home next week.” He smirked. “Didn't expect to ever say that, huh?”
When Gerry got back to Hartford, the attention he was getting was almost frightening. After being stuck with the same nine men for years, sneaking around in France, coming home to strangers and relatives and reporters swarming him felt like hell. His mother kept crying and hugging him and while it was good to be home, he wasn't used to it. He was used to only touching with a distinct purpose in mind- to scalp, to loot, to keep warm.
So Gerry went back to what he was best at- though rather than slicing the scalps off of dead Nazis, he was slicing cold cuts at his dad's deli in downtown Hartford. Even there, people kept recognizing him, kept asking him questions, asking for autographs. He'd always been a loudmouth, but now he didn't know what to say.
“What was it like killing them?”
“T-That'll be three dollars, sir.”
What was he supposed to tell them? It felt excellent, sir. Wish I was still doing it. Wish I didn't get a fucking bullet in my leg in the process. Wish you'd just pay for your fucking beef and leave.
It got worse every day, to the point where one afternoon Gerry just walked out when a man asked to sign his newspaper, sitting on a crate outside the back door, smoking until closing. By then, he'd already made up his mind.
“Gerold, you just got home--”
“And I'm gonna be in a fucking institution if I don't leave, mom.”
He packed a small bag and bought a train ticket to Tennessee- to get some real help from the only person he reasoned would understand. He laughed when his father asked if he should write first- while the Basterds practically considered Aldo a prophet in the French countryside, they all knew his reading skill was next to nothing. Not that it mattered then, anyway, and not that they thought it ever would.
Gerry had enough money for a private sleeping car- which was good, because he didn't know how great he'd be to share space with. In France, he'd learned to sleep anywhere, anytime, because you took what you could get. But since his injury, everything had changed.
Most nights he couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned until he was so exhausted he passed out, often just a few short hours before the deli opened. Sometimes he fell asleep just fine, but woke up from nightmares with a pitiful cry at ungodly hours, clutching his leg as the overwhelming sting faded instantly, his whole body trembling.
The first night on the train was one of those nights.
“Fucking run, Gerry! Fuck, don't--- worry about me, fucking-- run!”
His chest hurt, he could hardly breathe, he felt the impact before the sound even registered in his head...
Gerry jerked awake with a gasp, gripping the blankets so hard his knuckles were white. He slowly sat up, skin damp with sweat, and ran his fingertips over the scar, wincing as he pressed down a little. It was stupid and he knew it, but he checked to make sure the bullet was gone every time before crawling back under the covers.
He tried to remember lullabies Madame Pierpont sang when she changed his bandages and checked for infection in the slowly healing wound. It wasn't that she was a particularly good singer, but the sound of her voice calmed him through some of his worst fits, even if the words were all just nonsense to him. He supposed that was a good quality for a nurse to have- to be able to comfort someone who only knew how to order drinks and swear in your language. Gerry had picked up a lot over the four months he spent with the Pierponts, but not enough to write letters or anything useful now that he was in America. Then again, he didn't know what he'd write even if he knew how.
Gerry had to laugh a little when he finally got to Maynardville. While Aldo had always kept a bit of an emotional barrier between the younger soldiers, Gerry could still remember the way the lieutenant had described his hometown, like it was the greatest place on Earth. Actually being there, he couldn't quite understand the appeal of it, but he supposed anywhere probably felt better than France.
A stop into a small diner got him all the information he needed, but it only disappointed him. Aldo lived thirty miles out of town- not that he'd never walked thirty miles, but he couldn't anymore. Even short walks took forever and exhausted him so much it was embarrassing. But after explaining his story, a man sitting near him offered him a ride out, chuckling a little as Gerry muttered prayers of thanks under his breath on the way there.
After stumbling up the front steps, Gerry set his suitcase down, leaning hard onto his crutch as he knocked on the door a few times. He heard something stir inside, then moments later felt his breath hitch a little as he stood face to face with the lieutenant. Gerry could remember the first time he met Aldo, too, and he had a similar expression to the one he wore that day- checking every detail, looking him over, before finally smirking and asking ya sure yer eighteen, son?
But now it seemed slightly different. There was a bit of something else in Aldo's expression and Gerry didn't know what it was. He lowered his eyes, humiliated by his own weakness, wondering if that something else was judgment. In only a few short years, he'd gone from a bouncing, overeager kid to a jaded, crippled man with no idea what to do in his life.
Aldo just grinned and clapped Gerry on the shoulder, grabbing the younger man's suitcase and bringing it inside before he motioned for him to follow. “Glad to see ya alive, son.” Gerry limped after him, smiling a little as they made their way into the small kitchen. He sat down at Aldo's instruction, watching as the southerner looked through his cupboards, grabbing a bottle and two glasses, then sitting down opposite Gerry.
“Well,” Aldo began as he poured a drink and slid it across the table to Gerry, “Gotta say I'm curious as how ya managed to hide for that long. Thought me n' Utivich were the only ones.” Gerry took a sip of his drink, felt it burn down his throat as he swallowed.
“A family took me in. Didn't speak English.” They both laughed at that a little.
“That'd be just your luck, huh? Well, go on.”
Gerry chewed his bottom lip, hesitating before he continued. “Well, sir...”
“Just Aldo. Alright?”
“Right. Okay. Well...” Gerry took another drink. “Kagan and I got ambushed. There was... no way we could've fought 'em off so we just started running, right? We were really close, but this guy jumped out and got Andy right in the back, but he wouldn't let me go back for him so I just kept going until they got me too-- God, I don't even remember anything after that or how I got out...” He rubbed his forehead, eyes watering slightly; he knew he had to tell Aldo, but it didn't make it any easier to talk about, because the fact was his best friend was dead and gone. Ducking his head, he went quiet, downing the rest of his drink and then pouring himself another.
Aldo went on to explain what happened during and after Operation Kino, which made Gerry almost wish they were still there. At least there, he had a goal, a mission. But now? Now he was at his lieutenant's place, half-drunk and watching through heavy lidded eyes as Aldo spoke.
They kept talking until the bottle ran dry and Gerry could hardly keep his head up- being that small it'd be hard not to be a lightweight. Aldo chuckled as he helped the younger man to the guest bedroom, where Gerry crashed nearly as soon as his head touched the pillow- the first time in ages. Aldo rested the wooden crutch against the bedpost and with a slight smile, left the room and went to his own bedroom.
Peace in the house was only temporary; only a few hours passed before the sound of the crickets outside was drowned out by a sharp scream that made Aldo leap out of bed and hurry down the hallway to the other bedroom. Gerry was sitting up on the bed, hunched over a little, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath.
“Jesus Christ, Hirschberg, what the hell happened?” Closing his eyes, Gerry rubbed his forehead, then ran his fingers through his hair, damp with sweat.
“Doctor said lots of soldiers get it,” mumbled Gerry, sinking down into the bed a little, “Nightmares and stuff.” Aldo stepped into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Yup, I heard of that. Flashbacks, right?” Gerry nodded solemnly, wincing as Aldo sat closer, putting an arm around his shoulders. Neither of them honestly know what to say to each other, so they didn't say anything. Eventually, Gerry squirmed his way down until he was lying down again, and when he began to snore lightly, Aldo carefully slid off the bed and left the younger man to get some rest.
--
It was tougher than Aldo wanted to admit to see the changes in Gerold Hirschberg. He was the youngest of the eight men he'd chosen, a short, wide-eyed kid, a butcher's son- that had to count for something, didn't it? But the kid was trigger-happy and cocky, and Aldo warned him he'd have to prove he was cut out for this if he wanted to keep going. And to his surprise, the private did, staying just as eager to scalp and kill and show Aldo the jaggedly-cut work he'd made of the Nazi heads from the first day in France to the very end.
The very end- hell, Aldo never expected in a million years for the kid to ever show up again, but one day, there he was on the front page of his newspaper. He guessed funnier things had happened- after all, him and Utivich were still alive, weren't they?
But hearing about it and seeing the kid face to face were two incredibly different things. Back in France, Gerry was the one with almost too much energy, the one they had to tell to be quiet or go to sleep or just sit down already. Andy Kagan usually set him straight- the two were nearly inseparable despite being nearly complete opposites. He didn't think it would bother him as much as it did, seeing Gerry without Andy, struggling to even walk.
Aldo stepped outside the next afternoon, finding Gerry sitting on the porch steps, staring out ahead of him.
“You sleep alright after that, son?”
“Yessir-- Aldo.” Aldo smiled a little at that, resting his hand on his hip.
“So whatcha gonna do now that you're back?” Gerry turned his head to look back at him, the distress clear on his face.
“Go back to Hartford I guess.” Sighing, Aldo rested a hand on Gerry's shoulder.
“I'm not rushin' ya off or anything. Just curious.” Gerry lit a cigarette and took a long drag, blowing smoke out into the heavy summer air.
“Andy's family's got a farm. We were gonna go work there.” He shrugged. “Hartford's not so bad. I got pretty good with a knife.” He laughed hollowly.
The days were quiet; the nights frequently interrupted. Everything started to become habit- the nightmares, comforting the kid until he fell asleep, then going back to bed. It seemed like every time Gerry made him stay a little longer before he finally fell asleep, which made Aldo wonder if the kid was making any progress at all. One night there was no yelps or whimpers or screams, and Aldo was almost asleep when he heard a faint creak as the door opened.
“Yeah?”
“Can't sleep,” Gerry mumbled as he stepped into the room, “Thinking too much.” There was a rustle of blankets and Aldo felt the mattress dip slightly beside him, turning over when he felt Gerry's hand on his arm, letting out a sleepy groan. All drowsiness subsided when Gerry kissed him, only for a second before Aldo pushed him away, opening his eyes as he kept his hands on the younger man's shoulders. Gerry stared at him, the only light coming from the hallway through the half-open door.
“Go back to bed, son. You're not thinkin' straight.” Gerry only squirmed closer, shaking his head.
“If you want me to leave, just tell me so.” They stared at each other for a few moments in the dim light until Aldo finally cracked and pulled the kid close again, closing his mouth over his as Gerry lifted his good leg over Aldo's hip, pressing their bodies flush against each other.
Aldo helped Gerry out of his clothes before shedding his own and resuming their positions, reaching around Gerry to drag his fingers down the young man's back, earning a shudder as he did. Whining softly, Gerry rocked his hips back against Aldo's hand as it roamed over his ass, desperate for more contact. Aldo moved his hand, pressing two fingers against Gerry's lips, which parted with no hesitance. Sucking hungrily, Gerry knew this shouldn't have been as nostalgic as it was, but he couldn't help thinking a little of Andy as Aldo pulled away, lowering his hand again to press his fingers through Gerry's entrance. The younger man winced, breathing heavily and letting his hips rock forward as he was stretched open.
Really, he was a bit shocked Aldo hadn't kicked him out then and there- this had just been, well, a typical Gerry Hirschberg take-a-huge-fucking-chance move, and to his surprise, it worked. And Aldo certainly-- ah-- knew what he was doing.
Gerry whimpered as Aldo drew his fingers away and rolled him over so he was facing away, Aldo's body pressed against his back. He could hear Aldo spit into his palm, and shivered as the lieutenant positioned himself, pulling Gerry's leg up over his hip before thrusting inside.
Letting out a gasp, Gerry's fingers twisted in the blankets, Aldo's breath hot against his neck. The older man dragged his hand up Gerry's torso, brushing his thumb over a nipple before using his hand to pull Gerry closer, groaning as he continued to thrust into him. Gerry pushed back to meet Aldo's movements, softly moaning his name as he squirmed against him, crying out as Aldo brushed his sweet spot.
It had been too long for both of them for it to last; when Aldo felt himself getting close he slid his hand down to Gerry's groin, curling his fingers around his cock and nipping at his earlobe as he jerked him in time to the thrusts that had grown increasingly rougher. Squeezing his eyes shut, Gerry moaned loudly as his climax finally hit him, coming slick in Aldo's hand. With a few more thrusts, Aldo soon followed, the room silent save for panting and gasping.
“Can't believe that just happened,” Gerry murmured after a few minutes, combing his fingers through his dark hair. Aldo chuckled.
“Must be feelin' better. Got your nerve back anyway.” Gerry smiled a little.
“I just took a little chance. Didn't think you'd go for it.” Chuckling again, Aldo patted Gerry's thigh.
“Like I said. Lotta nerve. You're lucky I didn't pummel ya for bein' an invert.” They both laughed, Aldo keeping an arm around Gerry, who quickly fell into a long, undisturbed sleep.
Fandom: Inglourious Basterds
Rating: NC-17 (but only for one little part)
Summary: Hirschberg survives the war and doesn't know what to do with himself and his trauma... so he goes to visit Aldo.
Notes: I LOVE HIRSCHBERG, I'M SORRY. I blame napalmiris for making me start this way back in December. :D Follow-up fic mayyybe?
The first time Gerold Hirschberg was in the newspaper, it was in his obituary in the Hartford Courant.
Four months later, he made headlines.
M.I.A MEMBER OF OPERATION KINO FOUND ALIVE
After months upon months of hearing only French (and understanding very little of it), England was a welcome change for Gerry. He soon found himself on the same military base where this had all began: Aldo barking out the objectives of their mission, each man knowing they weren't going to come back home again, but damn proud anyway. It turned out most of them were right, as he soon found out- the first reporter to get to him was a rare familiar face.
“I can't believe you're alive,” Smitty smiled, eyes watering a little. “We thought everyone else was gone for sure... What about Kagan?”
“Long dead.” A shudder ran through Gerry as he recalled the blurry memory. “Who's we?”
“The lieutenant and I. Uh, if I could--”
“Is he here?” asked Gerry quickly, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. Smitty laughed.
“He went home a long time ago. What about you? Have you made any plans?”
“I'm flying home next week.” He smirked. “Didn't expect to ever say that, huh?”
When Gerry got back to Hartford, the attention he was getting was almost frightening. After being stuck with the same nine men for years, sneaking around in France, coming home to strangers and relatives and reporters swarming him felt like hell. His mother kept crying and hugging him and while it was good to be home, he wasn't used to it. He was used to only touching with a distinct purpose in mind- to scalp, to loot, to keep warm.
So Gerry went back to what he was best at- though rather than slicing the scalps off of dead Nazis, he was slicing cold cuts at his dad's deli in downtown Hartford. Even there, people kept recognizing him, kept asking him questions, asking for autographs. He'd always been a loudmouth, but now he didn't know what to say.
“What was it like killing them?”
“T-That'll be three dollars, sir.”
What was he supposed to tell them? It felt excellent, sir. Wish I was still doing it. Wish I didn't get a fucking bullet in my leg in the process. Wish you'd just pay for your fucking beef and leave.
It got worse every day, to the point where one afternoon Gerry just walked out when a man asked to sign his newspaper, sitting on a crate outside the back door, smoking until closing. By then, he'd already made up his mind.
“Gerold, you just got home--”
“And I'm gonna be in a fucking institution if I don't leave, mom.”
He packed a small bag and bought a train ticket to Tennessee- to get some real help from the only person he reasoned would understand. He laughed when his father asked if he should write first- while the Basterds practically considered Aldo a prophet in the French countryside, they all knew his reading skill was next to nothing. Not that it mattered then, anyway, and not that they thought it ever would.
Gerry had enough money for a private sleeping car- which was good, because he didn't know how great he'd be to share space with. In France, he'd learned to sleep anywhere, anytime, because you took what you could get. But since his injury, everything had changed.
Most nights he couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned until he was so exhausted he passed out, often just a few short hours before the deli opened. Sometimes he fell asleep just fine, but woke up from nightmares with a pitiful cry at ungodly hours, clutching his leg as the overwhelming sting faded instantly, his whole body trembling.
The first night on the train was one of those nights.
“Fucking run, Gerry! Fuck, don't--- worry about me, fucking-- run!”
His chest hurt, he could hardly breathe, he felt the impact before the sound even registered in his head...
Gerry jerked awake with a gasp, gripping the blankets so hard his knuckles were white. He slowly sat up, skin damp with sweat, and ran his fingertips over the scar, wincing as he pressed down a little. It was stupid and he knew it, but he checked to make sure the bullet was gone every time before crawling back under the covers.
He tried to remember lullabies Madame Pierpont sang when she changed his bandages and checked for infection in the slowly healing wound. It wasn't that she was a particularly good singer, but the sound of her voice calmed him through some of his worst fits, even if the words were all just nonsense to him. He supposed that was a good quality for a nurse to have- to be able to comfort someone who only knew how to order drinks and swear in your language. Gerry had picked up a lot over the four months he spent with the Pierponts, but not enough to write letters or anything useful now that he was in America. Then again, he didn't know what he'd write even if he knew how.
Gerry had to laugh a little when he finally got to Maynardville. While Aldo had always kept a bit of an emotional barrier between the younger soldiers, Gerry could still remember the way the lieutenant had described his hometown, like it was the greatest place on Earth. Actually being there, he couldn't quite understand the appeal of it, but he supposed anywhere probably felt better than France.
A stop into a small diner got him all the information he needed, but it only disappointed him. Aldo lived thirty miles out of town- not that he'd never walked thirty miles, but he couldn't anymore. Even short walks took forever and exhausted him so much it was embarrassing. But after explaining his story, a man sitting near him offered him a ride out, chuckling a little as Gerry muttered prayers of thanks under his breath on the way there.
After stumbling up the front steps, Gerry set his suitcase down, leaning hard onto his crutch as he knocked on the door a few times. He heard something stir inside, then moments later felt his breath hitch a little as he stood face to face with the lieutenant. Gerry could remember the first time he met Aldo, too, and he had a similar expression to the one he wore that day- checking every detail, looking him over, before finally smirking and asking ya sure yer eighteen, son?
But now it seemed slightly different. There was a bit of something else in Aldo's expression and Gerry didn't know what it was. He lowered his eyes, humiliated by his own weakness, wondering if that something else was judgment. In only a few short years, he'd gone from a bouncing, overeager kid to a jaded, crippled man with no idea what to do in his life.
Aldo just grinned and clapped Gerry on the shoulder, grabbing the younger man's suitcase and bringing it inside before he motioned for him to follow. “Glad to see ya alive, son.” Gerry limped after him, smiling a little as they made their way into the small kitchen. He sat down at Aldo's instruction, watching as the southerner looked through his cupboards, grabbing a bottle and two glasses, then sitting down opposite Gerry.
“Well,” Aldo began as he poured a drink and slid it across the table to Gerry, “Gotta say I'm curious as how ya managed to hide for that long. Thought me n' Utivich were the only ones.” Gerry took a sip of his drink, felt it burn down his throat as he swallowed.
“A family took me in. Didn't speak English.” They both laughed at that a little.
“That'd be just your luck, huh? Well, go on.”
Gerry chewed his bottom lip, hesitating before he continued. “Well, sir...”
“Just Aldo. Alright?”
“Right. Okay. Well...” Gerry took another drink. “Kagan and I got ambushed. There was... no way we could've fought 'em off so we just started running, right? We were really close, but this guy jumped out and got Andy right in the back, but he wouldn't let me go back for him so I just kept going until they got me too-- God, I don't even remember anything after that or how I got out...” He rubbed his forehead, eyes watering slightly; he knew he had to tell Aldo, but it didn't make it any easier to talk about, because the fact was his best friend was dead and gone. Ducking his head, he went quiet, downing the rest of his drink and then pouring himself another.
Aldo went on to explain what happened during and after Operation Kino, which made Gerry almost wish they were still there. At least there, he had a goal, a mission. But now? Now he was at his lieutenant's place, half-drunk and watching through heavy lidded eyes as Aldo spoke.
They kept talking until the bottle ran dry and Gerry could hardly keep his head up- being that small it'd be hard not to be a lightweight. Aldo chuckled as he helped the younger man to the guest bedroom, where Gerry crashed nearly as soon as his head touched the pillow- the first time in ages. Aldo rested the wooden crutch against the bedpost and with a slight smile, left the room and went to his own bedroom.
Peace in the house was only temporary; only a few hours passed before the sound of the crickets outside was drowned out by a sharp scream that made Aldo leap out of bed and hurry down the hallway to the other bedroom. Gerry was sitting up on the bed, hunched over a little, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath.
“Jesus Christ, Hirschberg, what the hell happened?” Closing his eyes, Gerry rubbed his forehead, then ran his fingers through his hair, damp with sweat.
“Doctor said lots of soldiers get it,” mumbled Gerry, sinking down into the bed a little, “Nightmares and stuff.” Aldo stepped into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Yup, I heard of that. Flashbacks, right?” Gerry nodded solemnly, wincing as Aldo sat closer, putting an arm around his shoulders. Neither of them honestly know what to say to each other, so they didn't say anything. Eventually, Gerry squirmed his way down until he was lying down again, and when he began to snore lightly, Aldo carefully slid off the bed and left the younger man to get some rest.
--
It was tougher than Aldo wanted to admit to see the changes in Gerold Hirschberg. He was the youngest of the eight men he'd chosen, a short, wide-eyed kid, a butcher's son- that had to count for something, didn't it? But the kid was trigger-happy and cocky, and Aldo warned him he'd have to prove he was cut out for this if he wanted to keep going. And to his surprise, the private did, staying just as eager to scalp and kill and show Aldo the jaggedly-cut work he'd made of the Nazi heads from the first day in France to the very end.
The very end- hell, Aldo never expected in a million years for the kid to ever show up again, but one day, there he was on the front page of his newspaper. He guessed funnier things had happened- after all, him and Utivich were still alive, weren't they?
But hearing about it and seeing the kid face to face were two incredibly different things. Back in France, Gerry was the one with almost too much energy, the one they had to tell to be quiet or go to sleep or just sit down already. Andy Kagan usually set him straight- the two were nearly inseparable despite being nearly complete opposites. He didn't think it would bother him as much as it did, seeing Gerry without Andy, struggling to even walk.
Aldo stepped outside the next afternoon, finding Gerry sitting on the porch steps, staring out ahead of him.
“You sleep alright after that, son?”
“Yessir-- Aldo.” Aldo smiled a little at that, resting his hand on his hip.
“So whatcha gonna do now that you're back?” Gerry turned his head to look back at him, the distress clear on his face.
“Go back to Hartford I guess.” Sighing, Aldo rested a hand on Gerry's shoulder.
“I'm not rushin' ya off or anything. Just curious.” Gerry lit a cigarette and took a long drag, blowing smoke out into the heavy summer air.
“Andy's family's got a farm. We were gonna go work there.” He shrugged. “Hartford's not so bad. I got pretty good with a knife.” He laughed hollowly.
The days were quiet; the nights frequently interrupted. Everything started to become habit- the nightmares, comforting the kid until he fell asleep, then going back to bed. It seemed like every time Gerry made him stay a little longer before he finally fell asleep, which made Aldo wonder if the kid was making any progress at all. One night there was no yelps or whimpers or screams, and Aldo was almost asleep when he heard a faint creak as the door opened.
“Yeah?”
“Can't sleep,” Gerry mumbled as he stepped into the room, “Thinking too much.” There was a rustle of blankets and Aldo felt the mattress dip slightly beside him, turning over when he felt Gerry's hand on his arm, letting out a sleepy groan. All drowsiness subsided when Gerry kissed him, only for a second before Aldo pushed him away, opening his eyes as he kept his hands on the younger man's shoulders. Gerry stared at him, the only light coming from the hallway through the half-open door.
“Go back to bed, son. You're not thinkin' straight.” Gerry only squirmed closer, shaking his head.
“If you want me to leave, just tell me so.” They stared at each other for a few moments in the dim light until Aldo finally cracked and pulled the kid close again, closing his mouth over his as Gerry lifted his good leg over Aldo's hip, pressing their bodies flush against each other.
Aldo helped Gerry out of his clothes before shedding his own and resuming their positions, reaching around Gerry to drag his fingers down the young man's back, earning a shudder as he did. Whining softly, Gerry rocked his hips back against Aldo's hand as it roamed over his ass, desperate for more contact. Aldo moved his hand, pressing two fingers against Gerry's lips, which parted with no hesitance. Sucking hungrily, Gerry knew this shouldn't have been as nostalgic as it was, but he couldn't help thinking a little of Andy as Aldo pulled away, lowering his hand again to press his fingers through Gerry's entrance. The younger man winced, breathing heavily and letting his hips rock forward as he was stretched open.
Really, he was a bit shocked Aldo hadn't kicked him out then and there- this had just been, well, a typical Gerry Hirschberg take-a-huge-fucking-chance move, and to his surprise, it worked. And Aldo certainly-- ah-- knew what he was doing.
Gerry whimpered as Aldo drew his fingers away and rolled him over so he was facing away, Aldo's body pressed against his back. He could hear Aldo spit into his palm, and shivered as the lieutenant positioned himself, pulling Gerry's leg up over his hip before thrusting inside.
Letting out a gasp, Gerry's fingers twisted in the blankets, Aldo's breath hot against his neck. The older man dragged his hand up Gerry's torso, brushing his thumb over a nipple before using his hand to pull Gerry closer, groaning as he continued to thrust into him. Gerry pushed back to meet Aldo's movements, softly moaning his name as he squirmed against him, crying out as Aldo brushed his sweet spot.
It had been too long for both of them for it to last; when Aldo felt himself getting close he slid his hand down to Gerry's groin, curling his fingers around his cock and nipping at his earlobe as he jerked him in time to the thrusts that had grown increasingly rougher. Squeezing his eyes shut, Gerry moaned loudly as his climax finally hit him, coming slick in Aldo's hand. With a few more thrusts, Aldo soon followed, the room silent save for panting and gasping.
“Can't believe that just happened,” Gerry murmured after a few minutes, combing his fingers through his dark hair. Aldo chuckled.
“Must be feelin' better. Got your nerve back anyway.” Gerry smiled a little.
“I just took a little chance. Didn't think you'd go for it.” Chuckling again, Aldo patted Gerry's thigh.
“Like I said. Lotta nerve. You're lucky I didn't pummel ya for bein' an invert.” They both laughed, Aldo keeping an arm around Gerry, who quickly fell into a long, undisturbed sleep.