Fic: The Care and Keeping of Smithson Utivich
Title Music (2/3?)
Rating NC17
Fandom Inglourious Basterds (AU)
Characters -
Pairing Donny/Utivich
Summery The clothes plan going less than perfectly, Donny moves on to another plan of attack.
A week later, Smithson had gone back to his eye-sore wardrobe and Donny had lost. No matter, he was a determined son of a bitch. If worse came to worse he'd just fuck the faggotry out of Smithson. That would work, wouldn't it?
Next point of attack was his music. The little floof was constantly singing Owl City, an annoying mix of inane lyrics and some shit about techno pop, Donny didn't really care enough to listen when Smithson tried to share the wonder of this musical garbage. On top of that, he loved every other pop and techno has been there ever was, never passing up the chance to start dancing along with 3OH!3 and Ke$ha, God help him. At least, for this moment, he wasn't singing Miley Cyrus, but who knows how long it would be before that.
Something had to be done.
“You got terrible taste in music, babe,” Donny informed him one evening when they were snuggled together (though Donny would never describe it that way) on the couch, watching TV trash. Smithson looked up from his book, never actually watching in the first place, but all the same looked shaken and annoyed.
“Excuse me?”
“Yah music sucks. You should listen to real bands.”
Smithson knew exactly what Donny was referring to, “Owl City is a real band, Donny. It just happens to be one really talented guy and a keyboard. And a computer.”
Donny snorted, having had this argument before.
“No man, I've heard those lyrics,” he started down a familiar path in the conversation, “It ain't music.”
Within five minutes, the peaceful little apartment on West 81st filled up with Black Sabbath, Metallica, and ACDC (thankfully not all at once), and Smithson was ready to grab a knife to end his misery. How could anyone listen to such disgusting, antiquated music? It wasn't even auto-tuned! And that showed prominently; Smithson began to wonder why his ears weren't actually bleeding from this onslaught of classic Rock.
“Can't we listen to the Beatles?” Smithson pleaded, hands clasped over his ears, “Or Queen??”
“Fuck no,” Donny spat, air-guitaring, “The best part's coming up!”
Smithson moaned with protest, digging into desperation and shoving his head into the couch, where it was only marginally better. He really didn't understand the appeal of this Hard Rock, and much preferred to listen to something at least along the lines of Queen or Bowie. They both liked Queen. Donny had made this apparent on their first “date”, blasting Don't Stop Me Now in his home for them both to dance to. So. Why did Smithson have to suffer?
Donny said it was to build up tolerance. “If yah tolerate somethin, yah learn to like it. Like me!”
Couldn't argue there.
After a great deal of whining like a bitch, Smithson got Donny to repeal the noise pollution. In an assessment afterward, Donny got Smithson to admit that maybe, just maybe, he might have enjoyed some parts of the songs.
“Oh I'll getchya to enjoy the whole fucking thing,” Donny promised, shoving Smithson down onto the couch and settled between his legs. Before Smithson could ask what in Holy Fuck Donny thought he was doing, his dick was in Donny's hand and being tugged to life. It wasn't long before Smithson's hips were canting in the rhythm, hissing breaths escaping with the rough pulls of Donny's hand.
“Donny,” Smithson hissed, head back and glasses pushed up to his forehead, nails digging into the cushions. Donny said nothing and swiftly swallowed him down, gulping wetly around him until Smithson was digging his heels into the hardwood floor and gasping hard.
Then he started humming.
Smithson wasn't sure, but it sounded vaguely like the tune to For Whom The Bell Tolls (Metallica). A deep, heavy rhythm that was as regular as it was driving Smithson batshit insane. Donny's hums got faster as he hummed along with the lyrics, which were now crystal clear in Smithson's mind, even only having heard the song twice (once in Zombieland and once now. He liked Zombieland. He thought Columbus was cute).
Make us fight
In the early day
Constant chill deep inside
His breath stuttered as Donny hummed the chorus and bobbed his head, eyes so dark they were nearly black and boring a hole through Smithson's head. He shivered hard, winding a hand into the back of Donny's head and thrusting up counterpoint to the rhythm established until Donny was chuckling and massaging his ballsack too. The man was pure evil, Smithson decided, hiding his face in the crook of his arm and coming like a freight train down Donny's throat.
Like that would just be the end of it.
Donny teased Smithson to orgasm through three other songs that night, leaving Smithson nearly sobbing with pleasure through each one. Because when Donny Donowitz wanted to tease a man, he fucking teased.
After Smithson's fourth orgasm, he collapsed on the bed, shaking like a leaf and hugging his pillow, fucked out completely without Donny ever having been inside him. That was not fair. Even with the three solid hours of teasing and coming, Smithson felt like he missed out. Thankfully, Donny wasn't immune and was currently jerking off quick and rough at the end of the bed.
“You're evil,” Smithson said and when did his voice get so raw?
Donny just laughed and came with a harsh grunt before joining Smithson on the bed and tugging him up to his side. Smithson didn't protest, just shook against him and wished to fall dead asleep.
“By the way,” Donny scratched his nose absently, as if this evening were the most casual thing in the world, “What do you think about my music now?”
Smithson thought quietly, fingernail tracing down Donny's neck.
“I don't know if I'll be able to listen to it without coming in my pants.”
That was just fine by Donny.
Rating NC17
Fandom Inglourious Basterds (AU)
Characters -
Pairing Donny/Utivich
Summery The clothes plan going less than perfectly, Donny moves on to another plan of attack.
A week later, Smithson had gone back to his eye-sore wardrobe and Donny had lost. No matter, he was a determined son of a bitch. If worse came to worse he'd just fuck the faggotry out of Smithson. That would work, wouldn't it?
Next point of attack was his music. The little floof was constantly singing Owl City, an annoying mix of inane lyrics and some shit about techno pop, Donny didn't really care enough to listen when Smithson tried to share the wonder of this musical garbage. On top of that, he loved every other pop and techno has been there ever was, never passing up the chance to start dancing along with 3OH!3 and Ke$ha, God help him. At least, for this moment, he wasn't singing Miley Cyrus, but who knows how long it would be before that.
Something had to be done.
“You got terrible taste in music, babe,” Donny informed him one evening when they were snuggled together (though Donny would never describe it that way) on the couch, watching TV trash. Smithson looked up from his book, never actually watching in the first place, but all the same looked shaken and annoyed.
“Excuse me?”
“Yah music sucks. You should listen to real bands.”
Smithson knew exactly what Donny was referring to, “Owl City is a real band, Donny. It just happens to be one really talented guy and a keyboard. And a computer.”
Donny snorted, having had this argument before.
“No man, I've heard those lyrics,” he started down a familiar path in the conversation, “It ain't music.”
Within five minutes, the peaceful little apartment on West 81st filled up with Black Sabbath, Metallica, and ACDC (thankfully not all at once), and Smithson was ready to grab a knife to end his misery. How could anyone listen to such disgusting, antiquated music? It wasn't even auto-tuned! And that showed prominently; Smithson began to wonder why his ears weren't actually bleeding from this onslaught of classic Rock.
“Can't we listen to the Beatles?” Smithson pleaded, hands clasped over his ears, “Or Queen??”
“Fuck no,” Donny spat, air-guitaring, “The best part's coming up!”
Smithson moaned with protest, digging into desperation and shoving his head into the couch, where it was only marginally better. He really didn't understand the appeal of this Hard Rock, and much preferred to listen to something at least along the lines of Queen or Bowie. They both liked Queen. Donny had made this apparent on their first “date”, blasting Don't Stop Me Now in his home for them both to dance to. So. Why did Smithson have to suffer?
Donny said it was to build up tolerance. “If yah tolerate somethin, yah learn to like it. Like me!”
Couldn't argue there.
After a great deal of whining like a bitch, Smithson got Donny to repeal the noise pollution. In an assessment afterward, Donny got Smithson to admit that maybe, just maybe, he might have enjoyed some parts of the songs.
“Oh I'll getchya to enjoy the whole fucking thing,” Donny promised, shoving Smithson down onto the couch and settled between his legs. Before Smithson could ask what in Holy Fuck Donny thought he was doing, his dick was in Donny's hand and being tugged to life. It wasn't long before Smithson's hips were canting in the rhythm, hissing breaths escaping with the rough pulls of Donny's hand.
“Donny,” Smithson hissed, head back and glasses pushed up to his forehead, nails digging into the cushions. Donny said nothing and swiftly swallowed him down, gulping wetly around him until Smithson was digging his heels into the hardwood floor and gasping hard.
Then he started humming.
Smithson wasn't sure, but it sounded vaguely like the tune to For Whom The Bell Tolls (Metallica). A deep, heavy rhythm that was as regular as it was driving Smithson batshit insane. Donny's hums got faster as he hummed along with the lyrics, which were now crystal clear in Smithson's mind, even only having heard the song twice (once in Zombieland and once now. He liked Zombieland. He thought Columbus was cute).
Make us fight
In the early day
Constant chill deep inside
His breath stuttered as Donny hummed the chorus and bobbed his head, eyes so dark they were nearly black and boring a hole through Smithson's head. He shivered hard, winding a hand into the back of Donny's head and thrusting up counterpoint to the rhythm established until Donny was chuckling and massaging his ballsack too. The man was pure evil, Smithson decided, hiding his face in the crook of his arm and coming like a freight train down Donny's throat.
Like that would just be the end of it.
Donny teased Smithson to orgasm through three other songs that night, leaving Smithson nearly sobbing with pleasure through each one. Because when Donny Donowitz wanted to tease a man, he fucking teased.
After Smithson's fourth orgasm, he collapsed on the bed, shaking like a leaf and hugging his pillow, fucked out completely without Donny ever having been inside him. That was not fair. Even with the three solid hours of teasing and coming, Smithson felt like he missed out. Thankfully, Donny wasn't immune and was currently jerking off quick and rough at the end of the bed.
“You're evil,” Smithson said and when did his voice get so raw?
Donny just laughed and came with a harsh grunt before joining Smithson on the bed and tugging him up to his side. Smithson didn't protest, just shook against him and wished to fall dead asleep.
“By the way,” Donny scratched his nose absently, as if this evening were the most casual thing in the world, “What do you think about my music now?”
Smithson thought quietly, fingernail tracing down Donny's neck.
“I don't know if I'll be able to listen to it without coming in my pants.”
That was just fine by Donny.