Fic: Five Senses
Title Five Senses
Rating PG13 - NC17
Fandom Inglourious Basterds
Characters Ensemble
Pairing Donny/Utivich
Summery An exploration of Donny's five senses and his growing attraction to Smithson Utivich
Sight
For the first fifteen years of his life, Donny knew the best thing he ever saw in his entire life was Teddy Williams hitting a home run at the World Series. He’d been at that game, because his mother had somehow afforded those tickets and let his Uncle Thomas take him, and he witnessed the best thing in the universe. When he turned eighteen, his priorities changed, and he was sure that the best thing in the world was Amie Paulson from down the street changing, which he conveniently got to witness by accident, if there could be a more fortunate thing. He bit his lip and watched her pull off her nice cotton dress and her nice cotton panties and brassiere, and tried to ignore the fact that walking home with a Rodney was going to be awkward as Hell. But that was definitely the best sight he ever saw, with her perky breasts and pink nipples and round ass so nice and firm… Yes, that was the best.
When Donny turned twenty-six, he had a revelation. It was in Italy that he celebrated that birthday, ringing in the new year of his life with his new best friend Aldo Raine, and Donny and he both knew exactly what the best sight in the world was. The bashed in brain of a Nazi officer, when he was still alive enough to beg for help and mercy. They both agreed nothing could top that. Donny continued to believe that every time he saw it, heard it, felt it through his bones.
He met Smithson Utivich when he was twenty-eight years old. The boy was only twenty-two, a mere baby as far as Donny was concerned. But he soon learned that this particular Basterd baby had a real talent for cutting scalps and was not nearly as shy of bloodshed as the others seemed to be; even Wicki hesitated on his first cuts of scalping. Not Utivich. And Donny could respect that, he really could.
The thing about Gerry Juice: it stained. The time would come when all the Basterds learned it and had to make a run for the nearest river or stream to clean the filthy blood away. When the boys had to bathe, clothes were cast aside into the dirt or sometimes even dragged into the cold water with them to wash. Not with Utivich. He was very modest and would often bathe away from the others. It irked Donny a little bit; as if the jerk thought he was too good to bathe with the others. But as he waded through the water to confront the man, Donny found he’d actually been wrong his entire life.
The greatest sight he’d ever laid eyes on was the image of Smithson Utivich, butt-naked and soaking wet, washing himself in the soft French sunlight.
It had to have been the greatest; else Donny wouldn’t have frozen like that. He wouldn’t have gotten hard that fast. He wouldn’t be preoccupied with the thought of licking Utivich all over and fucking him solidly into the ground, even after hours when he sat on watch and let one hand drift below his waistband to relieve the pressure. He wouldn’t have come all over his hand and in his trousers to thoughts of Utivich and his perfect ass if the boy hadn’t been the greatest sight in his entire life.
Had to be.
Sound
TEDDY FUCKIN WILLIAMS KNOCKS IT OUT OF THE PARK
So fucking annoying, Utivich couldn’t help but grin. Donny’s accent bothered most people, even those who could get past Aldo’s long, sweet Southern drawl and Hirschberg’s annoyingly Jewish, nasally whine.
HE WENT ALL WAY ON THAT ONE THEY COULDN’T EVEN SEE IT
But Donny was special, because he was Jewish of course and he was a full-blooded Bostonian, born and raised. His R’s disappeared when he babbled endlessly-all the time-and when he was really angry, Donny got really loud. Really, none of the Basterds could stand to be around him and Aldo often had to make him take a breather in the woods.
However, there were times when they could appreciate Donny’s fiery enthusiasm for life. When he recounted his many experiences from Boston, living with just his mom and in a not-so-great part of town, when Donny was the Bear Jew of the neighborhood too. He brought them in with his voice, making them all experience what he did. And if they were in a quiet Parisian café with soft music in the background-violins, typically, but never live-well, even better. Utivich could have fallen asleep at those times, listening to that Northern inflection he lacked, despite living a state away from the Donowitz experience.
“Tell me about Amie Paulson,” Utivich would mutter at night, his and Donny’s bedrolls lying in opposite directions but the head of either soldier still lying next to each other. Donny nodded, hands behind his head.
“Prettiest girl in the whole world,” Donny began quietly, staring up at the stars, “Best titties I’ve ever seen too. She was sweet as Hell and mouthy like a proper Jewish vixen…”
“Know the type,” Utivich whispered.
“Bet yah fuckin do,” Donny whispered back, one hand finding Utivich’s hair, giving Donny the chance to inch closer and whisper into Utivich’s ear directly, “I sure as Hell do. Why don’t I tell yah about another Jewish vixen I know. Mouthy type. Real attitude problem.”
Utivich’s breath caught, eyes fluttering shut at the hot air washing over his cheek, “Okay…”
“Name’s Smithson Utivich,” Donny began, lips practically touching the shell of Utivich’s ear, “Finest fuck in the whole damn world…”
Utivich gasped again; the hand that had once disappeared down the waistband of his trousers with the stories of Amie Paulson now clenched with Donny’s words, “Donny, why would you say that…?”
“Artistic license,” Donny purred, his hand trailing down Utivich’s cheek. Utivich uttered a moan, his hand starting to work on himself, and fuck if that wasn’t music to Donny’s ears, “Do that again…”
Then he did. Utivich moaned, over and over into Donny’s ear as he blindly stroked himself, encouraged by soft grunts of approval from Donny. Eventually the time came for the moans to get faster, more gasping than sound, and Utivich gripped himself a little too tight, “Donny, I’m going to come-!”
“Do it,” Donny whispered, his hand petting his hair. Utivich did, with a low groan from some dark place deep inside, that made Donny kiss his ear and tell him that he was perfect.
Music to his ears.
Taste
America tasted like fat and grease and fullness and laughter. That’s what Omar said about it. France, he said, tasted like money and history and black ties and cigarettes. Most of them had to disagree-primarily Stiglitz and Wicki, being European anyway-but they did all grow to miss the down home comforts of the Land of the Free. Except for Stiglitz and Wicki, who were both getting strange cravings for Kraut food. Omar had had Kraut food before and described at as “stench and heat and blandness”. Three adjectives. Neither German-born Basterd was exactly thrilled with it.
Still. Comfort foods were hard to come by in the backwoods of France, and harder still in the cobble-laiden streets of the cities. The food they did find was bizarrely delicious, but it wasn’t really food. It was an event. Wine for celebration and foods for affairs. It wasn’t a “sit back” event. It was an ordeal, and one no one could really get into.
The day they found a restaurant that served cheeseburgers, Aldo nearly sobbed. It wasn’t entirely authentic, but the heart was in it. American-style burgers with some fancy little cheese melting over the beef, and it was good. Even Stiglitz, who’d never eaten a single bite of American food, savored the flavor of cheese, beef, and bread, complete with fried wedges of potatoes.
“Monsieur,” Omar groaned, full and content and feeling fat, “Cette cuisine était trop bienne.”
“Merci,” the waiter smiled at the table of satiated appetites, “Les gens peuvent des desserts?”
“You guys want dessert?” Omar translated-fuck if they knew when he’d gone and learned French. Aldo glanced between his bloated Basterds and nodded, “We sure do.”
The ice cream they ordered was thick and creamy and went down smoothly, solidly grounding the soldiers from any sort of physical activity for the night. In their hotel rooms, they slept like babies, bellies full and content. In one room, however, Donny still seemed to be hungry, judging by the way he was trying to suck Smitty down his throat.
“Christ!” Utivich gasped, hips thrusting up into the hot, tight mouth sucking him to oblivion.
Of the whole night, this was Donny’s favorite part. Utivich wasn’t some imitation of American life, and he wasn’t decadent like French gelato. He was bitter and salty, delicious in a strange way, addictive enough to make Donny rouse him late at night, when he felt full and groggy, just because he couldn’t get enough of Smitty. He licked his way up Utivich’s cock, tonguing the tip and drawing out drops of precome and little moans from Utivich.
“Donny, I wanna go to bed,” Utivich whined, no doubt also feeling lead-heavy from the meal, “Please, Donny…”
Donny shot him a look, bobbing his head over Utivich’s cock, hot and wet suction, letting Utivich moan and fuck his mouth, cupping his balls and waiting, waiting for Utivich just to come so he could go to bed-
“Donny!” Utivich finally gasped, gulping air as he came down Donny’s throat. Donny swallowed every drop, panting by the time he was done, slithering up Utivich’s body and leaving hot, wet kisses over the sweaty skin. When he finally got up to his neck, he stopped and practically devoured that part of him too, kissing and sucking and licking like he was starved. He couldn’t control himself around Utivich, especially when he was laid out so deliciously naked and in the bed with him. Donny pulled him close, leaving a bright hickey while Utivich drifted off, mumbling things that didn’t quite make sense.
“Not a French pastry…” he murmured quietly.
“Go to sleep, pastry,” Donny cooed, snuggling him up close, “You taste so good. Just gonna eatchya up.”
“Hate you…”
“Hush. Sleep.”
So tasty, that little Utivich. Donny grinned into the sleeping man’s hair and kissed his nose. So cute and tasty.
Smell
There was no real couth way of describing the smell of a dead Nazi. The copper rank of blood on the edge of Aldo’s knife and beneath the hot heels of the Basterds’ rubber soled boots, the musky smell of grey matter spilt over the forest floor as the sun came through the trees and the wind carried the smell of far off flowers into the macabre aroma. It made them all sick, nine times out of ten, made them gasp for oxygen above the choking smell of cooling corpses.
In town, they could only smell the grey air and the heady wine of France, which was little relief. It was months before Sakowitz and the other asthmatics could get a truly clean breath of air, out in the dairy country of France, where the air smelt only of happy cows and clean-cut grass. At one point they even had a clean place to sleep, allowed to stay by a kind dairy farmer by the name of LaPedite. Kagan liked him, talking his ear off about farm life in America, and it would have taken a blind man to ignore how beautiful his three daughters were. Harmless flirting eventually got the Basterds thrown to the curb-in his defense, Hirschberg hadn’t exactly understood what Charlotte meant by ‘non’-and back into the stinking forests crawling with Nazis.
The only solace Donny found in the unfortunate situation was the privacy to enjoy the wilderness in his own particular way. Namely, pulling a certain little Basterd close and inhaling his scent; musky and sweet, something like wet firewood that you couldn’t get to light. That made the world disappear and let Donny escape. Utivich’s smell was so indescribably good to him that he could hardly think when that perfectly combed head of hair got within inches of his face-close enough to inhale and nuzzle and scent him almost animalistically. As if Utivich really was his and this scent was only for him.
“Donny!” Utivich laughed, quiet and breathless when Donny turned into a bloodhound and started to sniff and nuzzle him all over, “C’mon, stop, I’m ticklish!”
“Can’t,” Donny grunted, pinning him and sniffing the base of his neck, “Smell too good.”
“Jesus, get off!” He laughed again, squirming underneath der Bearen-Jude. He knew it was useless from past experiences. Something really drove Donny over the edge about the way he smelled-though Utivich preferred to think of himself smelling like ass and dirt-and he wouldn’t be left alone until Donny had his fix. Whenever that would be.
“Fuck, you smell so great,” Donny huffed against his ear; Utivich’s hair was his favorite part, “Never gonna get sicka this. When I’m fallin’ asleep t’night an yah on watch, I’m gonna thinka this an sleep like a fuckin baby.”
Utivich sighed, grinning despite himself, letting himself be man-handled by this scent-oriented creature Donny turned into.
“You’re so fucking weird.”
Touch
Wool was itchy. Donny found that out when the snow started to fall in late October, and they all had to break out the reserve layers for just this time of year. It scratched at him-the pair of long johns he was forced to wear beneath all his clothes. It made him anxious and jumpy, perpetually over stimulated with the annoyance of a full body itch. Everyone suffered in winter, even thick-skinned Germans hated the itching wool. Stiglitz began scowling at everything, even Wicki, because of the big fucking annoyance of wool.
Aldo didn’t seem to mind. He was used to long johns from cold Tennessee winters. Fucking tool.
“Donny, shut up,” Utivich hissed, trying to get as close as he could to the warming fire without burning himself. As the flames burned themselves out, Aldo made the bold and obvious decision:
“Okay, everyone pair up for bed. Nights are only gonna get colder, so pick your partner and get cozy.”
“Sir?” Omar sniffed tiredly.
“Sharing body heat, c’mon Omar. You an’ me got first watch.”
“Shit. Yes sir.” Omar grumbled, grabbing his blanket to keep him warm so far away from the dying embers. Everyone paired up, though because of the numbers Hirschberg had to sleep with both Sakowitz and Kagan, but nobody really cared. The idea turned out to work wonders and very Basterd was kept nice and toasty, even inside those cursed long johns.
“Smitty,” Donny hissed into his bed partner’s neck-Utivich was the only logical choice Donny could have made, “You awake?”
“Of course,” Utivich hissed back, but didn’t bother to roll over. It didn’t matter. Donny just scootched up close so Utivich could feel the heat from Donny’s very much awake cock, even through the multiple layers between the naked skin. Utivich closed his eyes, dragging Donny’s hand down to his own crotch, rolling into the firm palm.
“You know what,” Donny kissed the back of his neck, “I want to do?” Another kiss, “Wanna get you naked.” Kiss, “And fuck yah until yah warm.”
“Jesus…” Utivich tilted his head back, kissing Donny briefly, “We can’t.”
“I want to.”
“But we can’t.”
“I’m going to.”
“Donny-!”
There was a brief skirmish between the two, until Utivich was entirely topless and Donny’s head was ducked beneath the covers, kissing all over Utivich’s chest like he knew he liked. Utivich decided to let it happen, head falling back with closed eyes, twigs short and snapping beneath his head, uncomfortable and scratchy. But Donny’s lips over his skin, colder than Utivich’s body and hot and wet from his warm mouth, hot tongue licking over his stomach while Donny worked his way down, pulling his long johns off and exposing him beneath the scratchy blanket. To Utivich, his whole world tunneled into just Donny’s warm, wonderful mouth and the cold world around him, outside of the blanketed bliss. Soon enough, it was Donny’s hot, naked body pushing down on Utivich’s hot, naked body, kissing the life out him and grinding unabashedly, as if they weren’t surrounded by sleeping comrades and the notoriously light-sleeping Wicki. As if any moment, they wouldn’t be caught and exposed, ridiculed and Hell, probably deported from Operation Kino. The danger was tense and palpable, and just served to make Utivich crave Donny more than ever.
His fingers were rough, pressing in with spit-slicked ease, filling Utivich up and making him gasp hard. It felt so good, rough and deep, pressing in against that spot inside-his prostate, he knew-until Utivich was ready to come right then and there. But he wasn’t allowed and instead he felt the thick, hot girth of Donny pushing inside him, and his eyes rolled back a little. Of course, it hurt, hurt like Hell, and it wasn’t too long before Utivich was squirming from the pain and going limp in Donny’s hand. Talented a lover as Utivich knew him to be, he couldn’t help but hate Donny a little bit for the obvious pleasure he was in.
“Just tell me when yah ready,” Donny kissed his neck again, slow and wet, “An’ I’ll fuck yah good an proper.”
Utivich nodded and let his body adjust, taking in deep, icy breaths. Donny still felt so huge inside him, but the pain was starting to fade. He felt stretched and full, in a very strange and awkward way, but he could manage it. With a nod, he told Donny to continue-quietly, stupid-and Donny did, starting with small, hesitant thrusts. It shook Utivich bodily, but in no time he found that he was starting to enjoy the feeling of being full, and his erection returned slowly. Before long, he was panting for the thrusts to get harder and faster, until he was rutting back with the thrusts and so close to coming.
“More,” Utivich gasped, hands grasping randomly over his body, eventually ending on his hairy Jew chest and tweaking his nipples, “C’mon Donny, make me come…!”
Donny did, snarling a bit and jerking Utivich off hard and fast until the body beneath him started to jerk and Utivich moaned, spilling over his hand in spurt after spurt. Donny nearly shouted with the clenching muscles around his cock, but instead bit hard on Utivich’s shoulder and let himself spill deep inside.
It was at that moment of perfection that Utivich sat up, looking behind him to see Wicki’s tired, annoyed eyes staring back.
“Are you done?” He bit in a harsh whisper, obviously too tired and irritated to be shocked by the sight of Sergeant Donowitz fucking Private Utivich. Utivich hid his face in his bedroll’s pillow and let Donny handle the situation.
“You done watchin, Kraut queer?”
“Fuck off, Donowitz,” Stiglitz growled, “Wicki, go the fuck to sleep.”
“Bekommen Sie Ihren Hahn weg von meiner Hüfte, und ich!”
“I swear to God I’m going to kill you.”
Donny fell asleep grinning that night, half-dressed and warm as an oven with Utivich curled up against his chest, smiling contently against the cooling sweat on his skin.
End.
Rating PG13 - NC17
Fandom Inglourious Basterds
Characters Ensemble
Pairing Donny/Utivich
Summery An exploration of Donny's five senses and his growing attraction to Smithson Utivich
Sight
For the first fifteen years of his life, Donny knew the best thing he ever saw in his entire life was Teddy Williams hitting a home run at the World Series. He’d been at that game, because his mother had somehow afforded those tickets and let his Uncle Thomas take him, and he witnessed the best thing in the universe. When he turned eighteen, his priorities changed, and he was sure that the best thing in the world was Amie Paulson from down the street changing, which he conveniently got to witness by accident, if there could be a more fortunate thing. He bit his lip and watched her pull off her nice cotton dress and her nice cotton panties and brassiere, and tried to ignore the fact that walking home with a Rodney was going to be awkward as Hell. But that was definitely the best sight he ever saw, with her perky breasts and pink nipples and round ass so nice and firm… Yes, that was the best.
When Donny turned twenty-six, he had a revelation. It was in Italy that he celebrated that birthday, ringing in the new year of his life with his new best friend Aldo Raine, and Donny and he both knew exactly what the best sight in the world was. The bashed in brain of a Nazi officer, when he was still alive enough to beg for help and mercy. They both agreed nothing could top that. Donny continued to believe that every time he saw it, heard it, felt it through his bones.
He met Smithson Utivich when he was twenty-eight years old. The boy was only twenty-two, a mere baby as far as Donny was concerned. But he soon learned that this particular Basterd baby had a real talent for cutting scalps and was not nearly as shy of bloodshed as the others seemed to be; even Wicki hesitated on his first cuts of scalping. Not Utivich. And Donny could respect that, he really could.
The thing about Gerry Juice: it stained. The time would come when all the Basterds learned it and had to make a run for the nearest river or stream to clean the filthy blood away. When the boys had to bathe, clothes were cast aside into the dirt or sometimes even dragged into the cold water with them to wash. Not with Utivich. He was very modest and would often bathe away from the others. It irked Donny a little bit; as if the jerk thought he was too good to bathe with the others. But as he waded through the water to confront the man, Donny found he’d actually been wrong his entire life.
The greatest sight he’d ever laid eyes on was the image of Smithson Utivich, butt-naked and soaking wet, washing himself in the soft French sunlight.
It had to have been the greatest; else Donny wouldn’t have frozen like that. He wouldn’t have gotten hard that fast. He wouldn’t be preoccupied with the thought of licking Utivich all over and fucking him solidly into the ground, even after hours when he sat on watch and let one hand drift below his waistband to relieve the pressure. He wouldn’t have come all over his hand and in his trousers to thoughts of Utivich and his perfect ass if the boy hadn’t been the greatest sight in his entire life.
Had to be.
Sound
TEDDY FUCKIN WILLIAMS KNOCKS IT OUT OF THE PARK
So fucking annoying, Utivich couldn’t help but grin. Donny’s accent bothered most people, even those who could get past Aldo’s long, sweet Southern drawl and Hirschberg’s annoyingly Jewish, nasally whine.
HE WENT ALL WAY ON THAT ONE THEY COULDN’T EVEN SEE IT
But Donny was special, because he was Jewish of course and he was a full-blooded Bostonian, born and raised. His R’s disappeared when he babbled endlessly-all the time-and when he was really angry, Donny got really loud. Really, none of the Basterds could stand to be around him and Aldo often had to make him take a breather in the woods.
However, there were times when they could appreciate Donny’s fiery enthusiasm for life. When he recounted his many experiences from Boston, living with just his mom and in a not-so-great part of town, when Donny was the Bear Jew of the neighborhood too. He brought them in with his voice, making them all experience what he did. And if they were in a quiet Parisian café with soft music in the background-violins, typically, but never live-well, even better. Utivich could have fallen asleep at those times, listening to that Northern inflection he lacked, despite living a state away from the Donowitz experience.
“Tell me about Amie Paulson,” Utivich would mutter at night, his and Donny’s bedrolls lying in opposite directions but the head of either soldier still lying next to each other. Donny nodded, hands behind his head.
“Prettiest girl in the whole world,” Donny began quietly, staring up at the stars, “Best titties I’ve ever seen too. She was sweet as Hell and mouthy like a proper Jewish vixen…”
“Know the type,” Utivich whispered.
“Bet yah fuckin do,” Donny whispered back, one hand finding Utivich’s hair, giving Donny the chance to inch closer and whisper into Utivich’s ear directly, “I sure as Hell do. Why don’t I tell yah about another Jewish vixen I know. Mouthy type. Real attitude problem.”
Utivich’s breath caught, eyes fluttering shut at the hot air washing over his cheek, “Okay…”
“Name’s Smithson Utivich,” Donny began, lips practically touching the shell of Utivich’s ear, “Finest fuck in the whole damn world…”
Utivich gasped again; the hand that had once disappeared down the waistband of his trousers with the stories of Amie Paulson now clenched with Donny’s words, “Donny, why would you say that…?”
“Artistic license,” Donny purred, his hand trailing down Utivich’s cheek. Utivich uttered a moan, his hand starting to work on himself, and fuck if that wasn’t music to Donny’s ears, “Do that again…”
Then he did. Utivich moaned, over and over into Donny’s ear as he blindly stroked himself, encouraged by soft grunts of approval from Donny. Eventually the time came for the moans to get faster, more gasping than sound, and Utivich gripped himself a little too tight, “Donny, I’m going to come-!”
“Do it,” Donny whispered, his hand petting his hair. Utivich did, with a low groan from some dark place deep inside, that made Donny kiss his ear and tell him that he was perfect.
Music to his ears.
Taste
America tasted like fat and grease and fullness and laughter. That’s what Omar said about it. France, he said, tasted like money and history and black ties and cigarettes. Most of them had to disagree-primarily Stiglitz and Wicki, being European anyway-but they did all grow to miss the down home comforts of the Land of the Free. Except for Stiglitz and Wicki, who were both getting strange cravings for Kraut food. Omar had had Kraut food before and described at as “stench and heat and blandness”. Three adjectives. Neither German-born Basterd was exactly thrilled with it.
Still. Comfort foods were hard to come by in the backwoods of France, and harder still in the cobble-laiden streets of the cities. The food they did find was bizarrely delicious, but it wasn’t really food. It was an event. Wine for celebration and foods for affairs. It wasn’t a “sit back” event. It was an ordeal, and one no one could really get into.
The day they found a restaurant that served cheeseburgers, Aldo nearly sobbed. It wasn’t entirely authentic, but the heart was in it. American-style burgers with some fancy little cheese melting over the beef, and it was good. Even Stiglitz, who’d never eaten a single bite of American food, savored the flavor of cheese, beef, and bread, complete with fried wedges of potatoes.
“Monsieur,” Omar groaned, full and content and feeling fat, “Cette cuisine était trop bienne.”
“Merci,” the waiter smiled at the table of satiated appetites, “Les gens peuvent des desserts?”
“You guys want dessert?” Omar translated-fuck if they knew when he’d gone and learned French. Aldo glanced between his bloated Basterds and nodded, “We sure do.”
The ice cream they ordered was thick and creamy and went down smoothly, solidly grounding the soldiers from any sort of physical activity for the night. In their hotel rooms, they slept like babies, bellies full and content. In one room, however, Donny still seemed to be hungry, judging by the way he was trying to suck Smitty down his throat.
“Christ!” Utivich gasped, hips thrusting up into the hot, tight mouth sucking him to oblivion.
Of the whole night, this was Donny’s favorite part. Utivich wasn’t some imitation of American life, and he wasn’t decadent like French gelato. He was bitter and salty, delicious in a strange way, addictive enough to make Donny rouse him late at night, when he felt full and groggy, just because he couldn’t get enough of Smitty. He licked his way up Utivich’s cock, tonguing the tip and drawing out drops of precome and little moans from Utivich.
“Donny, I wanna go to bed,” Utivich whined, no doubt also feeling lead-heavy from the meal, “Please, Donny…”
Donny shot him a look, bobbing his head over Utivich’s cock, hot and wet suction, letting Utivich moan and fuck his mouth, cupping his balls and waiting, waiting for Utivich just to come so he could go to bed-
“Donny!” Utivich finally gasped, gulping air as he came down Donny’s throat. Donny swallowed every drop, panting by the time he was done, slithering up Utivich’s body and leaving hot, wet kisses over the sweaty skin. When he finally got up to his neck, he stopped and practically devoured that part of him too, kissing and sucking and licking like he was starved. He couldn’t control himself around Utivich, especially when he was laid out so deliciously naked and in the bed with him. Donny pulled him close, leaving a bright hickey while Utivich drifted off, mumbling things that didn’t quite make sense.
“Not a French pastry…” he murmured quietly.
“Go to sleep, pastry,” Donny cooed, snuggling him up close, “You taste so good. Just gonna eatchya up.”
“Hate you…”
“Hush. Sleep.”
So tasty, that little Utivich. Donny grinned into the sleeping man’s hair and kissed his nose. So cute and tasty.
Smell
There was no real couth way of describing the smell of a dead Nazi. The copper rank of blood on the edge of Aldo’s knife and beneath the hot heels of the Basterds’ rubber soled boots, the musky smell of grey matter spilt over the forest floor as the sun came through the trees and the wind carried the smell of far off flowers into the macabre aroma. It made them all sick, nine times out of ten, made them gasp for oxygen above the choking smell of cooling corpses.
In town, they could only smell the grey air and the heady wine of France, which was little relief. It was months before Sakowitz and the other asthmatics could get a truly clean breath of air, out in the dairy country of France, where the air smelt only of happy cows and clean-cut grass. At one point they even had a clean place to sleep, allowed to stay by a kind dairy farmer by the name of LaPedite. Kagan liked him, talking his ear off about farm life in America, and it would have taken a blind man to ignore how beautiful his three daughters were. Harmless flirting eventually got the Basterds thrown to the curb-in his defense, Hirschberg hadn’t exactly understood what Charlotte meant by ‘non’-and back into the stinking forests crawling with Nazis.
The only solace Donny found in the unfortunate situation was the privacy to enjoy the wilderness in his own particular way. Namely, pulling a certain little Basterd close and inhaling his scent; musky and sweet, something like wet firewood that you couldn’t get to light. That made the world disappear and let Donny escape. Utivich’s smell was so indescribably good to him that he could hardly think when that perfectly combed head of hair got within inches of his face-close enough to inhale and nuzzle and scent him almost animalistically. As if Utivich really was his and this scent was only for him.
“Donny!” Utivich laughed, quiet and breathless when Donny turned into a bloodhound and started to sniff and nuzzle him all over, “C’mon, stop, I’m ticklish!”
“Can’t,” Donny grunted, pinning him and sniffing the base of his neck, “Smell too good.”
“Jesus, get off!” He laughed again, squirming underneath der Bearen-Jude. He knew it was useless from past experiences. Something really drove Donny over the edge about the way he smelled-though Utivich preferred to think of himself smelling like ass and dirt-and he wouldn’t be left alone until Donny had his fix. Whenever that would be.
“Fuck, you smell so great,” Donny huffed against his ear; Utivich’s hair was his favorite part, “Never gonna get sicka this. When I’m fallin’ asleep t’night an yah on watch, I’m gonna thinka this an sleep like a fuckin baby.”
Utivich sighed, grinning despite himself, letting himself be man-handled by this scent-oriented creature Donny turned into.
“You’re so fucking weird.”
Touch
Wool was itchy. Donny found that out when the snow started to fall in late October, and they all had to break out the reserve layers for just this time of year. It scratched at him-the pair of long johns he was forced to wear beneath all his clothes. It made him anxious and jumpy, perpetually over stimulated with the annoyance of a full body itch. Everyone suffered in winter, even thick-skinned Germans hated the itching wool. Stiglitz began scowling at everything, even Wicki, because of the big fucking annoyance of wool.
Aldo didn’t seem to mind. He was used to long johns from cold Tennessee winters. Fucking tool.
“Donny, shut up,” Utivich hissed, trying to get as close as he could to the warming fire without burning himself. As the flames burned themselves out, Aldo made the bold and obvious decision:
“Okay, everyone pair up for bed. Nights are only gonna get colder, so pick your partner and get cozy.”
“Sir?” Omar sniffed tiredly.
“Sharing body heat, c’mon Omar. You an’ me got first watch.”
“Shit. Yes sir.” Omar grumbled, grabbing his blanket to keep him warm so far away from the dying embers. Everyone paired up, though because of the numbers Hirschberg had to sleep with both Sakowitz and Kagan, but nobody really cared. The idea turned out to work wonders and very Basterd was kept nice and toasty, even inside those cursed long johns.
“Smitty,” Donny hissed into his bed partner’s neck-Utivich was the only logical choice Donny could have made, “You awake?”
“Of course,” Utivich hissed back, but didn’t bother to roll over. It didn’t matter. Donny just scootched up close so Utivich could feel the heat from Donny’s very much awake cock, even through the multiple layers between the naked skin. Utivich closed his eyes, dragging Donny’s hand down to his own crotch, rolling into the firm palm.
“You know what,” Donny kissed the back of his neck, “I want to do?” Another kiss, “Wanna get you naked.” Kiss, “And fuck yah until yah warm.”
“Jesus…” Utivich tilted his head back, kissing Donny briefly, “We can’t.”
“I want to.”
“But we can’t.”
“I’m going to.”
“Donny-!”
There was a brief skirmish between the two, until Utivich was entirely topless and Donny’s head was ducked beneath the covers, kissing all over Utivich’s chest like he knew he liked. Utivich decided to let it happen, head falling back with closed eyes, twigs short and snapping beneath his head, uncomfortable and scratchy. But Donny’s lips over his skin, colder than Utivich’s body and hot and wet from his warm mouth, hot tongue licking over his stomach while Donny worked his way down, pulling his long johns off and exposing him beneath the scratchy blanket. To Utivich, his whole world tunneled into just Donny’s warm, wonderful mouth and the cold world around him, outside of the blanketed bliss. Soon enough, it was Donny’s hot, naked body pushing down on Utivich’s hot, naked body, kissing the life out him and grinding unabashedly, as if they weren’t surrounded by sleeping comrades and the notoriously light-sleeping Wicki. As if any moment, they wouldn’t be caught and exposed, ridiculed and Hell, probably deported from Operation Kino. The danger was tense and palpable, and just served to make Utivich crave Donny more than ever.
His fingers were rough, pressing in with spit-slicked ease, filling Utivich up and making him gasp hard. It felt so good, rough and deep, pressing in against that spot inside-his prostate, he knew-until Utivich was ready to come right then and there. But he wasn’t allowed and instead he felt the thick, hot girth of Donny pushing inside him, and his eyes rolled back a little. Of course, it hurt, hurt like Hell, and it wasn’t too long before Utivich was squirming from the pain and going limp in Donny’s hand. Talented a lover as Utivich knew him to be, he couldn’t help but hate Donny a little bit for the obvious pleasure he was in.
“Just tell me when yah ready,” Donny kissed his neck again, slow and wet, “An’ I’ll fuck yah good an proper.”
Utivich nodded and let his body adjust, taking in deep, icy breaths. Donny still felt so huge inside him, but the pain was starting to fade. He felt stretched and full, in a very strange and awkward way, but he could manage it. With a nod, he told Donny to continue-quietly, stupid-and Donny did, starting with small, hesitant thrusts. It shook Utivich bodily, but in no time he found that he was starting to enjoy the feeling of being full, and his erection returned slowly. Before long, he was panting for the thrusts to get harder and faster, until he was rutting back with the thrusts and so close to coming.
“More,” Utivich gasped, hands grasping randomly over his body, eventually ending on his hairy Jew chest and tweaking his nipples, “C’mon Donny, make me come…!”
Donny did, snarling a bit and jerking Utivich off hard and fast until the body beneath him started to jerk and Utivich moaned, spilling over his hand in spurt after spurt. Donny nearly shouted with the clenching muscles around his cock, but instead bit hard on Utivich’s shoulder and let himself spill deep inside.
It was at that moment of perfection that Utivich sat up, looking behind him to see Wicki’s tired, annoyed eyes staring back.
“Are you done?” He bit in a harsh whisper, obviously too tired and irritated to be shocked by the sight of Sergeant Donowitz fucking Private Utivich. Utivich hid his face in his bedroll’s pillow and let Donny handle the situation.
“You done watchin, Kraut queer?”
“Fuck off, Donowitz,” Stiglitz growled, “Wicki, go the fuck to sleep.”
“Bekommen Sie Ihren Hahn weg von meiner Hüfte, und ich!”
“I swear to God I’m going to kill you.”
Donny fell asleep grinning that night, half-dressed and warm as an oven with Utivich curled up against his chest, smiling contently against the cooling sweat on his skin.
End.