LUST
Sicily had been good for Donnie; he had more or less found his calling. He was good at taking lives, better than anything else he'd ever done. Even beauty school had taken effort, but this must have been some kind of god given talent. The guns felt perfect, the knives felt even better and the fear in his enemy's eyes sent little warm tinglies into his stomach. Aldo and Donnie spent most of their Sicilian 'vacation' in each other's company. They talked about the war, Hitler, home. Aldo told Donnie all about his apache ancestry and in turn, Donnie told Aldo about being Jewish.
"Oh-kay, here's one: what would you do to Adolf if you could git your big 'ol hands on him?" Aldo asked while they strolled through an abandoned field one rainy afternoon.
Donnie stopped walking for a minute to push the wet hair back, out of his eyes. "No one's ever asked me that before."
"Well, I suppose it's 'bout time someone did."
"I would do things a man should never say out loud Lieutenant. Terrible things." Donnie looked the picture of contemplation but for a little smile playing on the corner of his lips.
When Aldo had been given his new mission, he knew there was only one Staff Sergeant up for the task, only one man in the whole world he wanted to help him choose some soldiers and run 'em across France.
Aldo and Donnie had hand picked these boys, spending hours poring over files in order to find the eight most ruthless, most angry, and most Jewish soldiers in the United States Armed Forces.
Donnie could clearly remember reading the file of Pfc. Smithson Utivich through the fog of other soldiers. The 23-year-old kid from Manhattan who had been psychologically profiled four separate times for "repeatedly describing in detail his eagerness to mutilate the bodies of deceased Nazi soldiers." Without even asking his lieutenant, he put Smitty's file in the pack marked Aldo's Jews.
Smitty had always fascinated Donnie. Even now, he sat watching the smaller man scalp the Krauts, the smell of dirt, sweat, cold and iron wafting into his nostrils. He paid close attention to the way Smitty's hands never shook as he made the near surgical incisions, which always separated his scalps from the rest. So different from the maniacal way Donnie's hands trembled with a bat in them.
Smitty could feel someone watching him, a skill that developed quickly in the French countryside. He finished his work to look up and lock eyes with his Staff Sergeant. Now he would never be considered conceited but he had a talent to read people better than most. He could tell by the enlarged pupils, wet lips, slight grin and raised eyebrow that the Bear Jew had been watching him for a while and was… affected to say the least.
This sort of thing was not uncommon between the Basterds. France got cold at night and sometimes what started as huddling for warmth beneath thin blankets seamlessly merged into fighting for breaths between harsh kisses. Generally, these private power struggles were kept to the people involved but he'll never forget the day the whole crew walked in on Stiglitz with a mouth full of Wicki behind some trees after an ambush. No one said a word and the crazy fucking German didn't even pause but that day, they all gained a quiet understanding that maybe the countryside didn't have to be so lonely after all.
Smitty, decided in that second to tempt fate. He had, several times, woken up in the dead of night, sweaty and hard, dreams of Donnie's weight on him replaced by Kagan's snores, Hugo's muttering and the biting French air. Without breaking the electric stare they had formed between them, Smitty jammed his knife straight into the forehead of the dead German in front of him, making Donnie forcibly exhale the breath he'd been holding in. "Going to wash up, sir." Smitty said quickly before rising slowly to his feet and turning to walk towards the river behind the camp.
Donnie watched Utivich walk until he disappeared behind the trees and then got up, not checking to see if anyone was looking, pulled the private's knife out of the Kraut fucker's forehead and followed him down to the river sporting a colossal hard on the whole way.
Smitty was knelt down on the riverbank, shirt off, washing the blood off his arms when Donnie found him. "You might wanna clean this too." He dropped the private's knife at his feet. "When did you get so fuckin' angry anyways?" Donnie took a seat on the grass to the side of where Smitty was scrubbing his palms and began unlacing his heavy boots.
"Probably about the same time you and the rest of the boys did, I expect."
"You fuckin' smartass." Donnie chuckled under his breath, throwing a boot and narrowly missing the little man's bare back. "I meant the private, why'd you knife him?"
Smitty stopped scrubbing and turned to look at the other man. "Don, he spit on your shoe and called your mother a filthy Jew whore."
"Yeah, I was there. I also beat the life out of him." Smitty moved to sit beside him, close enough to feel the heat off Donnie's arm and smell his intoxicating mix of sweat and musk. "They always say shit like that, why's that one so special?"
"He wasn't." The tips of Smitty's fingers brushed Donnie's so lightly he swore it could have been wind but for the electric shock that shot directly into his stomach. "I wanted to make you feel better, that was one of the only ways I knew how."
Donnie would never fully understand what possessed him to say what he did to Utivich but the next thing out of his mouth was, "Not bad. What else you got?" And before he knew it, Smitty's soft mouth came crashing into him like a freight train.
The rest was a rush; a shoving match for dominance (which Donnie won handedly), teeth drawing blood from lips, nails dragging across skin, fingers leaving tiny bruises in their wake.
Smitty struggled in vain to ignore the butterflies, which had set up camp in his stomach and likewise, Donnie tried to block out the fuckingincredible way Smitty moaned his name. "Fuck, Donnie." Like he was some kind of god.
They probably could have walked away and convinced themselves that it was nothing more of it than a hurried fuck based on impossibly high levels of testosterone if it weren't for what happened next.
Donnie knelt in between Smitty's legs, cock in hand, poised and ready to go. Unable to hold in any longer, he pushed in slowly and felt Smitty's hot tight world swallow him whole. He would have drilled the little man like a jackhammer if it hadn't been for the tiny whimper that escaped his lips. Donnie locked eyes with him in time to see a small tear fall down his temple.
He could feel the boy tensed around him and in the most unselfish move of the Bear Jew's life, he pulled out, and bent down to kiss Smitty. Once on the forehead, once on the wet path his tear had made, and once on the cheek before resting lightly on his lips. Donnie's mouth moved over slowly until his breath burned against Smitty's ear. "I'm gonna make it better, trust me."
This time, when Donnie pushed in he was met with a more welcomed sound. "Feels good now don't it? I knew you'd like that. So tight, feels fuckin' unreal." Donnie's hand moved between them to grasp the surprising length of Utivich. He began pumping his fist in rhythm with his hips and before long he heard a strangled cry and felt Utivich tighten around him. Only then, biting down into Smitty's shoulder to keep quiet, Donnie allowed the stars to explode behind his eyes in a way he didn't know had been possible.
Neither of them said too much in the aftermath, hurrying to get dressed and get back to camp for the night. Smitty walked over to where Donnie sat lacing up his boots. "I hope you sleep a little better tonight." He turned and started walking away before he heard Donnie's voice calling him.
"Smitty."
"Yea?" He turned to look at his sergeant's face in the dying light of the sunset.
Donnie's eyes flickered from his eyes to his mouth and back up again before he responded. "Nothin'."
Smitty could swear that for the first time in his life, Donnie Donowitz may actually have been blushing.
