Fic: The Care and Keeping of Smithson Utivich
Title Personality (3/3)
Rating R
Fandom Inglourious Basterds (AU)
Characters -
Pairing Donny/Utivich
Summery Donny teaches Smithson to act like a manly man. But it all kind of blows up in his face.
Two weeks later and the changes were taking hold in Smithson. His style was loosing up from gaudy plaids to comfortable cottons and he was definitely more than a little interested in certain bands (for some reason KISS really held his attention). Donny was very content with his little masterpiece turning out so well, but there was niggling doubt in the back of his mind that something was still off. Smithson was still so faggy and it didn't have anything to do with how he appeared or what he did.
It was his personality.
It vexed Donny in the morning when sitting across from Smithson at the breakfast table, both of them nibbling on turkey bacon and bagels, playing footsies under the table. He watched over his little fuck-buddy-roommate, who did nothing but read the newspaper and eat and worm his foot up the leg of Donny's pajama pants, rubbing the back of his calf. Even something as simple as breakfast got queer with Smithson, who couldn't go five minutes without touching Donny in some manner. Not like Donny blamed him. He was gorgeous after all.
But the decision was clear in Donny's mind. Shoving the rest of his kosher bacon into his trap and chewing like a savage, he declared, “I got another idea, Smitty.”
The young journalist looked up from the morning paper, chipper smile in place, “And what would that be?”
Smithson blanched when he was informed that he was getting a Masculinity Overhaul.
A strip of turkey bacon fell to the floor.
Donny had never seen Smithson run so fast. The boy was off like a rocket, scrabbling away from Donny's crazy ideas, heading to the bedroom for safety. Unfortunately, the veteran was right on his tail, eventually grabbing hold of the smaller frame and tugging him back sharply, feet kicking in the air as he screamed blue murder.
“NO!” Smithson wailed, scrabbling for anything to get away. Donny just held on.
“Come on, we're so close to makin' you a guy, Smits!”
“NO NO NO NO!”
Long story short, Smithson was eventually carried, kicking and yelling, back to his own office, where he was forced into his chair and made to suffer through a barrage of Do's and Don'ts of being a man.
Suicide was not an uncommon thought in the poor boy's head.
Five hours of discussion (and a half hour of making out) later, Smithson was sure he could parade about as masculine as the first man to ever walk the earth. Donny said he couldn't know for sure, however, unless they put it to action. Test him, as it were. They decided to hit a club that night and see what kind of guys or girls tried to make their moves on Smithson. Donny promised not to clock anyone.
“Not unless they're askin for it.”
Out they went into New York's painted night life, both quickly getting boozed and covered in bizarre neon paint as they entered a certain night club. Neon and black lights painted the room of moving, thronging bodies. They went to a straight club, to see if Smithson could be manly enough to attract either girls or guys. The second he stepped in, glasses gone, hair messy, dressed down in a flattering graphic tee, one girl did take notice. Donny couldn't hear what she said into Smithson's ear, but judging by his reaction (cool, calm, slightly nervous laugh), it was probably something about how hot he looked. Donny would have to agree.
By the time it hit midnight, Smithson was beyond drunk by all the drinks he was being bought, by busty gals and quite a few effeminate guys. Donny was a little more than tipsy, courtesy of his own fans' generosity. But through the haze of pleasurable alcohol, Donny could see what a man his little man was. And what a stud. A sexy, sexy stud. Donny sipped his drink and watched Smithson chat up some neon-clad poof who was just pouring drink after drink into Smithson.
“W'll yeah, I usually head out 'bout once a week t'go hunting with my dad. J'st kinda a thing. Y'know? Been shooting since I turned... thir'teen. M'm.”
“Wow, that's so cool...”
“M'm! Mm. An' you know, I'm kinda. Like. A war hero an' all.”
“Whoa! Wait, were you?”
“Yus, I helped out with all'at Op'ration Niko stuff.”
Donny snorted into his drink. Smithson in combat-Hell, in Niko of all things-was just laughable. And poor Donny couldn't contain his loud, drunken laughter at the very notion of Smithson doing such things. He was such an adorable drunk, especially when trying to compensate like he was.
What was not adorable was the way that queer was shoving his hands in the back of Smithson's pants.
Without another thought, Donny sucker punched the fool to the ground, leaving Smithson to gape in drunken, foggy confusion. The people in the immediate area stopped dancing and gasped, almost simultaneously, at the bleeding boy on the floor with the deep V. Donny's breathing was ragged and in a split-second he grabbed Smithson and practically dragged him out of the club into the cold air of the sleeping New York.
“Don', wha'the Hell??” Smithson demanded in his own, slurred way, “He was nice!”
“Fuck you, Smitty, you are drunk!”
“Y're fucking drunk too!”
“Shut up, we're goin' home.”
Smithson whined the entire way home and dragged his feet, but Donny would have none of it. About halfway through, he actually had to throw Smithson over his shoulder and continue on that way. It actually made the rest of the journey much easier on Donny's part, except for the fact that Smithson blew chunks right as they were entering their apartment building.
“Oh fuck you, Smitty.”
“Hrk...”
“Tha's cute.”
In their apartment, Donny tossed Smithson onto the couch and went to the kitchen to grab a bucket for his wasted little friend. On the couch, Smithson was moaning into a throw pillow.
“Don' shoul'n'ta carried me...”
“Shouldn'ta dragged yah feet then,” Donny called back from the kitchen, “Damn, Smitty, where's the bucket?”
“B'low the sink...”
Donny found it, along with some club soda and a bottle of aspirin they kept in the cabinet over the phone. Everything needed for a hangover cure. Smithson would have been proud of him if he wasn't so close to vomiting again.
“Alrighty, Smits, you just keep Mistah Bucket close by tonight in case yah wanna blow it again-no no, don't roll ovah, that's how Jimi Hendrix died.”
“Wh...”
“Shit's true. Okay? Stay on yah side.”
Smithson hiccoughed pathetically, hugging the throw pillow beneath his head. He was drifting off to what would seem to be a rough sleep that night, and Donny had to stay it was supremely adorable. Kissing his cheek, Donny wished him good night and promised him a reward for his masculinity in the morning.
“Why no'now?” Smithson wondered, half-asleep.
“Because yah drunk an' sleepin. That's just odd, Smitty. Just get to sleep.”
He did, sighing softly and drifting off on the couch while Donny covered him with one of Smithson's favorite blankets. He didn't go to bed right away. In fact, he watched Smithson sleep for about a half hour, thinking and drinking a bottle of Dos Equis. Poor little Smithson. Maybe he'd been forcing all this shit on him. His mom told him not to try to change the people he loved (after all, she didn't try to change his father and he went off and died, so that was a great example). But he was just trying to improve upon someone already awesome. What was the harm in that?
Donny brushed Smithson's hair from his eyes and thought.
He'd have to have words with him in the morning.
~~~
Around noon, after Smithson had recovered from his night of insane amounts of alcohol, he and Donny sat on the couch (him more in Donny's lap than the actual couch) and watched The Hangover. Donny had his arms around Smithson's waist and his tongue in his ear, because he'd been trying to tell him something important but had gotten distracted by how cute Smithson was when he was sleepy and mellow.
“Donny,” Smithson half-sighed, half-moaned, “You were trying to apologize...”
“Mm. Yeah, sorry, yah just look so cute like this.”
“Shut up,” he chuckled softly, turning his head to kiss Donny properly, “Mm. Now what were you trying to apologize over?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, well, I was thinkin last night aftah yah passed out an... Smits, I just don' think yah the masculine type'a guy.”
Smithson furrowed his eyebrows at that. He was currently wearing both his sleek framed glasses and Donny's Red Sox shirt, which was large on him, but so comfortable. It was also big enough so Smithson could get away with just wearing briefs underneath, which Donny would never dare complain about.
“It's just. Yah like Owl City an rainbow plaid shirts an drinkin Mojitos an film cameras an movies by directors I nevah even heard of-which you could get away with when I just came back from Iraq, but now I know better an' I know you slipped some Sundance Film Fest crap my way. Anyway. Yah like all this foofy stuff, an the more I was tryin ta man yah up, the less... Smitty'ish yah got. An that ain't right.”
Smithson was blushing almost as intensely as he was grinning. Donny laughed and hugged him tight.
“I love yah, Smitty. Just the way yah are. I was just too much of a mook t'realize it before.”
“Awh, Donny,” Smithson just laughed, turning around and cupping his face to kiss him, slow and sweet and perfect. He giggled again when Donny's hands automatically went to cup Smithson's ass.
“You are an idiot, Donny. And as a way to make it up to me, you're going to--”
“Have crazy sex?”
“... You're going to listen to Owl City and Lady Gaga whenever I want and not complain. And you're going to wear those shirts I bought you for your birthday.”
Donny winced. Those were all pretty bad punishments, but he noticed Smithson didn't fix a punishment for making him act manly. He hesitantly raised the issue.
“You're enough of a fag already, man. I don't need to do anything.”
While Donny was sitting back in full-blown shock, Smithson laughed and explained the accusation.
“You molest me constantly, blew me for three hours without a break for yourself, and you got jealous because someone had his hands in my back pockets. At a neon-drenched night club. You, Donny Donowitz, are a grade-A fag.”
Fuck everything.
But really, Donny wouldn't have it any other way.
End.
Rating R
Fandom Inglourious Basterds (AU)
Characters -
Pairing Donny/Utivich
Summery Donny teaches Smithson to act like a manly man. But it all kind of blows up in his face.
Two weeks later and the changes were taking hold in Smithson. His style was loosing up from gaudy plaids to comfortable cottons and he was definitely more than a little interested in certain bands (for some reason KISS really held his attention). Donny was very content with his little masterpiece turning out so well, but there was niggling doubt in the back of his mind that something was still off. Smithson was still so faggy and it didn't have anything to do with how he appeared or what he did.
It was his personality.
It vexed Donny in the morning when sitting across from Smithson at the breakfast table, both of them nibbling on turkey bacon and bagels, playing footsies under the table. He watched over his little fuck-buddy-roommate, who did nothing but read the newspaper and eat and worm his foot up the leg of Donny's pajama pants, rubbing the back of his calf. Even something as simple as breakfast got queer with Smithson, who couldn't go five minutes without touching Donny in some manner. Not like Donny blamed him. He was gorgeous after all.
But the decision was clear in Donny's mind. Shoving the rest of his kosher bacon into his trap and chewing like a savage, he declared, “I got another idea, Smitty.”
The young journalist looked up from the morning paper, chipper smile in place, “And what would that be?”
Smithson blanched when he was informed that he was getting a Masculinity Overhaul.
A strip of turkey bacon fell to the floor.
Donny had never seen Smithson run so fast. The boy was off like a rocket, scrabbling away from Donny's crazy ideas, heading to the bedroom for safety. Unfortunately, the veteran was right on his tail, eventually grabbing hold of the smaller frame and tugging him back sharply, feet kicking in the air as he screamed blue murder.
“NO!” Smithson wailed, scrabbling for anything to get away. Donny just held on.
“Come on, we're so close to makin' you a guy, Smits!”
“NO NO NO NO!”
Long story short, Smithson was eventually carried, kicking and yelling, back to his own office, where he was forced into his chair and made to suffer through a barrage of Do's and Don'ts of being a man.
Suicide was not an uncommon thought in the poor boy's head.
Five hours of discussion (and a half hour of making out) later, Smithson was sure he could parade about as masculine as the first man to ever walk the earth. Donny said he couldn't know for sure, however, unless they put it to action. Test him, as it were. They decided to hit a club that night and see what kind of guys or girls tried to make their moves on Smithson. Donny promised not to clock anyone.
“Not unless they're askin for it.”
Out they went into New York's painted night life, both quickly getting boozed and covered in bizarre neon paint as they entered a certain night club. Neon and black lights painted the room of moving, thronging bodies. They went to a straight club, to see if Smithson could be manly enough to attract either girls or guys. The second he stepped in, glasses gone, hair messy, dressed down in a flattering graphic tee, one girl did take notice. Donny couldn't hear what she said into Smithson's ear, but judging by his reaction (cool, calm, slightly nervous laugh), it was probably something about how hot he looked. Donny would have to agree.
By the time it hit midnight, Smithson was beyond drunk by all the drinks he was being bought, by busty gals and quite a few effeminate guys. Donny was a little more than tipsy, courtesy of his own fans' generosity. But through the haze of pleasurable alcohol, Donny could see what a man his little man was. And what a stud. A sexy, sexy stud. Donny sipped his drink and watched Smithson chat up some neon-clad poof who was just pouring drink after drink into Smithson.
“W'll yeah, I usually head out 'bout once a week t'go hunting with my dad. J'st kinda a thing. Y'know? Been shooting since I turned... thir'teen. M'm.”
“Wow, that's so cool...”
“M'm! Mm. An' you know, I'm kinda. Like. A war hero an' all.”
“Whoa! Wait, were you?”
“Yus, I helped out with all'at Op'ration Niko stuff.”
Donny snorted into his drink. Smithson in combat-Hell, in Niko of all things-was just laughable. And poor Donny couldn't contain his loud, drunken laughter at the very notion of Smithson doing such things. He was such an adorable drunk, especially when trying to compensate like he was.
What was not adorable was the way that queer was shoving his hands in the back of Smithson's pants.
Without another thought, Donny sucker punched the fool to the ground, leaving Smithson to gape in drunken, foggy confusion. The people in the immediate area stopped dancing and gasped, almost simultaneously, at the bleeding boy on the floor with the deep V. Donny's breathing was ragged and in a split-second he grabbed Smithson and practically dragged him out of the club into the cold air of the sleeping New York.
“Don', wha'the Hell??” Smithson demanded in his own, slurred way, “He was nice!”
“Fuck you, Smitty, you are drunk!”
“Y're fucking drunk too!”
“Shut up, we're goin' home.”
Smithson whined the entire way home and dragged his feet, but Donny would have none of it. About halfway through, he actually had to throw Smithson over his shoulder and continue on that way. It actually made the rest of the journey much easier on Donny's part, except for the fact that Smithson blew chunks right as they were entering their apartment building.
“Oh fuck you, Smitty.”
“Hrk...”
“Tha's cute.”
In their apartment, Donny tossed Smithson onto the couch and went to the kitchen to grab a bucket for his wasted little friend. On the couch, Smithson was moaning into a throw pillow.
“Don' shoul'n'ta carried me...”
“Shouldn'ta dragged yah feet then,” Donny called back from the kitchen, “Damn, Smitty, where's the bucket?”
“B'low the sink...”
Donny found it, along with some club soda and a bottle of aspirin they kept in the cabinet over the phone. Everything needed for a hangover cure. Smithson would have been proud of him if he wasn't so close to vomiting again.
“Alrighty, Smits, you just keep Mistah Bucket close by tonight in case yah wanna blow it again-no no, don't roll ovah, that's how Jimi Hendrix died.”
“Wh...”
“Shit's true. Okay? Stay on yah side.”
Smithson hiccoughed pathetically, hugging the throw pillow beneath his head. He was drifting off to what would seem to be a rough sleep that night, and Donny had to stay it was supremely adorable. Kissing his cheek, Donny wished him good night and promised him a reward for his masculinity in the morning.
“Why no'now?” Smithson wondered, half-asleep.
“Because yah drunk an' sleepin. That's just odd, Smitty. Just get to sleep.”
He did, sighing softly and drifting off on the couch while Donny covered him with one of Smithson's favorite blankets. He didn't go to bed right away. In fact, he watched Smithson sleep for about a half hour, thinking and drinking a bottle of Dos Equis. Poor little Smithson. Maybe he'd been forcing all this shit on him. His mom told him not to try to change the people he loved (after all, she didn't try to change his father and he went off and died, so that was a great example). But he was just trying to improve upon someone already awesome. What was the harm in that?
Donny brushed Smithson's hair from his eyes and thought.
He'd have to have words with him in the morning.
~~~
Around noon, after Smithson had recovered from his night of insane amounts of alcohol, he and Donny sat on the couch (him more in Donny's lap than the actual couch) and watched The Hangover. Donny had his arms around Smithson's waist and his tongue in his ear, because he'd been trying to tell him something important but had gotten distracted by how cute Smithson was when he was sleepy and mellow.
“Donny,” Smithson half-sighed, half-moaned, “You were trying to apologize...”
“Mm. Yeah, sorry, yah just look so cute like this.”
“Shut up,” he chuckled softly, turning his head to kiss Donny properly, “Mm. Now what were you trying to apologize over?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, well, I was thinkin last night aftah yah passed out an... Smits, I just don' think yah the masculine type'a guy.”
Smithson furrowed his eyebrows at that. He was currently wearing both his sleek framed glasses and Donny's Red Sox shirt, which was large on him, but so comfortable. It was also big enough so Smithson could get away with just wearing briefs underneath, which Donny would never dare complain about.
“It's just. Yah like Owl City an rainbow plaid shirts an drinkin Mojitos an film cameras an movies by directors I nevah even heard of-which you could get away with when I just came back from Iraq, but now I know better an' I know you slipped some Sundance Film Fest crap my way. Anyway. Yah like all this foofy stuff, an the more I was tryin ta man yah up, the less... Smitty'ish yah got. An that ain't right.”
Smithson was blushing almost as intensely as he was grinning. Donny laughed and hugged him tight.
“I love yah, Smitty. Just the way yah are. I was just too much of a mook t'realize it before.”
“Awh, Donny,” Smithson just laughed, turning around and cupping his face to kiss him, slow and sweet and perfect. He giggled again when Donny's hands automatically went to cup Smithson's ass.
“You are an idiot, Donny. And as a way to make it up to me, you're going to--”
“Have crazy sex?”
“... You're going to listen to Owl City and Lady Gaga whenever I want and not complain. And you're going to wear those shirts I bought you for your birthday.”
Donny winced. Those were all pretty bad punishments, but he noticed Smithson didn't fix a punishment for making him act manly. He hesitantly raised the issue.
“You're enough of a fag already, man. I don't need to do anything.”
While Donny was sitting back in full-blown shock, Smithson laughed and explained the accusation.
“You molest me constantly, blew me for three hours without a break for yourself, and you got jealous because someone had his hands in my back pockets. At a neon-drenched night club. You, Donny Donowitz, are a grade-A fag.”
Fuck everything.
But really, Donny wouldn't have it any other way.
End.