It's What I Want (Not What I Need)
Title: It's What I Want (Not What I Need)
Author: paracaerouvoar
Rating: R
Fandom: Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Aldo/Donny
Summary: "Months pass, and this happens, often enough that he remember the taste of his Staff Sergeant on his lips."
Warning: More boysexings. More bad language, probably.
A/N: Companion to Needs.
He doesn't know when this...thing with Donowitz started. Because like it or not, it's now a thing, and he's not defining it any further. There be dragons.
If he has to guess, he'd say it was about eight or nine months ago.
They'd just passed through some crappy French town, visited some hole in the wall bar ('Bah' Donny had droned idly, his Boston accent completely disregarding the 'R' at the end of the word) and proceeded to get completely and utterly wasted.
'Dancing on the tables' wasted, he remembers Kagan and Omar's impromptu jig somewhere between the seventh and the twelfth beers. Turns out alcohol, empty stomachs and Basterds aren't a good combination. Especially not that night. Things go in and out, alcohol painting over the memories after the dancing, but he sees glimpses through the filter of good scotch.
Rough kisses dropped onto the five o clock stubble that made an appearance a few hours earlier; calloused hands grabbing at belts and fisting in already tangled hair; lips and teeth and tongue clashing together ruthlessly. Gripping hands and hips and cocks, coming so hard he almost forgot his own name. It was completely and utterly wrong, the biggest mistake of his life to date.
And damn it all if Donowitz wasn't one of the best kissers he'd ever tasted.
But no big deal, not if it only happened once, right?
But it didn't happen once.
Twice, three times, half a dozen, lots, many, several. Every month or so, when Donny's gone just a day too long without killing a Nazi, when Aldo's wound up from coming within a hairs breadth of getting caught by the Krauts, they head out into the woods, not together (never together) and when they come back out, it's dark, but Aldo has kiss swollen lips, and there are splinters in Donny's hair and under his nails, and they both look utterly dishevelled.
Not that either of them give a flying fuck anyway, because Aldo can see Donny's got the biggest shit-eating grin he's ever seen, and he figures he looks much the same.
So, months pass, and this happens, often enough that he remember the taste of his Staff Sergeant on his lips, but not long enough for Wicki (light sleeper that he is) to be roused more than once or twice a month. He's awful suspicious anyway, but neither Aldo nor Donny can bring themselves to care if they get caught. Well, not really. Aldo's about ninety percent sure that Stiglitz knows about them, but the German sergeant ain't about to be telling anybody but Wicki, seeing as how he doesn't speak any English besides the cusses Donny's been teaching him. And Stiglitz doesn't really say much, not even to the only German speaking member of the Basterds, so Aldo reckons they're safe.
Safe enough that he can slip away after ambushing a Nazi patrol, letting the guys who haven't yet reached a hundred scalps pay their debt. He ambles into the tunnel Donny vanished into minutes earlier, bag that Aldo knows is full of 'Nazi scarin' kit' slung over one shoulder. He follows, soft soles of his boots silent against the dirt floor, one arm brushing against cracked bricks. A few dozen metres in, he can smell Donny, the wash of tobacco and earth. He can make out the outline of the younger man, dropping the shirt he was previously wearing on the floor by the bag and pulling a once white wifebeater over his head. He runs a hand through his hair once, rubs at the back of his neck idly.
Aldo moves forward, grabs the back of his Staff Sergeant's shirt and spins him round, shoving him back against the wall and meeting his mouth with an angry clash of lips. One hand rests on the wall by Donny's head, the other fists in his shirt, holding them together. A roll of his hips against Aldo's and they're already both on their way to half-hard. Aldo's mouth leaves Donny's, travelling down his jaw to drag teeth across his collarbone and the place where his blood pulses in his neck. Moans, almost whimpers, escape the bigger man's mouth, and Aldo feels blunt nails digging into his hips. There'll be bruises there tomorrow, but the taste of Donny's skin is mouth-watering: salty where a teardrop of sweat rolls down his neck from the sweltering heat of the French summer and earthy, a taste that Aldo knows from experience is one hundred percent Donny Donowitz. The bruising seems a small price to pay for one last nibble on the Boston native's collarbone. Donny paws at his belt, old leather whipping through the loop. Aldo pushes him into the wall, and the impact on the back of Donowitz's head knocks their teeth together as Aldo claims the bigger man's mouth once again.
Donny shoves his hand down Aldo's pants, fisting the older man's cock. Aldo growls into his mouth, moving his hands so one is gripping Donny's hip and the other his shoulder as he flips him round, chest to the wall, cloth covered ass presented to the lieutenant. He mouths at the warm skin behind Donny's collarbone as he yanks pants and underwear down the younger man's thighs.
Aldo spits in his palm before slicking up his own cock roughly, saliva is the only lubricant Donowitz will get. Sliding one finger into Donny's hole, he opens him up, not roughly, but not slow either, until he's writhing on the Lieutenant's fingers, hips jutting backwards as he fucks himself on them. Moans escape from tightly pressed lips, his head thrown back and eyes closed in ecstasy.
Aldo's hand moves from where it's been clutching at rough material on Donny's shoulder to grab at the bare skin just above his hip, holding him statue still before replacing the three fingers inside his Staff Sergeant with his cock, inching in, more blood rushing to his erection with every strangled murmur from Donowitz. Buried balls deep, he holds still for just a moment, long enough for Donny to wriggle, wanting more, always more.
He pulls out suddenly, until just the tip of him is inside, before snapping his hips and thrusting all the way in again, eliciting a less than muffled yelp from the bigger man. Donny rakes fingernails down the brick in front of him in a masterful attempt to stay silent, his back arching and convex, the muscles in his arms rippling as an orgasm burned through him, clenching around Aldo, still buried deep. He keeps thrusting through it, releasing his load with a grunt, sinking teeth into Donny's neck, low enough that it won't be seen by the rest of the Basterds.
He pulls out without a word, tucking himself back in and zipping up, retrieving his cap from where he dropped it as he walks away from the other man.
He knows he shouldn't feel like this, but when he hears the tap-tapping of Donny's baseball bat against the old stones, and sees the look of fear in the Nazi's eyes, he can't help but let an odd sort of heat pool in his belly.
And knowing that he shouldn't, won't stop him from following the other man deep into the woods late at night, any from the flickering light of the fire kept alight by one unlucky Basterd.
--
(In the morning, Donny does have bruises on his hips, purple hands decorating his skin. Aldo has red ridges running down his back from ragged fingernails. They still don't give a fuck.)
Author: paracaerouvoar
Rating: R
Fandom: Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Aldo/Donny
Summary: "Months pass, and this happens, often enough that he remember the taste of his Staff Sergeant on his lips."
Warning: More boysexings. More bad language, probably.
A/N: Companion to Needs.
He doesn't know when this...thing with Donowitz started. Because like it or not, it's now a thing, and he's not defining it any further. There be dragons.
If he has to guess, he'd say it was about eight or nine months ago.
They'd just passed through some crappy French town, visited some hole in the wall bar ('Bah' Donny had droned idly, his Boston accent completely disregarding the 'R' at the end of the word) and proceeded to get completely and utterly wasted.
'Dancing on the tables' wasted, he remembers Kagan and Omar's impromptu jig somewhere between the seventh and the twelfth beers. Turns out alcohol, empty stomachs and Basterds aren't a good combination. Especially not that night. Things go in and out, alcohol painting over the memories after the dancing, but he sees glimpses through the filter of good scotch.
Rough kisses dropped onto the five o clock stubble that made an appearance a few hours earlier; calloused hands grabbing at belts and fisting in already tangled hair; lips and teeth and tongue clashing together ruthlessly. Gripping hands and hips and cocks, coming so hard he almost forgot his own name. It was completely and utterly wrong, the biggest mistake of his life to date.
And damn it all if Donowitz wasn't one of the best kissers he'd ever tasted.
But no big deal, not if it only happened once, right?
But it didn't happen once.
Twice, three times, half a dozen, lots, many, several. Every month or so, when Donny's gone just a day too long without killing a Nazi, when Aldo's wound up from coming within a hairs breadth of getting caught by the Krauts, they head out into the woods, not together (never together) and when they come back out, it's dark, but Aldo has kiss swollen lips, and there are splinters in Donny's hair and under his nails, and they both look utterly dishevelled.
Not that either of them give a flying fuck anyway, because Aldo can see Donny's got the biggest shit-eating grin he's ever seen, and he figures he looks much the same.
So, months pass, and this happens, often enough that he remember the taste of his Staff Sergeant on his lips, but not long enough for Wicki (light sleeper that he is) to be roused more than once or twice a month. He's awful suspicious anyway, but neither Aldo nor Donny can bring themselves to care if they get caught. Well, not really. Aldo's about ninety percent sure that Stiglitz knows about them, but the German sergeant ain't about to be telling anybody but Wicki, seeing as how he doesn't speak any English besides the cusses Donny's been teaching him. And Stiglitz doesn't really say much, not even to the only German speaking member of the Basterds, so Aldo reckons they're safe.
Safe enough that he can slip away after ambushing a Nazi patrol, letting the guys who haven't yet reached a hundred scalps pay their debt. He ambles into the tunnel Donny vanished into minutes earlier, bag that Aldo knows is full of 'Nazi scarin' kit' slung over one shoulder. He follows, soft soles of his boots silent against the dirt floor, one arm brushing against cracked bricks. A few dozen metres in, he can smell Donny, the wash of tobacco and earth. He can make out the outline of the younger man, dropping the shirt he was previously wearing on the floor by the bag and pulling a once white wifebeater over his head. He runs a hand through his hair once, rubs at the back of his neck idly.
Aldo moves forward, grabs the back of his Staff Sergeant's shirt and spins him round, shoving him back against the wall and meeting his mouth with an angry clash of lips. One hand rests on the wall by Donny's head, the other fists in his shirt, holding them together. A roll of his hips against Aldo's and they're already both on their way to half-hard. Aldo's mouth leaves Donny's, travelling down his jaw to drag teeth across his collarbone and the place where his blood pulses in his neck. Moans, almost whimpers, escape the bigger man's mouth, and Aldo feels blunt nails digging into his hips. There'll be bruises there tomorrow, but the taste of Donny's skin is mouth-watering: salty where a teardrop of sweat rolls down his neck from the sweltering heat of the French summer and earthy, a taste that Aldo knows from experience is one hundred percent Donny Donowitz. The bruising seems a small price to pay for one last nibble on the Boston native's collarbone. Donny paws at his belt, old leather whipping through the loop. Aldo pushes him into the wall, and the impact on the back of Donowitz's head knocks their teeth together as Aldo claims the bigger man's mouth once again.
Donny shoves his hand down Aldo's pants, fisting the older man's cock. Aldo growls into his mouth, moving his hands so one is gripping Donny's hip and the other his shoulder as he flips him round, chest to the wall, cloth covered ass presented to the lieutenant. He mouths at the warm skin behind Donny's collarbone as he yanks pants and underwear down the younger man's thighs.
Aldo spits in his palm before slicking up his own cock roughly, saliva is the only lubricant Donowitz will get. Sliding one finger into Donny's hole, he opens him up, not roughly, but not slow either, until he's writhing on the Lieutenant's fingers, hips jutting backwards as he fucks himself on them. Moans escape from tightly pressed lips, his head thrown back and eyes closed in ecstasy.
Aldo's hand moves from where it's been clutching at rough material on Donny's shoulder to grab at the bare skin just above his hip, holding him statue still before replacing the three fingers inside his Staff Sergeant with his cock, inching in, more blood rushing to his erection with every strangled murmur from Donowitz. Buried balls deep, he holds still for just a moment, long enough for Donny to wriggle, wanting more, always more.
He pulls out suddenly, until just the tip of him is inside, before snapping his hips and thrusting all the way in again, eliciting a less than muffled yelp from the bigger man. Donny rakes fingernails down the brick in front of him in a masterful attempt to stay silent, his back arching and convex, the muscles in his arms rippling as an orgasm burned through him, clenching around Aldo, still buried deep. He keeps thrusting through it, releasing his load with a grunt, sinking teeth into Donny's neck, low enough that it won't be seen by the rest of the Basterds.
He pulls out without a word, tucking himself back in and zipping up, retrieving his cap from where he dropped it as he walks away from the other man.
He knows he shouldn't feel like this, but when he hears the tap-tapping of Donny's baseball bat against the old stones, and sees the look of fear in the Nazi's eyes, he can't help but let an odd sort of heat pool in his belly.
And knowing that he shouldn't, won't stop him from following the other man deep into the woods late at night, any from the flickering light of the fire kept alight by one unlucky Basterd.
--
(In the morning, Donny does have bruises on his hips, purple hands decorating his skin. Aldo has red ridges running down his back from ragged fingernails. They still don't give a fuck.)