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Road to Leningrad

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It’s cold.

It’s a land war in Russia in the winter time, Rogers, of course it’s cold. They’re East on the ice supply road, just miles outside Leningrad, and you can see the flash of the shelling off in the distance like lightning. But it’s not the bombs that wake him up. It’s Bucky.

They’re huddled together for warmth. No fires—can’t risk it. Been sharing the same too-thin sack for weeks now, and James—Buck’s—been a real champ about it. Not a word of complaint. It’s not easy being a soldier. Even less so when you’re just a goddamned kid. But he’s good. Never a word about food running low, about the wind and cold and wet that soaked them both down to the bone, not even the trench foot that’d nearly killed him. Damned kid just tucked his face down in the sack and slept as restless and fitful as he could. Never a complaint about the cold. The hunger. The thirst. The fear.

…the loneliness.

But he is now, isn’t he. Hard and rutting against Steve’s leg, gasping out in his sleep. Steve doesn’t know whether to be still, to ignore and just let him sleep, or to shake Buck, wake him the hell up when Bucky comes with a little cry, the shock of orgasm pushing him from slumber.

“C-Cap!” he manages to stammer. “I, um—“

But they way he is, the way they are, tangled together, entwined and trapped, Buck having fallen asleep with his nose, his hands, his feet all tucked up against him “can’t help it you’re like a goddamn furnace, Rogers”, well. There’s no hiding, no excusing away what just happened.

…Just like there’s no denying his own hard-on, pressed into the hollow of Bucky’s hip.

Buck’s gone rigid. And there’s—oh, hell, there’s—fear, that’s fear in his wide eyes, the like Steve’s never seen. Not facing Nazis or HYDRA, not stranded in the Pacific with the Howlies and no hope of rescue, not when Master Man, Toro and Namor were wrecking havoc in the skies above Kronas. Damned kid’d been through the Depression, death of his parents, years of hell in a war zone, lived through so much, seen so damned much, and Steve Rogers is what scares him—?

“I—“ Buck swallows, tears welling in those brown eyes. Whispers, “I can go. I’ll just go. Jesus fuck I’m sorry, Cap, I’ll—“

Steve rolls them. Puts Buck’s small shoulders and back against the frozen ground. Grinds—hesitantly, gently—against him. And—hell. It’s good. That’s good. Steve gasps, nearly comes on the spot. He’s never—not once in twenty years—ever done this. Not with someone else. James—Buck—is a pain in his ass, teases him about his virginity, his lack of experience but this, God, what had he been missing—?

Buck lets out a groan, and the sound is sinful. “Cap—?”

Steve ruts against him. Buck makes a whimpering sound, spreads his little legs, gets his feet up and around Steve’s ass, pulls himself closer, flush with Steve. And God they’re, they’re, they’re doing this, through coats and clothes, chaffing and huffing and just chasing that friction. Buck’s breath comes out in gasps of fog beneath him, and shit, shit he’s beautiful like that, lashes and lips strung with snow, prettier than any girl’s and Steve’s leaning down, bracing his arms on either side of Buck’s face and brings his mouth—

Their noses bump. Teeth clack. Buck lets out an unpleasant little hiss as he grinds up into Steve. “Sorry—“ Steve mumbles.

“Christ on a cross, Cap,” Buck moans. “You really ain’t never kissed no one before, huh?”

And suddenly he’s what, so aware? ashamed? of what he’s doing. He’s a twenty year-old virgin, he’s a goddamn queer, he’s—Jesus, he’s—kissing—fucking—a kid, Buck’s just a goddamn kid and Steve’s hurting him fuck, fuck, he’s such shit—

But Buck’s mouth is back against his, lips soft and warm, just opening, inviting, exploring the possibilities of Steve’s lips, his teeth, his tongue, and it’s just as gentle as it is urgent. And his hands—Jesus, Buck’s cold hands—are cupping Steve’s ass through his pants, kneading at him like a purring cat, and okay, that’s a hand Jesus Christ that’s a finger pressing up against his hole and Steve bites down on his own arm and fuck, fuck, Bucky

And it’s all white behind his eyes, nothing to do with the snow and that rhythm they’d mounted gets shot all to hell and Steve’s pretty sure he’s pinned all his weight on the poor kid and fuck, fuck no one ever told him it’d feel like this

“Sorry,” Steve gasps as he comes down.

Buck lets out a little laugh. Kisses him sweetly. “Jesus, don’t apologize, doll.”

“Doll—?” Steve sputters.

“You just came with my finger up your ass, so yeah, Cap. 'Doll' just about does it,” Bucky grins. And there’s no trace of that shyness, that terror left in his adoring eyes. “Now help a fella out and spoon me, okay?”

“Jesus,” Steve whispers.

“Nope. Just me,” Buck nestles back into his arms, head resting against Steve’s chest.

“You—you okay?”

“Me? I’m fine, pal. Just came twice in what? Five minutes? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Buck lets out a little laugh and wraps his cold fingers up with Steve’s. “Could really use a cigarette, that’s all. Damned Nazis.”

Could really use a cigarette, that’s all. He’d—he’d known. Of course Buck’d had experience before, but shit, they’d just—he’d just—did it really all mean nothing—?

“You’re real quiet, Cap,” Buck says, stroking his hands. “You okay?”

“Was it me,” Steve finally asks. “Or was it him?”

Buck chuckles. “Take a look around, Rogers. Ain’t exactly anyone else here but us, pal.”

“No. Was it—Steve. Or just Cap.”

“What, we just fucked and now you’re worried about bein’ a 4F—?”

“People don’t see me. They don’t see Steve Rogers. They just see…” Steve trails off. Swallows. “All this.”

Buck squirms in his arms. Turns his fierce little face up, lays a hand against Steve’s jaw. “Cap, they coulda put anyone in that damned costume. Clark Gable. Gary Cooper. Be just as pretty in the pictures. But it’s you that makes it more than just an outfit, ya mook. You’re what makes it Cap.”

“You didn’t know me,” Steve voices those insecurities. “Before.”

“Pshaw, Rogers, ya dumb sap. Maybe I never met skinny Steve Rogers, but I’ve been puttin’ the moves on you since Lehigh, ‘fore I ever knew you was Cap an’ you were just some bumbling blond private clumsier than a cat in bathwater.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to chuckle. He kisses the top of Bucky’s head. “Since Lehigh, huh?”

Buck sighs. Rolls those big brown eyes like it was obvious. “Oh, c’mon, Rogers. You never got around to wonderin’ what it was I was doin’ in your tent that night in the first place—?”