feminesque: (winnix//stop looking at me like that)
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So, Winters/Nixon is blindingly obvious right? Even my mother noticed. I don't know what is says about me that it took the Sexy War to beak my fic-writing drought. Bless 'em.

Silly Virgins
Lewis Nixon/Dick Winters

Beta magic performed by [livejournal.com profile] futureperfect which is only right because this is her doing. Praise her with great praise. Any remaining shittery is all my doing. Cross-posted to [livejournal.com profile] camp_toccoa, [livejournal.com profile] aldbournewhores & [livejournal.com profile] no_vices.

Haguenau, February 1945.

“Fuck me.”

The debris of Nix’s blown mind settles inside his skull and his hands stutter on Dick’s chest. Prior to detonation he’d been blissfully rubbing one out against his friend’s hip and was content to spend the rest of his days doing that. Mostly. Quite aside from the heat of those words, panted breathlessly into his ear, the obscenity coming from Dick’s usually pristine mouth is enough to send Nixon temporarily blind. It also presents a logistical problem. Dick seems to have picked up on his sudden stillness. Perceptive guy.


Nix drops his head to the crook of Dick’s neck and presses a light, reassuring kiss there. He chuckles. “Funny story. I’m not real clear on how to go about that.” He looks up to find Dick smiling at him, bemused. How the bastard can be bemused with a hard-on twitching and leaking on Nix’s belly, he’s not sure. Then there are lightly trembling fingers on the side of his jaw, coaxing his head up further. Dick searches his face for something, a worried crease between his brows.


Dick shrugs, “I though you’d…”

“What? Done this before?” It’s ridiculous how scandalised he sounds. And Dick has a point. Nix made the first, utterly terrifying move weeks ago. Clearly things have worked out well – they’ve been stealing brief, thrilling moments together ever since – but this is all shiny and new to him as well. He’s married for Christ’s sake! To a woman! And how it works with a woman is a bit of a no-brainer. Beyond the knowledge that acquiescing to Dick’s request will involve his asshole, he’s lost.

"Well… maybe. No! Okay, no. I just... I thought you’d have a better idea. Than me. Is all.”

“Not really, no.”

Nixon has a vague conception of the mechanics involved; all the ancient Greek political studies at Yale and all that, plots formed over the backs of slave boys, but he’s pretty sure just barrelling ahead is going to hurt. He’s going to need a goddamn manual or something, like those booklets for learning the foxtrot, and he kind of doubts one exists. Or at least, not one he can get his hands on covertly and immediately. Nope, not soon enough because Dick’s hands are skimming up and down Nix’s flank, heat is radiating off Dick whose shoulders are turning a fetching shade of pink. And he’s smiling that smile that makes Nixon want to eat him alive.

“So what are we going to do?”

Die? Die of curtailed lust? Of frottage? Well, maybe they won’t die exactly. There are worse ways to go, he supposes. They are in a war. Being turned into meat confetti by a mortar is probably worse.

“We could do more of that… thing we did. You know, from the last time.” Fuck, is he blushing now? He must be; Dick is chuckling at him. “Figure the rest out later? And stop laughing at me. It’s emasculating.”

Dick just laughs more and closes in. Nix meets him halfway, smiling against an opened mouth, hands sweeping over heated, freckled skin and loses himself in the only good thing about this war. Logistics can wait ‘til morning.


Nix isn’t sure where the idea to ask this guy came from but it’s the only fucking idea he’s got and he’s going to go for it before he loses his nerve.


“Captain Nixon. I trust you’re having a good morning.”

He’s fantastic. Just peachy. They’d taken a tumble again this morning and came face to face with the same problem. He thinks he might have curtailed the disappointment somewhat by blowing Dick in the shower, but the issue remains: digital forays into Dick’s nethers had resulted in hisses and curses so clearly he’s doing it all wrong. He’s finally fucking his best friend in the world, the love of his life, except not really fucking because the love of his life is plumbed identically and he’s got no idea how to do it right. He’s elated and frustrated. And about to be terminally embarrassed.

Speirs is sitting on the side of a stone well, in the sun, reading… something. Nix doesn’t really care. Unless it’s a manual. In which case he can just snatch it and run. Now that he’s here he’s really not sure he can say anything. How the hell do you phrase something like this?

“Yeah, great, Ron. Listen, what do you know about queers?”

Well, that’s that solved. Jesus. Nothing like the urgency of blue balls to cut through the bullshit.

Speirs squints up at him. “You mean aside from being one?”

Nixon’s eyebrows go to Venus. He’s wearing his helmet so Speirs probably won’t notice their sudden absence from his face. Probably. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised considering the one or two openly predatory looks he’s seen directed at Carwood Lipton. Shit. Poor Carwood. Now that he thinks about it, Luz might be in trouble there too.

“Yeah, uh. Yeah,” Nix manages eloquently. “Um.” He sits down next to Speirs and tries to hide the rest of his body in his helmet. Much more room in there since his eyebrows broke orbit. “I meant along the lines of… mechanics.”

Speirs nods a sage nod. Nix isn't sure it’s appropriate to be sage about this kind of thing. He would have thought furtive was more appropriate. “If you don’t mind me asking, which given the question you posed, you shouldn’t, why the sudden interest in–”


Speirs’ eyebrows beetle together. He looks confused. Nix isn’t sure how he could be.


“Richard. Winters?” Nix offers. There are other Dicks in the world? There probably are, he supposes, but not in Nix’s. This is all really horribly awkward, but it looks like Speirs might actually have some answers for him so he’s willing to endure whatever torturous mind games the man wants to inflict. Something seems to become genuinely clear to Speirs though: his brow smooths out and Nix is relieved that mind games might not be today’s order of business.

“Oooh. I see. You two finally got it together.”

“Yeah, final- wait. What?”

Speirs just looks at him like he’s enfeebled. Which, if he doesn’t get to have proper sex with his… Winters… he soon will be.

“Never mind.”

“No, no ‘never mind’. What do you mean finally?”

“Are you being deliberately obtuse or do you genuinely have no idea how the two of you look at each other? In public. Which, incidentally, I would caution you to be more circumspect about.”

Nixon is about two heartbeats away from having a coronary. And could make the same admonition to Speirs too, thank you very much. Speirs just shakes his head again, the absolute bastard, and Nix tries very hard not to just throw in the towel and storm off. Jesus. Does everyone know?! He must look stricken. Nix feels stricken so he must look it.

“Relax, Lewis. Most don’t know. None care.”

Nix doesn’t quite believe him and his eyebrows are still not ready to return from outer space just yet. Might as well stay there. He has a feeling that much of what Speirs might have to say will send them right back off again.

“Can you help or not, Ron?”

Speirs folds his papers and tucks them into his pocket, rising from the well’s edge.

“We should have this conversation somewhere private.”

Oh, Christ. Finally. But also, oh, Christ. “No kidding.”


“Remember, go slowly.” Speirs taps the tabletop for emphasis. “This time at least.”

Nix finishes the glass of whiskey he’s been given, hand shaking slightly. They’re knee to knee at the edge of a huge carved table, huddled over a tube of lubricant and plotting the invasion of Winters’ southern border. Nix is warm right up to his ears and has been half-hard for the last thirty minutes, caught in an uncomfortable state of arousal and mild disgust. He’s pretty sure a technical breakdown of heterosexual sex would be just as unsettling.

“Make sure you use that. I am not kidding. If you can’t walk tomorrow…”

“I will, I will. Jesus.”

“Or if Dick can’t walk…”

“Could you stop now? Would you?”

“Captain Nixon, this is serious. If we get called away as often happens to Easy Company, because the war is not quite over yet and there’s still a few of us left standing, you are going to be crapping in latrines again which is awkward at the best of times. More awkward will be explaining the presence of anal fissures to Doc Roe and why you start weeping every time you sit down.”

Nixon has really got nothing to say to that.

“You’re a pair of silly virgins and you need to be careful.”

“Where did you even get this?”

“Surgical stores. Army food is sadly bereft of fibre. Lots of haemorrhoids. It's also widely available in Parisian apothecaries. For future reference.”

Oh, yuck. He really wishes he hadn’t asked. Speirs sits back and folds his hands around his own glass, a small smile on his lips.

“Just take it slowly and try to keep your wits about you.”

Nixon just nods and stares at the tube. The second he touches Dick, his wits are usually the first thing to go. Followed shortly by his pants and the last shreds of his dignity.

“Do you love him?”

Speirs is always serious, always brusque, at least in Nix’s experience of the man. The gentle edge to his question is surprising. Nix meets his eye and doesn’t hesitate in the slightest, though his throat is suddenly tight. He thinks about the horrible possibility of losing Dick to this war every second of every day. It’s worse now that they’re nearing the end. Even riskier now with the Germans in a panic and Sink’s increasingly misguided plans for patrols. Nix loves him, yes, and if he loses Dick now he’ll die.

“I do. Very much.”

Speirs nods and downs the rest of his whiskey.


Nixon has actual work to do so he pockets the tube and stands to leave. Speirs rises too, all grace and economy of movement, while Nixon’s legs are shaking like he’s going on a jump. Perfectly composed as ever, Speirs could have been discussing the weather. There’s a faintly wistful look on his face though and Nixon wonders about Carwood again. That’s… interesting.

“If you salute I’ll kill you.”

That surprises a bark of laughter out of Speirs.

“You’ll be fine. Both of you. Go on.”

He’s on his way out the door when Speirs says his name.

“If you’d asked, I’d have been happy to give you a practical demonstration, Lewis.”

Nix feels for a moment as though his world has tilted over just that little bit too far, like he’s been walking around the edge of a deep pit all morning and his foot has hit loose soil. He’s not going to entertain the idea of… of that. Here be dragons.

“I could have gone my whole life without knowing that, Ron, thank you.”

Speirs grins and waves him off as though he’d just declined something as ordinary as a glass of water. Heading down the stairs and out into the daylight, Nix wants to hit himself as his mind unhelpfully conjures an image of Speirs in flagrante. Bent over Lipton’s back and shaking a bed-frame to pieces beneath them. It’s a doozy. That image is chased out by one of Dick beneath Nix, face-to-face, Dick’s head thrown back in abandon. The situation in his pants becomes ever more dire. It’s going to be a long day.


The plumbing in their rooms is, blessedly, functioning normally. No public showers for officers. No siree. Wouldn’t do to have inferior officers see your pale ass.

Two tall men in a bath can work of you have four kneecaps per man, but Dick and Nixon manage to make it work with only two. Nixon has finished explaining his surreal morning to Dick and the latter is now reclined, limbs splayed, at the plug end of the claw-footed tub, apparently completely at ease with the implications of Speirs’ intel, which is a relief. The anxiety Nix has been feeling all day is slowly ceding to arousal.

Little galaxies of soap bubbles float out toward the edges of their porcelain universe. Speirs was emphatic about cleanliness. There’s a faint smell of attar of roses in the steaming air, and it's getting a little oppressive after the… debriefing, so Nix tries to ease away from the subject. “Has Lipton got somewhere he can get a proper rest tonight?”

“Yeah. I put him in a private room with Speirs and a real bed. Ron’ll look after him.”

I'll bet, Nix thinks. The heat of the water is working its way into his tired bones and he can’t really conjure more than passing concern. It’s hard to conjure anything under the circumstances. Nix eyes Dick’s white throat, his lean chest, knees spread either side of Nix’s, cock bobbing in the gentle ebb of the water – it’s all unbearably wanton and he would like to get out of the bathtub now please.

“Dick,” he says and is not at all surprised by the rasp in his own voice.

And Dick, bless him, lifts his head up and fixes Nix with a heavy-lidded gaze and lascivious half-smile that sends the entirety of Nix's blood-flow to pool in his groin. He peels Nix’s fingers from the side of the tub and tugs gently. This was the thing that surprised Nix most about Dick’s sexuality – aside from it being directed at Nix, hallelujah – the ease with which he expresses it: not absolute in his confidence, but always bold. He dares and, when it comes to Nix, he wins.

Nix nearly breaks both their necks in his scramble inside the tiny enamelled fucking bucket to kneel between Dick’s legs and cover that smile with his mouth. The bottom drops out of Nixon’s stomach every single time he gets to kiss Dick. The softness of his lips parting obscenely, the hard wet slide of soft muscle in his mouth melts Nix's spine and he feels pretty much devastated when Dick cups the back of his head and invades him.

He’s burdened with a constant paranoia that Dick is maybe only humouring him, that Nix is taking advantage somehow, a corrupting influence. He’s pretty sure that’s written on his birth certificate somewhere, but Dick obliterates that notion every single time with his own quietly intense urgency. His kiss is dirty and needy and they have to get out of this tub. Nix want to collapse, just settle, wet and hard, between Dick’s legs and press himself down and down and down, but there’s rose-scented water sloshing over the sides and they’re creating water damage in the ceiling of the room below. They’re either going to break limbs or crash through the roof if they stay in here.

They manage to stand up without breaking much more than an ill-placed soap dish, but the retreat stalls somewhat. Dick ‘helps’ them rinse off under the shower by kneeling at Nix’s feet and sluicing the clinging soapsuds down his thighs. He takes his sweet time, crouching under the water and turning Nix to face him. Nix’s cock, now rigid and swaying jauntily, is appealingly close to Dick’s mouth. He wraps his fist around it.

“You have nice legs, Lewis,” he says lightly and darts his tongue into the slit of Nix's cock.

“Nguh,” Nix manages before dragging Dick up from the bottom of the tub for a second time. His knees are dangerously unreliable for all this wet enamel and tile. Lovely though the prospect of Dick blowing him is, he really needs to get some space between them so that he can fuck the man properly.

The business of drying off manages to give Nix that space. For about five seconds. In the bedroom Dick Winters, the tidiest man he knows, tosses his towel over his shoulder and it lands in a messy pile with a little terry-towelling whump. In this context Nix finds such an ordinary gesture acutely erotic.

None of this is really going in a direction that is helpful to him or to Dick, as a matter of fact, considering he’s the one who wanted to do this thing and seems hell bent on undermining what very little willpower Lewis Nixon possesses. Nix is backing up toward the bed and it’s suddenly under his ass. Dick chuckles at him but before Nix can join in the levity, Dick wraps his hand around his own cock and gives it an enthusiastic rub as he crosses the floor. The look in his eyes would bring an army to its knees.

Nix attempts a defensive gesture but all he gets is palm-fulls of silky skin shifting over hard muscle, and a lapful of Captain Dick Winters. Which is, all in all, not bad and he supposes he could be a sport just this once and give in, give up, surrender to having his mouth claimed again by a man with a hunger familiar only to the starving. It’s not a bad way to go, all told, fighting to keep the hands of said captain away from his cock so he doesn’t finish before he gets started. Nix is content to lose that battle, lose himself in this and die quietly with Dick’s hands in his hair and on his face, body rocking insistently against his. Quite content until Dick starts tugging Nix’s hands around behind him and curling Nix’s fingers toward his ass.

“Go on, Lew.”

Praying to God for fortitude right now would be vastly inappropriate. He does anyway. “You’re sure about this?”

“Yes. Yes, now come on.”

“Typical. Always first into the fray.”

“I’ll give you ‘fray’ if you don’t get on with it. You’re killing me, Lewis, please. You won’t let me suck you; you won’t let me touch you. Give me something.”

Nix’s stomach performs a quadruple somersault. He’s pretty sure he’s about to give Dick more than he can handle… he hopes. Oh, Christ, he hopes.


Dick’s an old hand at taking orders and considering how firm a grasp he has on the objective they’re trying to achieve, he manages to perform them efficiently. They discover the difficulties of lying the wrong way on an erection and, like the troopers they are, work around it, sort it out and Dick is settled comfortably face down on the mattress. Nix is pretty enamoured of the idea that he can focus entirely on making Dick feel good now that Dick’s hands are safely out of reach. The slightly cruel streak inherent in his nature sees him teasing for a little longer than is really fair. He spends a little too long kneading the muscles in Dick’s back and legs and doesn’t change tack until Dick threatens to court martial him. He spends an aeon working his mouth down the knobs of Dick’s spine until he begs him to do it now goddamnit.

Dick tastes of clean skin and still smells faintly of rose, and Nix is never going to be able to traverse a cottage garden without embarrassment ever again, assuming he survives the war, which is still not a given. He may not survive this night. Nix covers his fingers with a little of the lube and replaces his tongue with them, pushing gently against the opening.


“Yes. More.”

Jesus. “Okay.”

As Nix goes deeper, stretches him further, Dick gets louder. Little ‘ah’s and ‘hmm’s of pleasure are giving way to longer, open-mouthed groans into the mattress under his face and Nix knows he locked the doors but the walls, hell the windows are only so thick and he has a horrible mental image of rows of soldiers seated outside staring up at the glow of their window and eating popcorn.

“Shh,” he’s saying, “shh,” and it's mixed in with his own little groans, as his balls get heavier and start to ache.

Dick writhes beneath him and bites the heel of his own hand, arching into the press of Nix’s fingers. He’s not sure he can pace himself like Speirs insisted he must, absolutely must, because he has to be inside Dick now, has to be on and in and over him, wants to be devouring those sounds, muffling them with his own mouth. So he rolls Dick over and leans in, a little whimper of disappointment dying in Dick’s throat as his fingers slip out. He laps the sounds from Dick’s mouth, says his name twice and lowers himself between Dick’s legs, palming their cocks together against his own stomach. It’s not enough but he needs to back off a little, get his mind back together so that he can begin what promises to be the biggest challenge of his life yet: trying to ease his way into Dick’s body instead of burying himself up to the hilt in a single helpless thrust.

They grind together for a few long moments, a hot, sweaty slide of skin against skin and Nix does with his tongue what he can’t yet do with his cock. Kissing is no help at all, he’s doomed. Dick is grasping at his back, his ass, reaching between them to palm over the head of Nix’s cock, roll a nipple between his fingers, arching up and up and that’s it. That is all he can take. He has to be ready; it has to be now.

Nix untangles his arms from between them, gets Dick’s shoulders beneath his palms and pushes down, hard. Their mouths separate with a wet click and Dick looks petulantly up at him, still reaching, still trying to bring them back together.

“Settle down. Please, please.” He sounds breathless. He is breathless. “I need you to be still, Dick. Be still.”

Dick just shakes his head and tries to bring their hips together again. Nix growls low in his throat, “If you don’t hold still I’m going to come all over you.”

Dick appears to weight that up. He seems genuinely torn between the idea of Nix blowing his load right this minute and actually getting fucked like he asked. He must have decided in favour of the latter because he does lie still. Nix thinks he deserves a citation for it.



“And, uh. Try not to touch me for a bit.”

Dick snorts as though that’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard but he nods his assent. He bites his lip as Nix shuffles down to kneel between his knees again, which is almost as bad as touching. Almost but not quite and thank heaven for small mercies.

Nix gets back to working him open and it’s easier now, even with Dick watching him intently like that. He’s running through Speirs’ instructions like a drill and that helps too: the systematic nature, coaxing muscles to give way, bit by bit. Or at least, it works for a while. It works until Dick starts trying to hook his leg behind Nix; until he starts muttering curses and his name, rocking his hips. And that, really honestly will have to fucking do and if Dick can’t walk without a hitch in his stride tomorrow he really shouldn’t have charged a man a weak-willed as Lewis Nixon with the epic task of fucking him properly. He keeps at it despite the lust-addled tantrum he’s throwing inside his head.

Nix is about to start screaming, or possibly crying, when Dick’s fingers stutter across the back of his hand and Nix stops. Dick’s arms, his face, his smile are all open as Nix rises above him and lines up. And this? This had better be worth it because if it isn’t he is going to shoot Speirs. No cigarette, either. He eases himself in, the hot muscle tight around him gradually giving way. He’s breathing like a bellows, sweating like it’s the middle of summer, and he’s too long from regular exercise for this kind of physical exertion. But Dick’s body goes taut beneath him, his eyes go wide with wonder and yes, it’s worth it.

It’s worth it for the way Dick moans assent like he’s dying the most glorious death ever, for the way his eyes flutter shut and his mouth falls open. It’s worth it for the moment when Nix falls forward, into Dick’s arms, and finally blessedly begins to move. It’s worth it for the heat and the friction and the way Dick takes Nix’s hand and presses it over his mouth, panting into his palm as he rises up to meet each thrust. It’s worth it for the way Dick holds Nix’s face between his hands and kisses him, the way he throws his head back and clutches at Nix’s hips, trying to draw him further in as Nix rides toward an orgasm that may well kill him. For the way Dick comes, shuddering, with a stuttered curse and series of broken sobs.

It’s worth it for coming down and cooling off and slipping into dreams, tangled together in a real bed, not dead after all, but alive and loved.

It’s worth it for getting his breath back, making eye contact and laughing. Nix drops his head back onto Dick’s chest. He’s still far too boneless to move from where he collapsed. Dick smiles wonkily at him, fingers gently massaging Nix’s scalp beneath the dark riot of his hair.

“I deserve a reward,” Nix mumbles, breath stirring through the light dusting of hair on Dick’s chest.

“For fucking me? Hmm, if I knew you’d find it such an arduous challenge, I might have asked someone else to do it.”

“Indeed you should have. You know I have no self-control. That was a truly heroic effort in restraint I failed to make. Keep cursing by the way, I find it unbearably sexy.”

“You like it when I curse?”

“I like it when you do anything,” Nix says and it’s possibly the most sincere and sappy he’s ever been in his life. Also the most exhausted. “I also like it when you sleep. I like it when I sleep.”

Dick wriggles a bit which has the unsettling affect of waking up parts of Nix’s anatomy he was sure might not work for some time yet. Limbs shift around him and he finds himself suddenly deliciously comfortable, crooked under Dick’s arm. He still smells, faintly, like roses. He tastes of salt.

“Sleep, Lew.”

He does.


Nixon blew his language centres out the previous evening and he’s not convinced they’re quite back to full power until a sunbeam arcs through a chink in the drapes and stabs him in the eye.

“Fuck! Ow.”

Dick is stretched out beside him beneath their quilt, naked and laughing.

“You’re looking very smug this morning, Winters. What, did you get laid last night or something?”


Nix is actually pretty curious. In what passes for his mind at this hour, he has a small notion growing: turnabout is fair play.

“How was it?”

Dick hums and stretches enormously, skin going tight over his abdomen, his ribcage, and Nix wishes he could go again right now but if he does they won’t leave the room until at least noon. He settles for stroking the hard plane of Dick’s belly. “Mm. Was good.”

“I also like it when you’re monosyllabic.”

He grins at Nix, watches him from beneath half-closed lids, arches into his touch: supplicant with his body, predatory with his eyes. Nix’s insides flutter.

“You should try it.”

What do the Brits say? Cor, Blimey. Yeah, he probably should, as soon as humanly possible. Dick seems to be satisfied with the… experience. Replete, even. God.

“Yeah, okay,” Nix agrees. He wonders how much self-control Dick Winters has.


When Speirs salutes him that day, Nix magnanimously refrains from killing him.
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