Wilby Wonderful Fic: A Change of Season (Duck/Dan, NC-17)
Title: A Change of Season
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Pairing: Duck/Dan
Length: ~1800 words
Disclaimer: Wilby Wonderful and its characters belong to Daniel MacIvor and others who aren't me. No copyright infringement is intended. This is just for fun, not for profit.
Feedback: Is most welcome. Concrit, too.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to isiscolo for an outstandingly helpful beta. Any remaining flaws are entirely my responsibility.
Notes: estrella30 asked people to make spring sexy. This is what happened.
Summary: Dan's alive. It just takes a long time to sink in.
~ * ~
Dan's alive. It just takes a long time to sink in.
Through the autumn he's just finding himself again, getting his feet back under him. Duck helps him find a place to live, some simple things to furnish it. Sometimes Duck comes over to hang out and have dinner and watch a movie, and a few times he's spent the night in Dan's king-sized bed, but usually if they spend the night together it's at Duck's place, even though the double bed is awfully cramped for two tall men.
One weekend they go out and cut firewood. Duck has a friend with a few downed trees on his property, so they rent a splitter and chainsaws and spend the day getting sweaty and covered in sawdust, and they take home two cords of firewood for their trouble.
They're both too tired for sex that night, but Dan falls asleep all wrapped up in Duck's arms and legs. The next morning he wakes up skin to skin with Duck and thinks that he hasn't slept so well in years. It's a cool morning, so he gets up and starts a fire in the wood stove in Duck's living room, and the soft, smoky smell of the fire mingles with the scent of the coffee that he brings back to bed for Duck.
Through the winter Dan is quiet. Some part of him is - not hibernating, exactly, but it's like the trees in Duck's back yard: dormant above ground but alive down deep, still growing. Putting down roots.
There are half a dozen sugar maples in Duck's back yard. Duck likes to stand under the biggest one and lean against its rough trunk when he goes outside for a smoke at night. Sometimes Dan shrugs into his coat and goes out with him. They stand shoulder to shoulder in silence, looking up through the bare branches at the stars, Duck's cigarette smoke swirling slowly, sharp and acrid in the crisp night air.
One night Duck tells him how he'll tap the trees in the spring when the sap starts running. It's only a few trees, he says, so they won't get much from them, maybe only fifty gallons of sap yielding a gallon or so of maple syrup, hardly enough to make it worthwhile. But he does it anyway, every year.
Dan notices how Duck said "they", and it warms something in him, just a little.
The sex is good. He's never had bad sex with Duck, can't imagine it. But it's always Duck who starts things with a kiss or a caress or an invitation to spend the night. Dan has never said no, and it's always good, but he can't seem to make himself start it, can't be the one who reaches for Duck. And when Duck does touch him, it seems like it always takes a second for him to feel it, like it's got to travel nerves that are chilled and sluggish.
One day Duck comes up behind him at the bathroom sink and wraps his arms around Dan's waist while he's shaving. He's a little shorter than Dan, so he has to lean to the side to meet Dan's eyes and smile at him in the mirror. Dan smiles back and it looks a little strange to him, and it occurs to him that he can't remember when he last saw himself smile.
Dan buys some pots and pans and a barbecue grill and teaches himself to cook. Sometimes the food is pretty good, and sometimes not so much. Duck just eats it all with a quiet smile and a word of thanks, and then they do the dishes together.
Dan gets good at baking bread, but it always comes out better when he makes it at Duck's place.
He catches Duck watching him sometimes. He'll be frowning just a little, his forehead crinkled, but it's not quite concern; it's more like he's studying Dan. Waiting for something. Dan doesn't know what, though, and figuring it out seems like too much effort, so he just pretends not to notice.
One morning in March Duck looks up at the clear, sunny sky and checks the thermometer on the back porch. "Warming up," he says. "Sap should be running."
The bright grin he flashes at Dan is enough to make him grab his jacket and follow Duck outside. He watches as Duck drills and taps the sugar maples and hangs three or four buckets on each tree, and when Duck finishes and turns to him with a smile of satisfaction, Dan's own answering smile feels like it belongs on his face.
"It's still winter," Dan says after they've stowed the tools and are stamping snow off their boots on the back porch. He looks at the still-deep snow drifts, the bare tree branches.
Duck shakes his head. "Spring," he says with a small grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and makes Dan want to kiss him (even though he doesn't). "The sugar maples always know it first. You'll see."
The nights are still cold but the days are well above freezing, and every few days they collect the sap and boil it in a big tub that sits on cinderblocks over a fire in the back yard.
The first time they finish a batch, Duck swipes at a drift to find some clean snow below the surface, and pours a bit of syrup onto it. He takes off his glove and picks up the treat in his bare hand and eats half of it before holding the rest out for Dan. Dan takes off his glove and reaches out to take it from him, but Duck pulls it away and shakes his head, grinning. Dan's smile comes slow, and he leans forward and opens his mouth, taking in not just the syrup and snow but Duck's thumb and fingers, too. He sucks and licks him clean, and Duck tastes almost as good as the candy.
Duck's eyes go hot and he reaches down to adjust himself inside his flannel-lined jeans; he makes short work of securing the fire before grabbing Dan by the hand and dragging him inside. They've barely shed their coats before Dan is on his knees just inside the back door, fumbling Duck's cock out of his pants with cold fingers but that doesn't matter because his mouth is hot enough and soon Duck's legs are shaking and he's running his fingers through Dan's hair and whispering the sweet obscenities that Dan loves to hear, and by the time Duck comes in Dan's mouth, Dan has unzipped his pants and pulled out his own cock and he comes, too, just a few strokes behind.
It's the first time they haven't made it to the bed.
The nights stay cold, but the days get a little warmer, a little longer, and Dan is unsettled inside his own skin. It's not quite an itch, but whatever it is, it's just as demanding and just as persistent, making him restless, eager to lock up and leave the store at the end of the day while it's still light outside.
He wakes up hard every morning, which, okay, isn't so different, but lately it's an insistent hard-on that demands his attention and won't go away if he just takes a leak and ignores it. He and Duck have sex every morning they're together, sometimes just a quick blow job in bed or jacking each other in the shower if it's a work day, sometimes a long, slow, sultry fuck if they don't have to be anywhere.
If he's spent the night alone, he jerks himself off in the morning and thinks about Duck's cock - swelling hard in his hand, fucking Dan's mouth, fucking his ass - about Duck's face right before he comes and the wordless, hungry sounds he makes. About how much he wishes he were with Duck and what it would be like to wake up with him every day.
In early April the weather breaks - no more freezing nights, and the days are getting almost balmy; the last of the snow's been gone for days. Dan gets to Duck's place early one Saturday afternoon and finds him in the back yard, pulling the taps out of the trees.
"No more?" he asks, a little wistful, thinking of all the time they've spent hanging out in the back yard, tending the fire and minding the boiling sap.
Duck shakes his head. He reaches up and grabs an overhead branch and tugs it down so he can show Dan the fat, burgeoning buds. "See?" he says, and smiles. "Sap flavor goes off once the buds start to swell."
Dan reaches out and runs his hand down the slender branch, feeling the rough bark and the smooth, swollen buds, alive under his fingertips. He looks around, and it's everywhere. Crocus and snowdrops and the earliest daffodils are blooming against the house. Hints of green are appearing on trees and shrubs, and the vegetable garden has an unruly carpet of seedling weeds where just days before there was a blanket of snow.
His cock pulses and swells; his knees go weak and suddenly he's almost dizzy. He reaches out and grabs Duck by the front of his jacket, half for support and half pulling at him as he stumbles back to lean against the trunk of the big tree - their tree, the one where Duck smokes, the one where he watches Duck smoke and thinks about kissing him.
Now he's all haste and fumbling fingers, hurrying to unzip first Duck's jacket and then his own. Duck is clearly puzzled, but by the time Dan starts frantically struggling with his shirt buttons he's got it, he's on board and he's working on his own shirt. In a moment, they've got their jeans open and their cocks out and their chests bared and Dan's got what he needs, he's got everything he needs - Duck held close against him, naked skin to naked skin, cocks thrusting against bellies and arms holding each other tight, so tight.
Duck's breath is hot against his face and he can feel Duck's pounding heartbeat against his chest and no matter how close he gets to Duck, it'll never be close enough, never enough, he wants him, he needs him, Christ he loves him and he's too far gone even to worry about whether he said that out loud because he's groaning through clenched teeth and coming, God, he's coming, and Duck is, too, rasping "Dan… oh God, oh fuck, Dan!" into his ear and spilling wet heat onto their bellies.
Dan's got his face buried in Duck's neck and he's still breathing hard. He thinks the wetness on Duck's neck is sweat, but he really couldn't say for sure. "I'm alive," he says against Duck's skin, and he laughs.
Duck takes Dan's head in his hands and brings him up for a soft kiss, drinking in the laughter spilling from Dan's lips.
"I know," he says, his eyes soft and bright. "I know."
~ fin ~
Rating: NC-17/FRAO
Pairing: Duck/Dan
Length: ~1800 words
Disclaimer: Wilby Wonderful and its characters belong to Daniel MacIvor and others who aren't me. No copyright infringement is intended. This is just for fun, not for profit.
Feedback: Is most welcome. Concrit, too.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to isiscolo for an outstandingly helpful beta. Any remaining flaws are entirely my responsibility.
Notes: estrella30 asked people to make spring sexy. This is what happened.
Summary: Dan's alive. It just takes a long time to sink in.
~ * ~
Dan's alive. It just takes a long time to sink in.
Through the autumn he's just finding himself again, getting his feet back under him. Duck helps him find a place to live, some simple things to furnish it. Sometimes Duck comes over to hang out and have dinner and watch a movie, and a few times he's spent the night in Dan's king-sized bed, but usually if they spend the night together it's at Duck's place, even though the double bed is awfully cramped for two tall men.
One weekend they go out and cut firewood. Duck has a friend with a few downed trees on his property, so they rent a splitter and chainsaws and spend the day getting sweaty and covered in sawdust, and they take home two cords of firewood for their trouble.
They're both too tired for sex that night, but Dan falls asleep all wrapped up in Duck's arms and legs. The next morning he wakes up skin to skin with Duck and thinks that he hasn't slept so well in years. It's a cool morning, so he gets up and starts a fire in the wood stove in Duck's living room, and the soft, smoky smell of the fire mingles with the scent of the coffee that he brings back to bed for Duck.
Through the winter Dan is quiet. Some part of him is - not hibernating, exactly, but it's like the trees in Duck's back yard: dormant above ground but alive down deep, still growing. Putting down roots.
There are half a dozen sugar maples in Duck's back yard. Duck likes to stand under the biggest one and lean against its rough trunk when he goes outside for a smoke at night. Sometimes Dan shrugs into his coat and goes out with him. They stand shoulder to shoulder in silence, looking up through the bare branches at the stars, Duck's cigarette smoke swirling slowly, sharp and acrid in the crisp night air.
One night Duck tells him how he'll tap the trees in the spring when the sap starts running. It's only a few trees, he says, so they won't get much from them, maybe only fifty gallons of sap yielding a gallon or so of maple syrup, hardly enough to make it worthwhile. But he does it anyway, every year.
Dan notices how Duck said "they", and it warms something in him, just a little.
The sex is good. He's never had bad sex with Duck, can't imagine it. But it's always Duck who starts things with a kiss or a caress or an invitation to spend the night. Dan has never said no, and it's always good, but he can't seem to make himself start it, can't be the one who reaches for Duck. And when Duck does touch him, it seems like it always takes a second for him to feel it, like it's got to travel nerves that are chilled and sluggish.
One day Duck comes up behind him at the bathroom sink and wraps his arms around Dan's waist while he's shaving. He's a little shorter than Dan, so he has to lean to the side to meet Dan's eyes and smile at him in the mirror. Dan smiles back and it looks a little strange to him, and it occurs to him that he can't remember when he last saw himself smile.
Dan buys some pots and pans and a barbecue grill and teaches himself to cook. Sometimes the food is pretty good, and sometimes not so much. Duck just eats it all with a quiet smile and a word of thanks, and then they do the dishes together.
Dan gets good at baking bread, but it always comes out better when he makes it at Duck's place.
He catches Duck watching him sometimes. He'll be frowning just a little, his forehead crinkled, but it's not quite concern; it's more like he's studying Dan. Waiting for something. Dan doesn't know what, though, and figuring it out seems like too much effort, so he just pretends not to notice.
One morning in March Duck looks up at the clear, sunny sky and checks the thermometer on the back porch. "Warming up," he says. "Sap should be running."
The bright grin he flashes at Dan is enough to make him grab his jacket and follow Duck outside. He watches as Duck drills and taps the sugar maples and hangs three or four buckets on each tree, and when Duck finishes and turns to him with a smile of satisfaction, Dan's own answering smile feels like it belongs on his face.
"It's still winter," Dan says after they've stowed the tools and are stamping snow off their boots on the back porch. He looks at the still-deep snow drifts, the bare tree branches.
Duck shakes his head. "Spring," he says with a small grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and makes Dan want to kiss him (even though he doesn't). "The sugar maples always know it first. You'll see."
The nights are still cold but the days are well above freezing, and every few days they collect the sap and boil it in a big tub that sits on cinderblocks over a fire in the back yard.
The first time they finish a batch, Duck swipes at a drift to find some clean snow below the surface, and pours a bit of syrup onto it. He takes off his glove and picks up the treat in his bare hand and eats half of it before holding the rest out for Dan. Dan takes off his glove and reaches out to take it from him, but Duck pulls it away and shakes his head, grinning. Dan's smile comes slow, and he leans forward and opens his mouth, taking in not just the syrup and snow but Duck's thumb and fingers, too. He sucks and licks him clean, and Duck tastes almost as good as the candy.
Duck's eyes go hot and he reaches down to adjust himself inside his flannel-lined jeans; he makes short work of securing the fire before grabbing Dan by the hand and dragging him inside. They've barely shed their coats before Dan is on his knees just inside the back door, fumbling Duck's cock out of his pants with cold fingers but that doesn't matter because his mouth is hot enough and soon Duck's legs are shaking and he's running his fingers through Dan's hair and whispering the sweet obscenities that Dan loves to hear, and by the time Duck comes in Dan's mouth, Dan has unzipped his pants and pulled out his own cock and he comes, too, just a few strokes behind.
It's the first time they haven't made it to the bed.
The nights stay cold, but the days get a little warmer, a little longer, and Dan is unsettled inside his own skin. It's not quite an itch, but whatever it is, it's just as demanding and just as persistent, making him restless, eager to lock up and leave the store at the end of the day while it's still light outside.
He wakes up hard every morning, which, okay, isn't so different, but lately it's an insistent hard-on that demands his attention and won't go away if he just takes a leak and ignores it. He and Duck have sex every morning they're together, sometimes just a quick blow job in bed or jacking each other in the shower if it's a work day, sometimes a long, slow, sultry fuck if they don't have to be anywhere.
If he's spent the night alone, he jerks himself off in the morning and thinks about Duck's cock - swelling hard in his hand, fucking Dan's mouth, fucking his ass - about Duck's face right before he comes and the wordless, hungry sounds he makes. About how much he wishes he were with Duck and what it would be like to wake up with him every day.
In early April the weather breaks - no more freezing nights, and the days are getting almost balmy; the last of the snow's been gone for days. Dan gets to Duck's place early one Saturday afternoon and finds him in the back yard, pulling the taps out of the trees.
"No more?" he asks, a little wistful, thinking of all the time they've spent hanging out in the back yard, tending the fire and minding the boiling sap.
Duck shakes his head. He reaches up and grabs an overhead branch and tugs it down so he can show Dan the fat, burgeoning buds. "See?" he says, and smiles. "Sap flavor goes off once the buds start to swell."
Dan reaches out and runs his hand down the slender branch, feeling the rough bark and the smooth, swollen buds, alive under his fingertips. He looks around, and it's everywhere. Crocus and snowdrops and the earliest daffodils are blooming against the house. Hints of green are appearing on trees and shrubs, and the vegetable garden has an unruly carpet of seedling weeds where just days before there was a blanket of snow.
His cock pulses and swells; his knees go weak and suddenly he's almost dizzy. He reaches out and grabs Duck by the front of his jacket, half for support and half pulling at him as he stumbles back to lean against the trunk of the big tree - their tree, the one where Duck smokes, the one where he watches Duck smoke and thinks about kissing him.
Now he's all haste and fumbling fingers, hurrying to unzip first Duck's jacket and then his own. Duck is clearly puzzled, but by the time Dan starts frantically struggling with his shirt buttons he's got it, he's on board and he's working on his own shirt. In a moment, they've got their jeans open and their cocks out and their chests bared and Dan's got what he needs, he's got everything he needs - Duck held close against him, naked skin to naked skin, cocks thrusting against bellies and arms holding each other tight, so tight.
Duck's breath is hot against his face and he can feel Duck's pounding heartbeat against his chest and no matter how close he gets to Duck, it'll never be close enough, never enough, he wants him, he needs him, Christ he loves him and he's too far gone even to worry about whether he said that out loud because he's groaning through clenched teeth and coming, God, he's coming, and Duck is, too, rasping "Dan… oh God, oh fuck, Dan!" into his ear and spilling wet heat onto their bellies.
Dan's got his face buried in Duck's neck and he's still breathing hard. He thinks the wetness on Duck's neck is sweat, but he really couldn't say for sure. "I'm alive," he says against Duck's skin, and he laughs.
Duck takes Dan's head in his hands and brings him up for a soft kiss, drinking in the laughter spilling from Dan's lips.
"I know," he says, his eyes soft and bright. "I know."
~ fin ~