In the tiny, shitty bar in the middle of nowhere, a man is on his fifth glass of whiskey. The bartender will cut him off soon, he knows that from experience. He's never belligerent, doesn't do anything but sit and stare as the ice melts until he's ready for a refill, but just because someone is quiet doesn't mean they haven't had enough.
He's not alone, this time. The bar is nearing closing time and there's another man around the corner of it, his back to the wall, as they keep each other in their peripheries. He's drinking scotch, shitty stuff from the bottom shelf. He has a patch over his eye, a mustache and stubble, hair long enough to fall around his face.
"You stare a lot," eyepatch says, after glass five is finished and pushed away.
"You remind me of someone, is all," glass five replies.
The single exposed eye narrows. Lips purse between the thick covering of hair on his face. Above his lip, it's black, and the rest is dotted with grey, and streaked with silver atop his head.
"You stare a lot too," glass five says, grinning. Lopsided, shoulders eased by alcohol. He slides closer to the next seat over and offers his hand. "Will."
"Duncan," eyepatch says, and shakes it.
"This someone I remind you of," Duncan continues. "Is that a good thing?"
Will tilts his head. He drums his fingertips along the bar like he's counting down to something. "I think he loved me, at one point," he says. "Maybe he still does."
Duncan grunts, and tips back his glass.
"You don't talk as much as he did," Will says, smiling. The smile holds bitterness, complicated things he doesn't want to think about making themselves at home in the dimples in his cheeks. He sees Duncan's gaze lift to the scar on his forehead, and the cut on his cheek, before their eyes meet again.
Duncan grunts again in acknowledgement. His glass is empty. He sets it on the table with a loud 'clack'. "I talk when I have something to say."
How novel. Will nods.
Duncan stands, and doesn't comment when Will throws enough bills on the bar to cover his tab and follows him out, into the snowy outdoors. There's another flurry starting, the promise of a storm that will block out the roads and make it dangerous to remain outside.
Will shivers and folds his coat tighter around himself, hands in his pockets. He watches, wordlessly, as Duncan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He takes one from the back by his teeth and puts the pack away, and cups his hand around the end as he lights it. For a moment, the glow of the fire colors his skin, and makes Will think of…someone else. In a way that makes his breath catch.
He sets his eyes forward, but the snow doesn't help much either. So much happened during the wintertime, and it's harsher this far North. It seems unending, limitless; the cold and the ice and the crisp darkness of the sky that make even the clouds look sharp.
"This man who loved you," Duncan says amidst a cloud of smoke. Will turns to him, surprised at being spoken to. "Did you love him back?"
"Would I be here, if I did?" Will asks.
Duncan hums, dark brows drawn low as he squints into the wind. The scent of smoke is foreign to Will, he certainly never hung around smokers back before…before. It reminds him of times when he was a kid, running behind his father on the docks and shores with rich people's fancy boats and the fishermen's barges.
"You're avoiding the question."
"I'm avoiding the answer," Will corrects. "I don't care to give it."
Will sighs, his breath clouding as much as the smoke from Duncan's cigarette. He shivers as a particularly cold gust of wind worms its way beneath the covering outside the bar. It's a small awning, there isn't much room between them at all.
"What did you come out here for, Will?" Duncan asks, his eyes on the parking lot, and the road beyond it. His cigarette is almost half done already.
"Something raw," Will replies. "Wild. Something that I can survive."
"You couldn't survive him?"
"Not the way we were going, no."
Duncan grunts again, and flicks his cigarette into a snowbank. It steams for a moment, and then goes out. There and gone in less than a minute. How fickle the world is.
Duncan pushes himself from where he was leaning against the side of the bar, and says, "Come on, then." Will blinks at him, but follows to his big black beast of a truck. He gets into the passenger side as Duncan climbs into the driver's seat.
They head up in silence, to a large cabin on a lake. Even the air around it looks cold and lifeless; it is a bubble of quiet loneliness in the middle of nowhere. A veritable fortress of solitude. It's well-made, and looks strong, able to survive the worst of the storms. Inside, there's a stain on the floor that hints at water damage, but no guilty leak from the roof. He doesn't know what happened, but he doesn't much care.
Inside, the cabin is sparsely decorated. Utilitarian, meant purely for service and small notes of comfort. It is not at all like his old home in Wolf Trap, nor the house in Baltimore. It is, instead, like the hunting cabin of old men, where they retreat to when they are in the mood to hunt and kill things.
The air is cold inside, but Will lets Duncan take his jacket without protest, and hang it by the door.
"Do you want to be drunker?" Duncan asks.
Will arches a brow. "I won't say 'No', if you're offering," he replies.
Duncan nods, and goes to an open bottle by the large armchair. He's so…silent. So unequivocally sad. Will doesn't know how to reconcile the face of a bearded, tired old man with the one it reminds him of. He hasn't even seen Duncan smile yet. Maybe he won't.
"Where's your bathroom?" he asks. Silently, Duncan gestures to a closed door beneath the stairs. Will enters, and finds that it's just a toilet and a sink, but it's big enough for what he wants to do. The packet of lube he brought with him – prepared, not hopeful – is warmed by the proximity to his thigh in the pocket of his jeans. He pushes them down to his knees and bends over the back of the toilet, so that he can stretch himself out without seeing his own face.
When he's done, he flushes for appearance's sake, and washes his hands. Duncan greets him with a full glass of brown liquid that smells too sharp to be whiskey, too much like gasoline to be scotch. A mix of both, maybe – Will doesn't care. His head is already fuzzy and warm from the effects of his drinks at the bar, and he's not exactly being coy.
He clinks their glasses together, and Duncan watches him as he tips the glass back. Even if it's poison, he doesn't care. It's hard to care about much of anything, recently. Will swallows all of it and sucks in a breath through his teeth at the burn as it travels down his throat.
Duncan arches a brow, and turns away, headed back to the living room. Will follows, and watches as he lights a fire in silence. The quiet is starting to get at him, prickling along the back of his neck like fever. He is, suddenly, far too warm in this silent, freezing cabin.
Duncan stands once the fire is lit, and Will approaches him from behind. He watches the man tense, at the ready – he must be a hunter of some kind, Will has an eye for that sort of thing. He wonders if Duncan can sense his own inner predator. If this is not just a mating ground, but a killing field.
Duncan turns as Will reaches past him to set his empty glass on the mantle, beside a small book that might be a journal, might be fucking poetry for all he knows or cares. He takes Duncan's glass from him and sets it beside.
Duncan arches a brow. "Not one for foreplay, then," he says. He doesn't sound disappointed by that.
Will laughs anyway. "I know what I'm here for," he replies. "You game?"
Duncan nods. "I'll try not to remind you of someone else."
That's all the warning Will gets before there's a hand in his hair, and the bruising sensation of a mouth on his. It's rough, but coordinated, as Duncan's other big hand grabs the back of his thigh and hauls him closer. He's strong, he's built like a fucking bear, and Will clings to his muscled shoulders and worms his fingers through the long, greying hair, as Duncan kisses him. The feeling of facial hair is foreign, to his mouth and his hands, when it's not his own, but he likes it. He likes how it burns him, makes his lips so sensitive they feel like they might be bleeding.
They're not, but Will has long ago stopped trying to separate pain and pleasure from each other.
He moans as he's guided to a sturdy table and shoved onto it, Duncan forcing himself between Will's spread knees. He grabs for Duncan's coat, shoving it off. The turtleneck beneath that is soft to the touch and easily yanked over Duncan's head.
Will's hands freeze, as he sees the scars. Touches the first of many.
He has to laugh. "You're as carved up as I am."
To that, Duncan's brows lift.
Will pulls his sweater off, and the shirt beneath that, revealing the scar on his stomach, and pushes his hair out of his forehead, though he knows Duncan already saw that one. None of his wounds are nearly as mean-looking as Duncan's, and there are far fewer, but Duncan's hand rests just below Will's stomach scar.
"Whoever did this wanted to kill you," he says.
Will sighs, and shakes his head. "Part of him did, maybe."
Whether there's something in his voice, or Duncan is just observant enough to know when to let something drop, he doesn't press. He knots a hand in Will's hair again and hauls him up, and Will digs his fingers into the hair on his chest, drags his nails down. Despite his many wounds, Duncan clearly doesn't care if his partners are rough in bed.
He grunts into Will's mouth as Will flattens his hand on the thick bulge in his slacks. His mouth waters, and he feels like he can't see as he fumbles with the button and zip, shoving them down. They're still wearing their Goddamn shoes, no better than two teenagers in a parking lot behind some abandoned gas station in a dying town.
Touching Duncan without the barrier of clothes makes him growl, throaty and rough. He grabs Will by the neck and slams him down, but Will is petulant and demanding, and wraps his legs around Duncan's hips, pulling him close so that he can keep touching him. He's thick, and long, and he's going to fuck the somber thoughts right out of Will's head.
Duncan lets Will's neck go and yanks at his jeans without so much as a 'by your leave'. He's rude and rough and everything he isn't and Will loves that, he aches for that. He smirks when Duncan spits on his fingers and rubs them against Will's rim, blinking in surprise to find him already wet.
"Prepared?" he teases.
"Like I said; I know what I'm here for."
He pulls back from Will, easily freeing himself from the desperate cling of Will's legs, and rolls him onto his stomach. Will's knees bend as he braces himself against the floor. The table is right next to the wall so he can't grip the far edge of it, but the legs are within easy reach. He holds onto them with a white-knuckled grip and sighs against the table, wood fogging against his cheek, as Duncan steps up behind him again and coats his cockhead with a palmful of saliva.
"It probably goes without saying that I don't want you to be gentle," Will breathes.
"Good," Duncan replies. There's a small note of ruefulness in his voice when he adds; "I don't know how else to be."
Then, he's got his nails in Will's hip, other hand threading through his hair and clenching tight, shoving Will's cheek against the table. He holds Will like an animal he's trying to wrestle into submission, thick cockhead butting against Will's ass. He grunts, when Will relaxes enough and angles his hips the best way, and Will can't help the pitiful whine he lets out when Duncan penetrates him.
It stings, he thought being this eager for it could compensate for being relaxed and ready. He grabs Duncan's wrist at his hip and grits his teeth. "Come on, fuck me."
Duncan makes a low sound, tightens his grip, and drags his hand from Will's hair to the nape of his neck. He squeezes so hard that breathing becomes difficult, and slams inside so roughly that the table cracks against the wall with a loud, sharp sound. Will lifts to his toes, gasping, forehead against the table. It was cold in the cabin before, but now with the fire and with Duncan like a living space heater, on top of him and behind him, he's sweating. His knees won't lock, even when he spreads his feet apart as much as he can with his jeans around his ankles.
He takes the brunt of the thrusts against his hips, and they're going to be bruised and sore when this is over. The scar on his forehead catches on the wood grain and stings terribly. He can't catch his fucking breath and his shoulders hurt from holding onto the table so tightly for balance.
It's perfect. Exactly what he wanted.
He turns his head when Duncan yanks him upright, and gets a kiss that's more like a bite, teeth in his lower lip as he wraps his fingers in Duncan's sweaty hair and holds on for dear life. One of Duncan's arms is around his chest, pinching a nipple tightly, the other framing Will's supporting hand, though Will's not doing much of the heavy lifting. He can't, under so much power, and brutality.
Duncan releases his mouth and grips Will by the chin, forcing him to arch back, head on Duncan's shoulder. "Fuck," Will hisses, scrambling for purchase on the other man's arm, or flank, anywhere he can reach. This angle feels phenomenal, the cock inside him so thick there's nowhere for any nerve ending to run and hide. The sound of Duncan slamming into him is louder than Will's own heartbeat, and he's panting and shaking, so close he feels like he's going to lose his mind.
Duncan stills, for a moment, nails dug in tight to Will's jaw. He breathes in at Will's neck and Will tenses, shivering. No, he doesn't want that; he doesn't want to be scented, or taken slowly. He doesn't want -.
Duncan slams him down, and pulls out, leaving Will gaping and raw and far too much like he felt when he was bleeding out on his kitchen floor. "Turn around," Duncan rasps, and Will does, and he's lifted onto the table again, his jeans yanked off over his shoes. Duncan cups his ass and lifts him up and Will gasps as he shoves his way back inside.
And now he's on top of Will, crushing him to the table. Will is helpless, not even enough strength in his neck to raise his head for a kiss. But that doesn't matter. Their foreheads rut together and Will swallows Duncan's rough noises, like they're beasts who haven't quite decided if they're going to kill each other yet.
Duncan rears back and grips Will's ass tight enough that he's sure it, too, will have bruises come morning. His chin lifts, eyes fluttering closed, face twitching into helpless laxness as he gets close. Will reaches for him, paws at his sweaty chest and tensing stomach, his thick flanks, his hips, wanting it deeper, harder, more.
Duncan slams in as deep as he can get, shoving Will's legs up so he can rut against his ass. The friction inside Will, against his sensitive and stinging rim, makes his lashes flutter. He bites his lower lip and drops a hand to his cock, stroking quickly.
Duncan's upper lip twitches, revealing uneven, sharp teeth. He grunts, lifting Will up just slightly, muscles in his arms and shoulders bulging with strain. Will whimpers, toes curling, he's so fucking close.
"Please," he whispers. "Just a little more, please."
Duncan's eye flashes, and he wraps one arm around both of Will's legs, keeping them raised and to one side of his face. He flattens his other hand on Will's ass, and Will's eyes widen as he feels the insistent push of his thumb, alongside his cock, stretching Will wider. Will moans, tightening around him, legs shaking as Duncan forces his thumb in, and up, pinching Will's prostate with an awful, relentless pressure.
"Fuck," Will gasps, tipping his head back. "Fuck -."
His orgasm comes for him so slowly it feels like drowning. His bruised stomach tenses so hard it aches. He arches his back, and though there's absolutely no leverage for him to grind against Duncan, the other man is more than happy to use his spasming body, forcing himself in with little rabbiting thrusts. It soon becomes painful, and Will is wincing, and gasping, and his hand is slick with come as he lets his cock go, still twitching, still dribbling onto his stomach.
Duncan's lips twitch. "There we go," he murmurs, and Will can only stare back at him. He lets Will's legs go and makes Will wrap them around him, leans forward and braces himself on the table, hands on either side of Will's chest.
Will wraps his hand around the back of Duncan's neck, and kisses him as he comes. Will's body is greedy, he knows it is, but even still he can feel a single, thick line of come leaking out as Duncan fucks him through his orgasm. It hurts to take so much, he's so sensitive and sore, but satisfied as Duncan goes heavy on him, just for a moment, and pants against his mouth.
He slips out of Will when he's too soft to stay inside, and Will winces at the faint ache he leaves behind, made worse by how much come drips out of him and onto the floor. Duncan straightens, pushing his hair back from his face, and Will forces his shaking, weak arms to push himself upright.
He sighs, and clucks his tongue behind his teeth. He slides off the table onto unsteady legs and finds his jeans, picking them up and sliding them back on over his shoes as Duncan refastens his slacks around his hips.
"Much obliged," he says. Duncan grunts. Will grins to himself. So talkative. "I'll take one more drink before I go."
"The roads are too dangerous on foot," Duncan replies, gesturing to the window. The storm came for them while they were occupied, and he's right – even the recent tracks from his truck have been thoroughly blanketed.
Will arches a brow. "And you're not going to drive me."
"You're too drunk for me to trust you with your own car."
Will huffs. "Guess I'm staying the night, then."
Duncan grunts again. "I can make up the couch for you."
"Something wrong with your own bed?" Will challenges, lifting his chin. He's still shirtless, and gravitates towards the fire so that he doesn’t start shivering. Duncan's glass is still there. He grabs it and takes a drink. No protest comes from the other man.
"You sleep in my bed and I'm going to fuck you again in the morning."
Will turns, eyes him over his shoulder, and grins. He throws the rest of the alcohol back, and sets it by its empty twin. He would probably have something poetic to say about that. Duncan doesn't say anything.