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“Do you want to tell me what happened back there?”

Face stood rigid, eyes like slits and brow furrowed because he didn’t care to be patronized.  Hannibal had been present on the mission, witnessed the travesty firsthand, and if he expected Face to disgrace himself further by recounting every single mishap, he was mistaken.

“It's hot,” he stated lamely, fingers fumbling over the buttons on his shirt.

The older man’s head cocked and he parroted, “It's hot?  We're in the desert, of course it's hot.”

“Thank you, Hannibal.  Thank you, because I had no idea we were in the middle of Fucking Nowhere, Nevada.”  Face peeled the fabric from his body, glued there by sweat and open wounds - wiped his forehead on the scarf still knotted round his neck.

Hands gripped the edge of a table as he hoisted himself up, barely brushing the surface with his backside before the other commanded, “Off.”  The groan was exaggerated, but he hopped down obediently, stared his leader in the face with hands on hips.

Hannibal barked, “No more of this,” in his angry voice that teetered between stern warning and death wish.

He got a smile in response, wide and disingenuous when his protégé questioned, “No more what?” lifting palms to the ceiling.  “I don’t need this from you.  I don’t fail you, Hannibal – I don’t.  It was one time, an accident.”

It wasn’t worth listing off all his accidents when they were in the past and it was Hannibal’s fault they went unpunished.  He’d bent the truth for Face to keep him out of trouble, to protect him from harm, but it meant never answering for his deeds, never feeling the full consequences of his actions.  He’d tell him, “No,” or ask, “Why?” and Face would bumble some bullshit and Hannibal never pursued it because he treated him like an only child and shouldn’t have to reprimand a grown man.

Things could be smudged in the military, reports worded carefully, mistakes blamed on conditions and enemies, but now, when the team of four had no one to depend on but themselves, he could get away with it no longer.

“A dangerous accident.  Murdock could have died, because why?  You’re not paying attention?  You could have blown his head off.”

Face visually tensed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly.  The ordeal scared the shit out of him and ate through his mind.  He’d freaked out at Murdock, repeated he was sorry, hands clenched tightly over the pilot’s shoulders then over the wound he’d left, and he was hysterical and frightened his teammate more than the incident itself.  It was over now, a disaster that should be buried in the past, and he didn’t want to talk about it.  He didn’t want to remember it at all.

“You’re brash, headstrong, naïve -”  Hannibal came at him, saw his lip quiver and had no qualms pulling each rib from his chest on the way to stabbing his heart.  “- And every time you mess up you put on that stupid grin and parade around like it’s no big deal because you can’t own up to your own shortcomings.”

“I know I messed up!” he shouted.  “I know it was bad.  I know, okay?  I get it.”

Index and middle fingers rested on Hannibal’s lips, force of habit even when a cigar was not between them.  “Once more in a nicer tone.”

God, he was being an asshole today.

“You’re being an asshole.  I need you to look shit over.  I need you to guide me.”

There was a shake of the head, brow furrowed in exasperation.  “I’ve been guiding you.  I’ve held your hand for so long it’s pathetic.  You’re good, Face, but sometimes you don’t even try.”

“I can’t be perfect every single time!”

He growled, “You have to.  You have to or you’ll die or be caught,” and it was too much, the pressure was strangling, and Face felt backed into a corner and thought the only option was defeat.  He wanted to fail because he hated being trusted with so much responsibility and hated that he couldn't handle it.  He didn’t want to take the lead on missions, he wanted to follow Hannibal, wanted to be beneath him, and a few weeks prior he’d screamed, “I’m not you!” and the response was, “You don’t have to be.”  Yet here they were again, arguing over the same thing, and it burned in the pit of his stomach.  Every time he made a mistake he felt guilty, saw the look in Hannibal’s eyes that said he was waiting for him to be great and he wasn’t delivering.

“You didn’t voice any concerns.  You let me fail.”

“No, I let you try, but you didn’t try, did you, Face?  And you somehow forgot how to operate a firearm, which, now that we’re all back at base in one piece, I can admit is quite impressive.”

His nose stung and it was stupid but the statement hurt, and it wasn’t fair when Hannibal wouldn’t listen and didn’t understand.

“I said I was sorry – what do you want?  You don’t think I’d take a bullet for any one of you?  You know I would, Hannibal, you know I would!”  Palms struck the other’s chest, forcing him backwards.  “You’re making me out to be this huge fuck-up, like I can’t be trusted when you’ve trusted me for years.”

Hannibal warned, “Kid, don’t touch me again,” and Face felt completely ignored and his anger flared.

“And that -” he wailed.  “You don’t do that shit to anyone else.  You’re not condescending to anyone else.  I’m the only one you call kid.”

There was a pause in which Hannibal adjusted his weight then replied evenly, “It’s not condescending.”

“What is it then?  A term of endearment?  A daddy fetish?”

Eyebrows raised and the older man’s mouth fell slightly agape.  “You’re completely out of line.”

“You make me take the lead, then call me in here and expect subordination, and I don’t get what you want, and I’m over it.”  Fingers combed back stray locks and Face barely turned to leave before being caught by a hand clenching his bicep.

“I didn’t say you could go.”

He jerked yet Hannibal held tight.  “You didn’t say I could breathe either, but I’m doing it.”

“Don’t go out there like this.  You’re going to upset -”

A fist flew towards Hannibal’s head and he arched backwards to avoid impact; deflected a blow from the opposite side when Face wriggled from his grasp.  Face wanted to see how angry he could make him, wanted to see how much the old man would fuck him up - wanted Hannibal to put him in his place because he didn’t know where his place was.

The first strike made it clear Hannibal wasn’t amused and he wasn’t playing.  He punched Face in the side of the ribs, then the back of the arm when he tried to maneuver away, and was at him again with an uppercut to the chin also narrowly escaped.  The hit grazed, left a dull pulsing pain, and Face counterattacked blindly and sealed his fate as he so often did by acting first and thinking later.

The ex-colonel grabbed the back of his head and held fast as a knee flew into his stomach.  It was severe, but he wanted him down, and part of Hannibal believed he deserved it.

Face coughed, arms curled round his abdomen leaving himself vulnerable.  He stopped defending and stopped fighting back; decided he’d wait for Hannibal’s tongue lashing so the ordeal could be over and he could wash the sweat, blood, and mortification away with a cold rag.

A hand landed on his elbow to lift him and he followed without hesitation, ate up the kindness because every time he messed up Hannibal made it his mission to fix him, and Face hated the disappointment in his voice but loved the attention.

His full attention was on Face at the moment and the younger man barely stood upright before being whipped backwards into the table near the wall.

“What the hell, man!”

He pushed off the edge but was caught midway by his neck and slammed into the hard surface.  Hannibal moved between his legs, grip tightening harshly and quickly.  Face kicked but the angle was no good and every movement, every show of defiance, rewarded him with fingers digging deeper into his trachea.

He yelled, “Get off!” knew Hannibal wouldn’t hurt him, but this hurt and he wasn’t stopping.  There was a moment of panic where he went for his leader’s face, nails catching his nose and lips, leaving scratches and cuts that burned and bled.

Hannibal jabbed his kneecap, pressed up against him to pin Face down with his weight, and Face could feel the muscles in his legs rub his own; shivered when a gloved hand ran up his bare chest and over a nipple and captured his wrist above his head.

His free hand tugged at his attacker’s arm, but Hannibal was strong and Face felt overheated – couldn’t think and couldn’t escape.  He jerked again, involuntarily, from something other than fear or pain, and it made Hannibal grip his neck tighter and force their bodies closer.  Face twisted his hips, ignored the pulsing in his head because his crotch met Hannibal’s and all the blood rushed to his groin.

He kept struggling, grinded against his superior shamelessly under the guise of insolence, thought he’d be sick from the acrobatics his stomach was performing.  He was light-headed now – suffocating – and he loved it; loved how Hannibal’s heart pounded against his chest and how his body pressed into his each time he breathed.  Cool, short breaths hit his skin – the other’s face looming only inches above his own - and when he growled in his ear and commanded he still, Face shut his eyes and stabbed teeth into his lip because his pants were becoming painfully tight.

His arm shook weakly and then fingers slipped from Hannibal’s wrist, fell to his chest and onto the table and he didn’t remember wanting to do that.  He didn’t remember much of anything, could only focus on pain and pleasure that enveloped and numbed his entire being.

There was clattering as Hannibal reached over, knocking loose bullets to the floor in an attempt to snatch something too far away.  He guided Face upright by his neck, free hand hooking under his legs to sit him atop the table properly.

When the grip disappeared, Face gasped and choked and it was suddenly more painful than fingers digging into his windpipe.  His arms were lifted above his head and stayed there once released.  Metal scraped metal and something cut into his wrists, and he yanked on the cuffs in frustration, filling the tent with a shrill clanging as the chain whacked against a pole.

A sleeve came up to wipe away the blood on Hannibal’s face, only succeeding in mixing it with a film of dust and sand.  “Calm down.”

“You calm down!  You calm down, you’re the one trying to kill me!”  Through the rasping he still managed to throw in a whine like he’d been victimized; like he’d been beaten down by a monster.

The reaction wasn’t immediate as Hannibal took it in, let it mull around in his mind, let the anger flare and waited for it to diminish, but it refused to leave.  His jaw clenched, fists followed suit, and he hated that Face made him soft and twisted everything in his favor.  Years were spent trying to build the man up and make him unstoppable, but it was obvious now he had to be broken and reshaped and Hannibal cared enough about him to do it.

He set hot hands on his captive’s knees, said vaguely, “You disgrace yourself.  You’re enjoying this,” and when Face frowned and opened his mouth to retort, added, “I could feel it.”

The tight grasp made his cheeks burn, and he tried to close his legs but Hannibal stretched them wider until the fabric pulled against his crotch and the outline of his arousal became prominent.  An undignified sound escaped, marking the first time in a long time Face thought he’d be better off dead.

Hannibal grasped his inner thigh, came dangerously close to brushing his balls.  “You’re hard.”

He retorted, “I’m not,” knew it was stupid before it left his mouth.  “What the hell is your problem?”

Hannibal took in a sharp breath, to either calm his rage or prevent from laughing.  He attacked the fastenings on Face’s pants suddenly, tearing at the buttons and ripping down the zipper and making the man beneath him cry out in shock.  Fingers hooked into the waistband and then the material was pulled down and off leaving Face nude save for his red briefs and dirtied scarf.

“Which part did you like the most?  Was it when you almost killed Murdock?  Did that get you off?”

Face’s eyes widened and he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, said firmly, “No.”

“Was it when I slammed you into the table?  Choked you?  Did you like that, Face?”  A hand ran down his leg again, groping shamelessly, making the other’s cock ache when it cupped his balls.  “Everyone knows you’re loose.  You get yourself in trouble - you get the team in trouble.  I’ve spent a lot of time ignoring your habit, but it’s destructive and dishonorable and I’m telling you now to check yourself.”

Hannibal squeezed, grip slowly getting firmer, berated, “You should be embarrassed,” and he was, but apparently not enough.  The molestations moved higher as he dragged his palm over Face’s shaft and down again.  The fabric covering his cockhead wet, leaving dark spots each time it hugged his arousal.

Face begged, “Stop,” because he was weak and couldn’t even save his own dignity without the other man’s help.  “I messed up, I keep messing up, I’m sorry.”

Thumbs slipped under the sides of his briefs and grasped the cloth, threatening to expose him, and he sucked in breath, pleaded, “Don’t humiliate me, don’t fucking humiliate me.”

Hannibal tugged slowly, dragged the fabric over the head of his cock revealing the tip wet with precum.  His voice was playful yet biting when he said, “You’re doing a fine job of that yourself.”  The rest was torn off freeing his erection, and Hannibal asked, “Are you a whore?” to which Face stammered a denial.

“You look like one.”  The words were covered in spite, but his breathing quickened and he was anxious, and he was enjoying it.  “You’re dripping, your legs are spread.”  A hand grabbed at Face’s arousal, fingers wrapping tight, causing him to gasp.  “You want to come.  You’re so easy.”

Lips twisted and the younger man spat, “But not for you, huh, Hannibal?”  There was that grin again with tone sardonic.  “You never got near my ass.  You upset about that?  I bet you can’t even get it up.”

Hannibal’s expression hardened and then he pried Face’s thighs open wider; felt the body beneath him shake at the touch, heat radiating from his skin.  A finger slipped past dried, bloodstained lips causing a muffled moan from the younger man who watched intently with cock twitching in anticipation.

His palm turned upwards as the slicked finger moved over Face’s entrance, gaze fixated on his reaction as he pressed inside.  The muscles in Face’s abdomen contracted, tighter and tighter as Hannibal slid in to the knuckle, chest rising and falling quickly, smile wiped from his mug.

“Tell the truth.  You wanted this.”  He pulled out slowly, pressed against the walls of his rectum, curling his finger in a way that made Face groan.  “You can lie to whoever the hell you want, but you don’t lie to me.”

His thumb pressed into the underside of his cock, running from hilt to head and Face whimpered, “Stop, I’m gonna come.”

“Then do it and quit complaining.”

“Hannibal -”  He tensed before willing himself to relax, trying to resist thrusting into his leader’s hand.  “Not this way.”

The next stroke was harsh, unexpected, accented by finger plunging deeper and he blurted, “I wanted it.”  Hannibal moved in an increasing rhythm that both burned and teased and he finally uttered, “I wanted it.  Fuck me.”


There was hesitation and a rare show of innocence when Face whispered, “They’re going to hear…” and it would have been endearing if Hannibal wasn’t convinced the kid’s entire purpose in life was to lie and con.

Another finger slipped in with the first and Face whined as they spread apart to loosen him.   “Say it louder.  Beg for it.”

Eyes clenched shut and opened a second later and then his mouth was running in that way that made Hannibal question whether his subordinate even knew he was speaking.

“I want you to fuck me, I want you to - for years - in the shower, on a cot, in the dirt.  When you chew on that cigar it drives me nuts.”

The ex-colonel said nothing, let Face dig his own grave because it saved him the trouble – he could simply shove him in later.

“I want your cock in my ass.  I want you to the hilt – I want all of it.”  He panted, “Fuck me, rip me open, use me,” gave a devious smirk and ran his tongue over his lips, eager for a reaction.

“I don’t need your permission.  If I want something from you, I’ll take it.”  Hannibal watched his expression change, so drastic it was comical; once confident he’d wrap him round his finger and now completely lost.  He chastised, “You give your body up so easily,” stroked Face faster, twisting his hand up and down his arousal.  “I thought I was the one upset I never got near your ass, or was that your little fantasy?”

Eyes flicked to the other’s crotch with fabric wrinkled and bulging, and back up to meet his stare.  “You’ve obviously been thinking about it, so why don’t you pull your cock out?  Afraid your old ass can’t please me?”

He groaned in protest when Hannibal released his erection and went for his jaw, forcing his attention.  “That was disrespectful - try again.  Why don’t you start by calling me sir?”

The hand found its way behind his head, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.  He pulled sharply and Face grunted with jaw clenched and forehead wrinkled.  He spat, “Sir,” with all the venom he could muster, giving a strangled cry when his only reward was his neck being snapped further back.

Hannibal’s other hand disappeared below his waist, working at his pants until he could free his arousal.  He spit into his glove, giving a few smooth strokes.  The growling stopped, Face’s chest locked up as reality hit, and he stammered, “Wait!”

Hannibal broke past the rim, rocked back and forth to quell the resistance, ripped the breath from Face whose eyes shut and mouth dropped open in a silent scream.  It was too much too quickly and Face was rigid, afraid to even exhale deeply as hot streaks shot up inside him like knives.

He didn’t mean to, but he yelled, “It’s too fast!” like Hannibal didn’t know exactly what he was doing; like Face needed to make himself appear more pathetic.

Hannibal muttered, “You’re tighter than I thought,” and he wanted to snarl, What’s that supposed to mean? but knew what it meant and it stung and he didn’t know why.

The thrusts came long and deep, Face steadied with an arm hooked under his leg and hand gripping his thigh.  He felt torn open, filled beyond what he could take, and tears welled in the corner of his eyes and streaked down, wetting his cheeks.

The older man moved closer, bent over until his shirt brushed Face’s naked skin - yanked his head back again to bite at his neck.  Face’s cock was trapped between their stomachs, teased and stroked each time they rocked, and he lifted his hips best he could, desperate for more.  Hannibal thrust viciously whenever he groaned in pain; tore at his flesh with his mouth until Face was convinced he was covered in blood.

He could feel the cock pulse inside him, and Face was panting now, pulling at the cuffs in futility.

“Touch me.”

The response was an unchanging expression that said Hannibal heard but didn’t care.  He tried again, pleaded, “Touch me, please, sir.”

Lips curled and his leader answered, “No,” so smugly Face thought he was hearing his own voice.  “You like it like this.”  He pulled back to look down at his prisoner, whose cock brushed over his skin leaving small streaks of precum, each thrust milking more from him.  “It hurts, but you like it.  Are you a whore?”

Face hissed, “Yes,” gaze falling over his own bare chest and arousal to watch as Hannibal repeatedly closed the gap between them.  He beseeched, “Harder, make it hurt,” bit his lip and called him sir, moaned and spit out filth.  Part of it was a game and part of Face really was that depraved and Hannibal shamelessly fed on all of it.

Fingers jammed into his mouth as Hannibal demanded, “Shut up,” and he loved hearing Face choke, loved taking his only weapon away from him.  The younger man cried and sputtered before he slipped out, then giving a sharp smack to his cheek and moving down to grab his waist.

The reprimand left Face undeterred as he wriggled, tried to position himself at that one sweet angle, head flying backwards when he succeeded.  Hannibal gripped tighter to keep him there, free hand snaking into his scarf to direct his gaze upright.

He growled, “Look at me,” yanking the cloth wound round his neck.  Blue eyes met blue and Face regarded him with expression pained and wanton.  “You’re going to come, aren’t you?  I’m not even touching you.”  He only whined in response, repeated that he was a whore, wanted to get fucked; sounded like he’d lost all self-worth and control and was turning himself on more than he was Hannibal.

The pressure was suddenly unbearable and Face’s muscles tightened and he yelled and moaned as he came, cum spurting in streams over his stomach and dripping down the head of his cock.  His arousal jerked again as Hannibal slammed into him, ripping another cry from his lips.

The pace increased violently, Hannibal hooking both arms under Face’s knees to lift him.  He was still pulling at the cuffs with sweat on his brow and covered in his own ejaculate, and he was docile and perfect and used, and so much time was spent training Face to stand alone when truth was Hannibal loved how he struggled beneath him.

Several harsh thrusts marked his release as Hannibal shot inside, groans held back as he remained composed and in control and dominant.  Cascades of sweat stained his shirt dark blue, down his chest and back, and he was still breathing heavily when he pulled out, giving one last squeeze to Face’s legs before turning and leaving him there.
Face breathed, “Uncuff me,” arms trembling in the shackles and legs swaying weakly on top of the table.

“You can wait,” was the reply as Hannibal grabbed a small metal case from across the room.  There was a frown, for Face always got what he wanted from Hannibal, and if he didn’t, pretended not to care in the first place.  Yet he was dirty and his body ached and as the high wore off he felt increasingly vulnerable, and he didn’t like it and couldn’t accept it.

“My wrists hurt, my back hurts, everything hurts, c’mon.”

“You can wait.”

“Hannibal -”


A cigar slid from the box; was run once under his nose.

“Are you still mad?  Are you mad at me?”  It was suddenly quiet and the grin Face was sporting faded and he mumbled, “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked to the younger man and then back to the cigar he was lighting.  He inhaled deeply and exhaled a cloud of smoke with the same slow precision.  An elbow rested on his raised arm as he stood in front of Face, watching him quietly.  Face found it off-putting at first; didn’t enjoy being on display when this wasn’t his most gallant moment.  His demeanor changed suddenly, and Hannibal caught that spark in his eyes that said he’d formulated a brilliant plan.

“I’ll make it up to you,” flowed from his lip like honey as he spread legs wider, exposing the bruises Hannibal left on his skin and cum dripping from his hole.

The older man’s head cocked, expression stern.  “This isn’t a bargaining chip.  You don’t dictate when this happens or how it goes.  You’re gonna learn how to listen.  You listen to me - really listen to me - or it won’t be fun for you.”

There was a scoff but Face kept his position.

“I went over the warehouse layout.  What’d I say?”

Face’s brow furrowed and he rocked his legs like a child with too much energy.  “That was a week ago.”

“What’d I say?”

Lips pursed and eyes rolled to the ceiling.  “There’s two entrances on the west side…four guards, they change at six – at eight.”


A hand ran over the paraphernalia on the table and then reached up to free him with a small metal key.  Face sighed, barely lowered his arms before he was being dragged off the table.  Hannibal snarled, “On your knees,” shoving him to the floor and walking past the crumpled body to sit on a cot.  Face lifted himself with shaking arms but did as he was told, cock aching at the rough command.  He placed himself between the leader’s legs; didn’t have to be told what to do.  He kneaded his muscles, wiped sweat and dirt off on his pants, pushed him open wider to get as close as possible.

Face swallowed him, pressed his tongue against the underside of Hannibal’s cock, let the soft skin scrape the roof of his mouth.  Breaths came quicker when he tasted Hannibal and tasted himself, cleaning off the remnants of the older man’s release.  He hardened in his mouth making Face reach for his own arousal, tugging needily.

The cigar sat between Hannibal’s fingers, grip turning vice-like when Face looked up with wide eyes like he was unskilled and innocent.  His tongue ran lightly up a vein, teasing enough to make Hannibal twitch, a rough hand then wrapping round the hilt over slicked skin that was already drying in the heat.  He stroked slowly, using lips to brush the head leaving a stream of saliva trailing from the slit to his mouth when he pulled away.

Hannibal drew in smoke when he went down on him completely and exhaled slowly in an attempt to calm his rage.  Face was a manipulator - could sweet talk a terrorist into bed - and the ex-colonel didn’t appreciate that he thought he could bat his eyes and make him forget his delinquency.

A hand combed through the younger man’s hair, fingers coated by sweat and dust and catching on knots, and he restrained from curling tight and yanking until Face screamed in punishment.  Another puff of the cigar and Hannibal gripped tighter, encouraged him up and down his shaft as he felt every bump in his skull.  Gaze lifted to the ceiling then fell down again when there was a pull at his waistband.

“Take your pants off.”

“You don’t give me orders, kid.”

There was a moment of silence in which Face thought or didn’t think at all, and then he tugged the other’s slacks, wriggled them down as far as possible before Hannibal had a handful of his hair and jerked sharply, making him release the fabric.  A strangled cry rang out when Hannibal stood and pulled upwards until Face followed.  He locked an arm behind his back, pushed his head forward as he stumbled to the table, all the while listening to him complain, “If you want me to do something, just say it.”

Hannibal pushed him over, stood behind and trapped him there until the edge jabbed into his stomach.  “Bend over.”

He huffed, body already splayed across the table, muttered, “Okay, I’ll get on that.”

Hannibal’s arm jabbed forward, taking Face’s head with it, slamming him into the table.  He stretched his jaw, felt a bit dazed.

“I don’t need your mouth, understand?”

He smirked, replied, “You didn’t mind it a second ago.”

He pulled up and threw him down again.  Face twisted at the wrong time and his nose met the board and then burned cold and was suddenly wet.  Red droplets splashed the surface before his face was in the table again, blood smearing from cheek to temple.  He laughed, chanted, “You’re crazy, you’re crazy.”

A leg slid between the younger man’s and kicked them apart, swiftly and harshly.

“Hey, wait.”  The soft skin of Hannibal’s cock rubbed against his entrance and he gasped, “You can’t, so fast -”  The head was forced in and Face bucked up, thrashed uncontrollably, trying the same thing over and over and reaping the same unwanted results – which some would call insanity and Hannibal would call stupid.  The pressure on his arm increased with Hannibal pushing upwards until his bones felt as if they’d snap and Face was forced to still and forced to take it.

“Fuck, don’t!  I’m sore!”

He thrust in and Face’s legs shook and he would have fallen had the table not acted as a shelf.  The pace was immediately animalistic, each slap exaggerated by cries from Face whose panting and whining had him sounding both pitiable and whorish.  Hannibal’s cock was soon coated by the previous load, trails sticking to his shaft and running down Face’s backside.

He found the bruise he left on the other’s bicep, large and purple, and then fingers wrapped around his arm, thumb pressing into the sensitive flesh.  The younger man let out a wail, jolted forward and was pulled back by a tightening grip.

Hannibal growled, “You can take it,” took another puff of his cigar then ground it into the table, an inch away from his subordinate’s face.  A hand pressed into Face’s spine, palm digging into his back to keep him down as he fucked him.

He asked, “Do you like that?” expected a smartass comment but received silence.  He was just taking it and Hannibal hated that Face could convince himself he was content when he shouldn’t give up, ever.

Fingers curled and dragged down slicked skin until nails were cutting into sunburn and wounds, leaving flaming white lines and making blood bubble to the surface.  Face clawed at the table, howling like a beaten animal.  He cried, “Colonel Smith!” desperately, a plea to stop and a plea to continue.

Hannibal dipped a finger into a wound, painted a streak of red down the other’s back.  His spine curved perfectly, muscles hard and defined, and Hannibal felt his way over his skin, further down his ass and then his thigh.  Right hand snaked between his legs and the other gripped the back of his head.  Fingers wrapped tightly round his shaft as left hand pulled upwards, angling his neck which elicited a strangled cry.

He asked again with voice low, “Do you like that, soldier?”

He needed him to say yes, spent too much time looking after Face not to be rewarded.  When they were framed and jailed, he gathered him up and stole him back and saved Face when he didn't want to be saved.  So Face was his, would be his until the day came when Hannibal no longer had to tell him to fight back; until Face could lead others and care for himself.

 “Out of all the men ever in my employ…”  Lips brushed his ear and Face heard in a gruff whisper, “You were always my favorite.”  The words were accented by a sharp tug on his arousal and another deep thrust, and Face clawed at the table, struggled to lift himself with body sliding on sweat and Hannibal forcing him down.  He pushed hips back, wanted to thrust into the other’s hand, craved a rhythm of his own because being nailed down with so much need and energy was driving him to madness.

He was pulled onto Hannibal’s erection by a hand on his shoulder while the older man shoved forward.  The fingers around his shaft tightened as they ran up the hilt and over the wet head.  He was consumed by each movement, each thrust and stroke and how Hannibal breathed in his ear, how his tongue ran over his skin.

Face had everything he wanted but he pleaded for more, called out for the colonel unabashedly and pushed backwards to take his entire length.  Hannibal called him lieutenant back; soldier, kid, whatever he wanted to hear, whatever was more fucked up and forbidden.

He pulled at his hair until his back arched and teeth could run over his jaw and down his neck.  Face cried that he was going to come, and Hannibal bit into his shoulder – hard – stroked harshly, savored the feel of his release as it spilled over his fingers, thick and hot.

Face panted, still throwing himself backwards to meet the other’s thrusts as he begged, “Come in me.”

Hannibal pushed his head back down, rasped in his ear, “You want more?  I’ll give it to you.”  His hand slid from Face’s cock and gripped his waist, smearing cum over damp skin.  He pulled him backwards to slam in to the hilt, groaning and burying his head in the younger man’s back as he orgasmed, thrusts mixing the loads of cum inside him, covering the walls of his rectum.

Both were still, breathing erratic but slowing to a calmer pace.  Hannibal rocked his hips one last time before slipping out and Face painfully peeled himself off the table and stood slowly on weak legs.

There was no more than a second of quiet before the younger man asked, “Was this supposed to teach me something?” with a lopsided smirk that Hannibal was too tired to wipe from his face.

The leader gave a warning, like he did each time Face messed up, voice stern and threat empty.

“I’m going to strangle you, kid.”