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Hannibal acts passive at first, tongue rolling over teeth behind closed lips.  He lets Face work for what he wants; does nothing more than lift arms away when the younger man straddles him.

Face is forceful and eager and too impatient for ceremony, rubbing his arousal against the other’s stomach.  He doesn’t need to be touched or encouraged because he’s been thinking about it, for days or weeks, and he’s ready, right now.

Hands are against the wall on either side of Hannibal’s head, keeping Face steady as he rises on knees.  He ducks in with back curved, and Hannibal twists when tongue trails up his chin; angles away when teeth hit skin.  There’s a huff of hot breath and a whine when the older man won’t play, and Face presses against him again, waits with lips brushing the edge of his mouth, determined to get what he wants.

Hannibal loves that he’s wanton; the foolhardy enthusiasm that was once so problematic now endearing.  He still moans like he did that first time, back when he was some kid; rash enough to sign up for a war and too young to buy a beer.

Face never understood subtlety or had no need for it, came into his superior’s tent, slipped a hand between Hannibal’s legs and tightened his grip; gave that smug grin he still flashed from time to time as he murmured, “Colonel.”

Hannibal took him over a desk, fast and brutal; tangled fingers in his hair and commanded he stay quiet.  Face struggled and whimpered while kept down; did just enough to drive Hannibal insane - just enough to keep him wanting more.

The soldier got a pat on the head in the field and a hand around his cock in the bedroom when he performed above expectations.  He was skinnier then and easier to handle, but the colonel’s gotten older and the lieutenant’s gotten better.  The anxiousness remains, and Face moves too fast and talks too much; still plays Hannibal like he always did.

There’s precum sticking to Hannibal’s shirt, leaving clear lines as Face moves.  Eyes are kept on his leader, hands snaking into fabric and yanking when Face doesn’t get the reward he thinks he deserves.  He commands, “Fuck me,” only pulling a hint of a smile from rough lips.

“You want it?  Show me.”

Palms land on the younger man’s thighs and knead skin, run over muscles, feeling them tense.  Hannibal encourages him down as he breathes, “Fuck yourself.  Let’s see how talented you are.”  It’s a challenge and Face bites; always has to prove he’s capable.

Face brushes his own ass before reaching lower, fingers splayed and wrist bending as he fumbles to find the other’s cock.  He digs into the underside of the shaft ripping a grunt, and the hold is firm enough and possessive enough to make him feel in control.

He’s a master of acquisitions and Hannibal is one of them.

It was dangerous from the start.  Hannibal handed Face blackmail; waited for the day the recruit asked for something he couldn’t deliver and destroyed his life because of it.  He tried to slip away, back to a time he was a soldier first and a person second; hoped the other would move on - find a higher ranking officer to terrorize.

Face kept coming back, like a stalker in a horror film, with his bright smile and that silky tone that said he always got what he wanted.  He palmed Hannibal’s crotch and licked his neck and begged for it; breathed in his ear how much he needed to be fucked.  He slipped a hand down his own pants, determined to get off whether the other participated or not, and Hannibal always gave in – always gave in to Face.

Face gives a stroke, edges of his mouth curling because he likes to play; gets satisfaction from being irritating.  He fists the slicked length, feeling every curve and vein, enjoying how Hannibal’s breath comes quicker though pleasure hides behind stern features.

The head is wet and purple and a thumb presses against the slit, harder, until the body beneath jerks and Face lowers down before he can be pushed away.

Legs shake and he’s wriggling, moving hips, fucking himself on the tip.  He grabs at Hannibal’s neck to pull close, panting and whining, exaggerating everything because he knows it gets to him.  His tongue wets the other’s ear when he groans, “It's so thick,” and Hannibal moves then, bucks up to bury deep.

He can take it.  Hannibal will make him.

Fingers claw into the older man’s back as he’s stretched.  Heat rushes up Face’s spine and they’re motionless, briefly, before he demands Hannibal move, voice grating, in the same way he cries, I can do it – let me do it, when he wants responsibilities he’s yet to earn.

Hannibal hardly reacts, voice sweet - “Show me how much you want it” - and Face does.  The pain makes his stomach wrench, but he wants it – now, now, now – gives a damaged moan each time he comes down; salivates and swallows hard.

He takes him fully to feel that sick pressure that turns him on.  The rhythm increases and the movements slick until he’s riding him.  Hands tug Face’s shirt, run up his stomach and over pecs, and Face gets off on it, being the center of attention, having eyes trail his body, in the most intimate of places.  He can feel the response of his leader underneath; how fists clench and cock throbs, the sharp breath in, head hitting the wall -

 “Slow.”

Face’s grin grows wider and now there are teeth.  “You gonna come?  Am I gonna make you come?”

Careful, threatening movements molest until fingers land on the delicate space between his collar bone, forcing him to still.

 “I said, slow.”

His heart beats against fingertips, rapid and strong.  Hannibal stabs into his windpipe, pain dull then sharp until Face draws back and obeys.  Skin pulls taught when he arches and Hannibal lifts Face’s shirt exposing ribs and damp skin.  The clothing’s on the floor soon after leaving him completely nude, and he’s never been shy about that.

Hannibal thumbs over a scar from a bullet wound, its match on the other side.  He knows that one – knows them all – remembers all the times he lifted Face up and dragged him back, spit him somewhere safe and wiped the blood from his hands.

Lips downturn, breathing shallow, because Face is far too often stupid, stupid, stupid.

Shadows hug the curves of muscles and the dip in his back, and three perfect lines on his chest that are unfamiliar.  They’re scratches, barely healed, from a mission, an accident - someone else.

Face always comes back smelling like another, and that’s when Hannibal lights a cigar and dulls senses with smoke.  He berates Face for being juvenile and unfocused and weak; does everything to shame him but never tells him to stop.  That’s not the deal.

There are no harsh words today, only fingers ripping into wounds.  Face squeaks and recoils and curses.  He won’t make the connection, but it makes Hannibal feel better sometimes to hurt him, though it’s barely equal to the way Face hurts Hannibal.

The younger man musters a scowl - the scowl he gives when made to do things for himself; when Hannibal forces independence because he can’t help him forever.  Saliva lands on his palm to fondle his own arousal and everything he’s mad about is forgotten in seconds.

Fist twists up the shaft, burning just good enough to make him weak again.  Face rocks on Hannibal’s cock, keeps him close and keeps him deep.  He tugs harshly with a hand that’s quickly drying, fucking harder and moving faster.  The whimpers are desire and pain but he’s close and can’t stop.

Hannibal’s familiar with his movements; takes pleasure in grabbing the back of his head and yanking down.  It’s sudden and violent, causing both of Face’s arms to fly up to peel him off.  Face freezes and it’s the only time Hannibal picks up the pace, thrusting up while gripping the other’s hip and pulling him down.  Face cries out then; doesn’t give a shit who hears.  He moans and quivers – loves being handled – loves it hard and loves it fast and loves feeling wanted.

Fingers flit over sensitive skin before Hannibal grips lightly, pulling thumb and forefinger up his shaft, dipping into the precum that leaks from the head.  He wets Face’s cock with his own fluid which dries cool against him, and it’s torturous - drives him mad in a way the older man will never understand.  He’ll never understand Face’s need to have things – all of them.  He’ll never understand how fucking painful it is to never be satisfied.

Face bites his lip but can’t take it.  He’s pleading for his hand, pleading to come – threatens and bargains because it hurts and he needs it.  He demands first, “Touch me;” used to complaining until Hannibal tires and gives in.  Again, and it’s louder:  “Touch me.”  He’s frustrated and in ways still a child, hopeless and overwhelmed when he doesn’t get what he wants.  Then it’s begging and promises he’ll forget in five minutes that he never intended to keep anyway.  He rasps, “Please, please,” sputters pathetically when the hand leaves again, and his eyes clench shut and cheeks wet.  He’s whimpering and choking, and it’s making Hannibal anxious and pleased in ways he knows he shouldn’t be.

“Stop crying, you like it” - gruff and sadistic, and it takes everything Hannibal has not to fuck him like he really wants; arms caught behind his back and body arched, forced to take it.

Face groans and jerks, sting bleeding through his body making his nose run.  Fingers loosen and run down his scalp to his neck, rest there with grip heavy, Hannibal’s way of saying stay down, behave yourself, like a dog nipping at its young.  When he really wants to hurt him he doesn’t say a thing; there’s silence and he’s ignored, and it eats away at Face - makes him question his worth.

Hannibal hovers near his arousal, close enough Face can feel the heat from his flesh.  A thrust and Face hits his palm, and that’s wrong, and he’s pulled backwards by the neck in punishment.  Hannibal repositions himself again, so near Face is going to lose it.  Cock twitches and noises escape that sound like suffocation.  He’s still being fucked, slowly, every inch scraping against him.

Only when docile is he rewarded.

Hannibal’s skin is tough and the friction hurts in the most amazing way.  He’s not gentle with Face; the strokes are jerks, rapid, near the tip.  Face is so hard Hannibal can practically feel him ache as his cock leaks.  The taste of salt hits his tongue when it runs over Face’s sternum, cleaning away sweat.  Back curves as Hannibal hits a nipple and sucks, and Face grips tighter, slams down harder.

Come for me.”  That voice is in his ear, sending shivers down his spine.  It’s biting, a warning he needs to hurry up - perform on command.

The strokes come slower but harder to make him shoot in long, thick streams.  Face gives a strangled cry when he comes, pathetic and abused, and it pushes Hannibal towards the edge every single time.

The colonel’s shirt is splashed in white as warm remnants trail down his fist.  He pulls until the final drops seep out, clenching so tightly Face’s body shakes.

The hand leaves and there’s an audible gasp at the loss of contact.  Hannibal grabs him from behind making Face wriggle when he feels his own ejaculate wet his backside.  A pink tongue slips out, mouth open wide to show the older man what could have been done with those drenched fingers.  Face lifts himself, allowing full access for Hannibal to fuck him.  It’s rapid and animalistic and so much better than what he gave to Face, and Face bites into his shoulder because of it.

Hannibal grinds teeth but allows it; he’s too close to fight.  He spreads him to glide in easier, fingers pressing against skin to see how he’s stretched - trailing lower to his own cock to feel their bodies meet.  Face’s mouth hits the newly created wound on his shoulder, lapping and sucking, and Hannibal can only assume he’s bleeding.

A savage thrust to the hilt and Hannibal spills inside him with long, deep movements.  It’s the only time he groans - the only time he lets himself go as he grabs at Face possessively, slips in and out until his insides are slicked and covered, and if Face could, he’d come again.

They’re filthy and burning up, silence cut only by heavy breathing.  They were too loud and gone too long, and Hannibal’s stomach turns like it always does when it’s finally quiet and he’s staring at a wall.

Face shifts and Hannibal wraps arms around and holds him tight, because he’s not a midlife crisis anymore.  The lieutenant’s lips are on him and they’re moving, twisting into a grin as he sighs into his neck.  Face acts submissive, but he owns him, makes him lose control; forces Hannibal to make bad decisions again and again and again.