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sonora_conejaPairing: H-BAMF
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, angst
Summary: A fill for this prompt on the kink meme
*mumblemumble*
I'm really hesitant to prompt this, but it's anon and everything and nobody will know, so what the heck.
Um.
I'd kinda want another Face-gets-raped story. Um. But. He gets raped by the team? All the other three? Um. Yeah. That's what I kinda maybe want.
Sorry...
*hides*
Hannibal thinks Face wants something that Face emphatically does not want.
“Wake up, lieutenant.”
Face feels the light tough on his shoulder, and tries to pull the edges of his mummy sleeping bag tighter around him, facing down into the rank stretch of the cot’s canvas, huddle into himself. Hide. Not this. Not this again. Motherfucker, when will Hannibal stop doing this to him?
“Face, come on, kid, I know you’re awake.” He’s shaken, just a little. Gentle, almost. “Need you to get up now.”
The lieutenant hates it when Hannibal comes on like this. It’s better, better when there are demands or yelling or punching... it’s always better with physical force, even though Hannibal hardly ever gets violent. Otherwise, the boss is just using his rank and his force of presence to get what he wants, and that’s more of a betrayal.
More of a violation.
And it always ends the same way, so what does it matter?
“Hannibal, please...” he groans, and he can feel the colonel’s hand tracing the ridge of his spine through the bag. The older man’s probably kneeling by his cot, probably leaning his cheek on his other hand, probably... “I’m tired.”
“I know you are,” Hannibal murmurs through the insulation, the expensive waterproof material. “I know you are, kid. But I know how that libido of yours justs gets cranked up when we’re out here...”
That hand’s almost at his neck, over, reaching around and under to the face-hole in the sleeping bag, and Face feels the narrower pressure, a knife or scissors. Wouldn’t be the first time Hannibal’s cut one of these off him, for this, and he likes this bag. Staying in it isn’t going to stop anything.
He turns over and unzips.
There’s the boss. And Murdock. And BA. Just waiting.
Face wriggles in the bag, his legs still strategically trapped. He sleeps naked - it’s warmer that way - and it’s cold in the desert at night, and Hannibal orders him to.
They’re all naked, too.
Boss doesn’t like anything getting in the way during these little... whatevers.
And there’s the boss, sitting up on the edge of the cot, careful not to tip it over, and Face tries not to flinch as that hand’s resting on his leg. Like he wants it there.
He knows better, by now, than to scoot it off. Or try to stop it from moving higher.
Hannibal doesn’t take no for an answer, something Face learned in his first few months under the man’s command. After the boss had learned about his new lieutenant’s reputation with the ladies. After the boss got ahold of some bullshit psych profile that said Face had masochistic tendencies. After the boss had decided that he needed to provide an alternative to rough sex with strangers. After the boss had told Face that no matter what he said, he knew what his el-tee really wanted.
Yeah. Sure.
Like he wants this.
Hannibal usually goes right for it, no foreplay at all. Hardly ever any kissing, which Face would like under difference circumstances but can’t bring himself to find the slightest pleasure in now. Like tonight. Hannibal’s kissing him tonight, and BA’s got a big hand in his hair and Murdock’s biting at a nipple on the other side of the boss’s body.
None of it goes for very long though, not once Hannibal snakes his hand down and twists the still-slick buttplug around, pushing in right before he pulls it free, running a finger up in there instead, testing to see it he’s stretched enough - Hannibal doesn’t use the larger plug when they’re on missions, it impedes his lieutenant's movement too much - and Face can’t help the whimper his body lets out.
BA smiles, like they're doing something right, and takes Hannibal’s place at Face’s mouth.
Face doesn't have the heart to tell him otherwise.
It’s incredibly difficult to fuck on a standard-issue cot, so Hannibal throws the sleeping bag on the floor and has Face kneel down on it, urging him with smooth little words that mean something only to one of them. He braces himself and lets his head hang, feeling those clever hands that can only belong to Murdock.
Murdock he doesn’t mind as much. The lieutenant reasoned that all out, long ago, back when the pilot and the corporal joined the unit and joined in Hannibal’s little therapy session. Murdock’s smaller for one thing, and he’s faster, and telling him what’s really going on here, that it’s not Hannibal helping him out with his sex addiction or whatever, that he’s never asked for this and never will, would probably crush him entirely.
Instead, Face always tries to pretend like he’s enjoying it. Rocks back when he should, makes all those little noises that Hannibal wants to hear. Pretends tonight, as Murdock breaks into him and opens him up a little more and starts that slow rotation that drives him deep inside. Face can hate himself for that later, and they’re in relative darkness right now.
So BA can’t see the way the flush of humiliation that has to be spreading all the way down to his pecs, as he shuffles around and lifts Face’s chin up and whispers for him to open up.
This is actually a little better. Gives Face something to focus on other than the driving pain in his ass - he loves Murdock, but he hates Hannibal for believing he likes it rough. He kisses and licks and mouths around BA’s erection, taking steely, soft flesh into his mouth, feeling those big hands back in his hair, pulling him down around that cock.
Lips stretch.
Part of his brain, the bit that detatches from his consciousness at this point and kind of watches this from the outside.
His body, worked pretty damn expertly between them, taking one of them deeper, and then the other, back and forth, rocking, harder, always hard, never gentle, it’s never gentle.
Murdock, shuddering into him. BA, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming through it.
His body collapsing, back hitting the wooden slats of the floor hard, barely padded through his sleeping bag.
Hannibal, moving off the cot and kneeling down over him. Fuck, Face thinks in his detached state, not from the front...
Hannibal, wrapping Face’s legs around his waist...
Hannibal, giving one good hard push. Face doesn’t even feel the burn of taking that massive cock fully into his body. He won’t let himself feel what it’s like anymore to be filled by this man. No pleasure, no pain, nothing at all and Hannibal starts to drill down into him.
Cracking his very heart apart under the pressure of it all.
Smashing everything inside him to dust.
It’s always the same. One experience pretty much stands in for the others. And it’s always that same, hard and rough and fast and too deep, too much.
But when he’s like this, them face to face like it means something, Hannibal’s even worse, fingering Face’s hair, whispering to him about how good it is, how fucking good it is, and sometimes, like tonight, Hannibal will fist Face’s own flaccid cock and Face can only watch in horror from that distance as his body responds to the stimulation and he comes on Hannibal’s chest and Hannibal comes in him and there’s biting... fuck, he hates the biting worst of all.
Like Hannibal owns him. Fuck, he knows that. Face knows he can’t leave the unit. Why does Hannibal have to make it all worse?
But at least it’s over.
Hannibal picks the sleeping bag up, and has Face clean him off, the taste of his own semen no strange thing to the younger man at this point, and then the boss lays Face out, murmuring something about my lieutenant that’s the cruelest fucking joke in this cruelest of situations. Then all go back to their own sleeping bags once they’re done, discreet units once again, nothing in Face now but that old, hollow ache.
He feels it now. He only feels it now. Only ever lets himself feel it right now.
Face hates the right now, with his bruised knees and bruised hips and sore mouth, raw throat, scuffed hands, the slimy sensation, cold, like he’s dying, like it's dead. A thing without meaning, deep inside, and an impossible quarter-mile hike to the toilets to get rid of it.
He doesn’t want to sleep, because he’ll hear the words again. Hannibal’s words. Face still remembers those words, immortal and undying, undead, really.
The ones uttered when Hannibal had tossed him over that desk in his office that first time.
Boss, please, don’t...
I know what you want, kid. Let me give it to you...
And the thing is, the fucking irony, the thing that gets him curled up and crying every single time, biting a mouthful of bag so the other guys won’t hear him choke on all the misplaced, burning grief, is that Hannibal was right. He did want him. But not that forceful, not that rough, not that push and burn and shame and emptiness, not that day. Not like that.
But now, there’s nothing else.
No, Face would rather get to tomorrow. Wants to get to tomorrow, to all the superheated clarity of the Iraqi sun and sand and sniper targets in buildings three hundred meters upwind. That’s a good place.
They’ll be fine tomorrow, happy and laughing and joking and planning, a team again. So familiar. So, so familiar. Comforting. Normal. Good. And Face will play along with it. He’ll go with it, put on his best smile and laugh along with them and loose himself in that. Because they’re his friends and his team and his family, and no matter how fucked up this gets, he doesn’t want to lose what he’s got with them when the lights on.
So tomorrow is good. Isn’t to be rushed. Isn’t to be reached overfast.
So Face just drifts for a while. Ragged breathing filling the hollow around him.
Until he can feel the daylight on his skin in place of the phantom memories of their hands, and what they might have had instead.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, angst
Summary: A fill for this prompt on the kink meme
*mumblemumble*
I'm really hesitant to prompt this, but it's anon and everything and nobody will know, so what the heck.
Um.
I'd kinda want another Face-gets-raped story. Um. But. He gets raped by the team? All the other three? Um. Yeah. That's what I kinda maybe want.
Sorry...
*hides*
Hannibal thinks Face wants something that Face emphatically does not want.
“Wake up, lieutenant.”
Face feels the light tough on his shoulder, and tries to pull the edges of his mummy sleeping bag tighter around him, facing down into the rank stretch of the cot’s canvas, huddle into himself. Hide. Not this. Not this again. Motherfucker, when will Hannibal stop doing this to him?
“Face, come on, kid, I know you’re awake.” He’s shaken, just a little. Gentle, almost. “Need you to get up now.”
The lieutenant hates it when Hannibal comes on like this. It’s better, better when there are demands or yelling or punching... it’s always better with physical force, even though Hannibal hardly ever gets violent. Otherwise, the boss is just using his rank and his force of presence to get what he wants, and that’s more of a betrayal.
More of a violation.
And it always ends the same way, so what does it matter?
“Hannibal, please...” he groans, and he can feel the colonel’s hand tracing the ridge of his spine through the bag. The older man’s probably kneeling by his cot, probably leaning his cheek on his other hand, probably... “I’m tired.”
“I know you are,” Hannibal murmurs through the insulation, the expensive waterproof material. “I know you are, kid. But I know how that libido of yours justs gets cranked up when we’re out here...”
That hand’s almost at his neck, over, reaching around and under to the face-hole in the sleeping bag, and Face feels the narrower pressure, a knife or scissors. Wouldn’t be the first time Hannibal’s cut one of these off him, for this, and he likes this bag. Staying in it isn’t going to stop anything.
He turns over and unzips.
There’s the boss. And Murdock. And BA. Just waiting.
Face wriggles in the bag, his legs still strategically trapped. He sleeps naked - it’s warmer that way - and it’s cold in the desert at night, and Hannibal orders him to.
They’re all naked, too.
Boss doesn’t like anything getting in the way during these little... whatevers.
And there’s the boss, sitting up on the edge of the cot, careful not to tip it over, and Face tries not to flinch as that hand’s resting on his leg. Like he wants it there.
He knows better, by now, than to scoot it off. Or try to stop it from moving higher.
Hannibal doesn’t take no for an answer, something Face learned in his first few months under the man’s command. After the boss had learned about his new lieutenant’s reputation with the ladies. After the boss got ahold of some bullshit psych profile that said Face had masochistic tendencies. After the boss had decided that he needed to provide an alternative to rough sex with strangers. After the boss had told Face that no matter what he said, he knew what his el-tee really wanted.
Yeah. Sure.
Like he wants this.
Hannibal usually goes right for it, no foreplay at all. Hardly ever any kissing, which Face would like under difference circumstances but can’t bring himself to find the slightest pleasure in now. Like tonight. Hannibal’s kissing him tonight, and BA’s got a big hand in his hair and Murdock’s biting at a nipple on the other side of the boss’s body.
None of it goes for very long though, not once Hannibal snakes his hand down and twists the still-slick buttplug around, pushing in right before he pulls it free, running a finger up in there instead, testing to see it he’s stretched enough - Hannibal doesn’t use the larger plug when they’re on missions, it impedes his lieutenant's movement too much - and Face can’t help the whimper his body lets out.
BA smiles, like they're doing something right, and takes Hannibal’s place at Face’s mouth.
Face doesn't have the heart to tell him otherwise.
It’s incredibly difficult to fuck on a standard-issue cot, so Hannibal throws the sleeping bag on the floor and has Face kneel down on it, urging him with smooth little words that mean something only to one of them. He braces himself and lets his head hang, feeling those clever hands that can only belong to Murdock.
Murdock he doesn’t mind as much. The lieutenant reasoned that all out, long ago, back when the pilot and the corporal joined the unit and joined in Hannibal’s little therapy session. Murdock’s smaller for one thing, and he’s faster, and telling him what’s really going on here, that it’s not Hannibal helping him out with his sex addiction or whatever, that he’s never asked for this and never will, would probably crush him entirely.
Instead, Face always tries to pretend like he’s enjoying it. Rocks back when he should, makes all those little noises that Hannibal wants to hear. Pretends tonight, as Murdock breaks into him and opens him up a little more and starts that slow rotation that drives him deep inside. Face can hate himself for that later, and they’re in relative darkness right now.
So BA can’t see the way the flush of humiliation that has to be spreading all the way down to his pecs, as he shuffles around and lifts Face’s chin up and whispers for him to open up.
This is actually a little better. Gives Face something to focus on other than the driving pain in his ass - he loves Murdock, but he hates Hannibal for believing he likes it rough. He kisses and licks and mouths around BA’s erection, taking steely, soft flesh into his mouth, feeling those big hands back in his hair, pulling him down around that cock.
Lips stretch.
Part of his brain, the bit that detatches from his consciousness at this point and kind of watches this from the outside.
His body, worked pretty damn expertly between them, taking one of them deeper, and then the other, back and forth, rocking, harder, always hard, never gentle, it’s never gentle.
Murdock, shuddering into him. BA, gritting his teeth to keep from screaming through it.
His body collapsing, back hitting the wooden slats of the floor hard, barely padded through his sleeping bag.
Hannibal, moving off the cot and kneeling down over him. Fuck, Face thinks in his detached state, not from the front...
Hannibal, wrapping Face’s legs around his waist...
Hannibal, giving one good hard push. Face doesn’t even feel the burn of taking that massive cock fully into his body. He won’t let himself feel what it’s like anymore to be filled by this man. No pleasure, no pain, nothing at all and Hannibal starts to drill down into him.
Cracking his very heart apart under the pressure of it all.
Smashing everything inside him to dust.
It’s always the same. One experience pretty much stands in for the others. And it’s always that same, hard and rough and fast and too deep, too much.
But when he’s like this, them face to face like it means something, Hannibal’s even worse, fingering Face’s hair, whispering to him about how good it is, how fucking good it is, and sometimes, like tonight, Hannibal will fist Face’s own flaccid cock and Face can only watch in horror from that distance as his body responds to the stimulation and he comes on Hannibal’s chest and Hannibal comes in him and there’s biting... fuck, he hates the biting worst of all.
Like Hannibal owns him. Fuck, he knows that. Face knows he can’t leave the unit. Why does Hannibal have to make it all worse?
But at least it’s over.
Hannibal picks the sleeping bag up, and has Face clean him off, the taste of his own semen no strange thing to the younger man at this point, and then the boss lays Face out, murmuring something about my lieutenant that’s the cruelest fucking joke in this cruelest of situations. Then all go back to their own sleeping bags once they’re done, discreet units once again, nothing in Face now but that old, hollow ache.
He feels it now. He only feels it now. Only ever lets himself feel it right now.
Face hates the right now, with his bruised knees and bruised hips and sore mouth, raw throat, scuffed hands, the slimy sensation, cold, like he’s dying, like it's dead. A thing without meaning, deep inside, and an impossible quarter-mile hike to the toilets to get rid of it.
He doesn’t want to sleep, because he’ll hear the words again. Hannibal’s words. Face still remembers those words, immortal and undying, undead, really.
The ones uttered when Hannibal had tossed him over that desk in his office that first time.
Boss, please, don’t...
I know what you want, kid. Let me give it to you...
And the thing is, the fucking irony, the thing that gets him curled up and crying every single time, biting a mouthful of bag so the other guys won’t hear him choke on all the misplaced, burning grief, is that Hannibal was right. He did want him. But not that forceful, not that rough, not that push and burn and shame and emptiness, not that day. Not like that.
But now, there’s nothing else.
No, Face would rather get to tomorrow. Wants to get to tomorrow, to all the superheated clarity of the Iraqi sun and sand and sniper targets in buildings three hundred meters upwind. That’s a good place.
They’ll be fine tomorrow, happy and laughing and joking and planning, a team again. So familiar. So, so familiar. Comforting. Normal. Good. And Face will play along with it. He’ll go with it, put on his best smile and laugh along with them and loose himself in that. Because they’re his friends and his team and his family, and no matter how fucked up this gets, he doesn’t want to lose what he’s got with them when the lights on.
So tomorrow is good. Isn’t to be rushed. Isn’t to be reached overfast.
So Face just drifts for a while. Ragged breathing filling the hollow around him.
Until he can feel the daylight on his skin in place of the phantom memories of their hands, and what they might have had instead.
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Date: 2011-02-17 11:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-17 11:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 10:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-18 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-19 04:38 pm (UTC)Daylight Part II
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Date: 2011-02-20 11:07 am (UTC)And I'm even learning how to locate things in the meme;), even managed to put a new prompt there. Maybe you like that too.
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Date: 2011-02-20 01:40 pm (UTC)