Match Made in Heaven - Part Two of Three

[sonora_coneja]

Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: A fill for this prompt over at the kink meme

So, I had NO time at all during the last few days to read anything, really, then it was Easter and family time, and tomorrow I'm leaving on excavation. RL sucks sometimes, but hey, yay for earning money, right?
Anyway. I thought I'd prompt something and maybe it'll be filled till I get back? I promise I'm finally gonna start filling that "not quite death fic" indigo_angels prompted a while back, too. ;P
Anyway the second:

How about... Hannibal is the badass CO of a major company, very successful and important and well-known and generally awesome. Murdock could be his PR guy, maybe? And BA would be funny as personal secretary? Or something? So, Hannibal pretty much wins at life and everybody's jealous... but he's lacking one thing: a person to share his life with, someone to loove.
Enter... Face!
Face the relationship coach? Face the new intern? Face the journalist writing an article about Hannibal's success? Face the... something?
Whatever, make them fall in loooove!

When Charisa Sosa’s matchmaking service gets a new client, John Smith, her crack assistant Temple Peck has no idea what he’s getting in to!




Sitting in a cozy little coffeeshop down the block, Templeton feels vaguely terrible.

And he doesn't know why.

Not because he had all the necessary equipment at his apartment already.

Wasn’t anything to charm his way into the restaurant, his usual trick of flirting outrageously with just the right employee, set it all up, hook into their unprotected wireless network, and convince the head waiter to seat his seven-thirty reservation at table twenty-nine. Nope. The matchmaker had absolutely no trouble with any of that. Easy. Piece of cake.

He’s never had a problem doing this before, on some of their more intractable clients. But here, tonight, with John...

...it’s almost unbearable.

Fuck, Templeton thinks, and checks the signal strength on his laptop again. Last thing he needs is the wi-fi crapping out on him right now.

Not now that John and Vance are arriving.

The angle’s a bit awkward, and the sound isn’t exactly movie-theater standard, but it’s clear enough to see, and hear, what’s going on. And what’s going on is starting to twist his stomach up in knots. It’s hard to watch. Incredibly, incredibly hard to watch.

John’s doing...surprisingly well. They came in together, John waited for Vance to sit first, he hasn’t been fucking oogling the guy, light, pleasant conversation through the appetizers, so... good so far. But they haven’t gotten their entrees yet. Plenty of time for things to change, for things to get worse, or better. Too much time to talk.

Too much at all, for his liking.

“So,” the CEO’s saying, hand playing with the stem of a huge wine glass, “why’d you decide to, what would we call it...”

Except for right now. He shouldn’t be talking about that, Templeton thinks. But one little misstep might be...

“Go to that mixer for you?” Vance replies, smiling a little like it doesn’t bother him at all.

“Was it for me?”

“For a handsome, successful man looking for something a little more in his life, yeah. I came for that guy.” The lawyer sips at his own wine. “He sounded like a man worth getting to know.”

“Is it worth it, so far?”

Templeton bangs a fist down, making his half-full cappucino jump. He can hear the little undertone of genuine - not flirtatious - curiosity in those few little words. Goddammit, John, he wants to yell at the man on the screen, he’s going to see that as a lack of self-confidence!

But Vance, damn him, is still smiling, and the blonde finds himself insanely pissed at that. John needs somebody who’s going to pick up on his tells, call him on his bullshit, let him know when he’s getting off track...

“I’d say so,” the lawyer says, a little more shyly this time. “I’d like to think so.”

“So would I.”

He can practically hear Vance’s smug smile, and it’s probably gorgeous. Vance Burress is a gorgeous man, all clean New England elegance and tall, well-built charm, a kind of casual, tongue-in-cheek arrogance that Templeton just knew would attract Hannibal’s attention. Exactly the kind of man a man like Hannibal should have on his arm, by his side, in his bed. And the lawyer’s being smooth, calm, a little self-deprecating, almost sarcastic, which would be perfect, but he’s not pushing back.

He needs to push back.

Fuck.

Templeton chews on his thumb, fingers rubbing themselves raw over the studious stubble of his chin, and tries to stay calm. He flicks through the password screen on his iPhone and hits the redial key. Hopefully the reception holds out, fucking New York City...

“Yes, Templeton? What can I do for you?”

“Hey, Ramona, beautiful,” he purrs without any real emotion at the waitress he’d charmed earlier, “can you see what you can do about the food at table twenty-nine? There has to be just the right flow to these dates...”

“Of course. I’ll go talk to the chef myself.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he says, and hangs up.

Goes back to the screen.

Where John’s reaching across the table and brushing the top of Vance’s hand with his own fingers, just barely there. Where Vance’s hand is turning up into his, bolder.

Templeton hunches forward into the screen.

This is fucking painful. Didn’t he tell John not to come on too strong? Maybe he should have gotten a little more in depth with the man about signals and all that shit. Although, he supposes it should be a good sign, the older man warming to it, loosening up to the match, just like he’s supposed to...

He can tell they’re looking at each other.

Then Vance clears his throat, laughs a little, and pulls back. “I need to go pay a visit to the little boy’s room, John...”

“It’ll make the food get here faster,” the CEO agrees amicably, and the second Vance gets up, one of those big hands whips out a cell phone.

Templeton fumes internally, and makes a mental note to find a way to beat the man up about that without giving away the surveillance thing. Cell phones have no place on dates. None. Absolutely none...and fuck, is he texting? He’s texting. Of all the uncivilized, crass things to do on a date...

His own iPhone buzzes a moment later, that text on the screen.

Is touching on the first date okay, Temp? Wasn’t sure. Seemed to flow.

The matchmaker blinks. Is it? No, it’s really not, but he can’t say that. There’s really no reason to be against it. It’s not like Hannibal’s kissed Vance in the back alley or thrown a knife past his head. So there’s that. He’s behaving himself, Hannibal is. Yet...

Don’t overplay your hand, John he types back, and practically tosses the phone away from him.

Vance is barely back from the bathroom when their food gets there, and thank fuck, they don’t talk for a few minutes.

Templeton tries, really hard, not to pad his nervousness in the silence that follows by surfing the Internet. Or looking up stories on John Smith on Forbes, the Wall Street Journal...damn, the man looks good in his news photos...

Then they’re commenting on the food, how good the steak is, laughing over who gets the last roasted baby potato from the shared dish of sides, the waitress comes by to pour them both another glass of wine as they move on to careers, ambitions. John’s telling Vance about all the things he’s done, all the things he wants to do, and Vance is saying similar things back, about ambitions and dreams and thing he’d like to do with his firm. They’re nodding and talking and it seems like there really might be a connection forming here.

Which is the whole point, right?

The matchmaker’s stomach is starting to churn, and he doesn’t think it’s the acid from the espresso. His main ambitions include making the rent next month and making sure the demands of his portfolio of twenty-three millionaires are met in a timely fashion. His life revolves around making other people happy, not building anything, certainly nothing to do with business. There’s no reason for Hannibal to be interested in him...

There’s no reason for you to be interested in Hannibal, idiot he reminds himself, and tries to focus.

Templeton notices, first and foremost, that John doesn’t try to touch Vance again. His hand is playing with his knife. His hands do that a lot, the matchmaker’s realized.

Nervousness.

Has to be.

And Vance has noticed.

“It’s a bit strange, isn’t it? Going to an agency to find somebody? Was that, I don’t know, was that hard for you?” the lawyer’s asking, staring down at his own plate. “I don’t mean anything by that, John, I’m just curious...”

“New York’s a hard place to date,” the CEO says, and Templeton can hear the guarded tone in his voice.

Which Vance, again, misses. Damn. He was doing so well for a minute there.

“It’s so true. Trying to find a guy who isn’t...”

“Oh, I know, so much of the dating pool in this town...”

“...aren’t after anything real,” the lawyer finishes. Finishes Hannibal’s sentence, and the matchmaker’s inexplicably pissed about that. Is it cause Vance is being rude? Or is it... “Like that guy who works there, what was his name, Templeton Peck...”

The CEO looks over the top of his wine glass. “How do you mean?” His voice is neutral, mild.

Templeton leans in further and turns up the volume of his headphones.

“I got nothing against the guy, and I’m sure he’s very good at his job. He just seems like one of your typical New York gays...”

“Cause he works at a matchmaking service?”

“Well, you know, there’s a certain kind of guy who likes that sort of thing. Those prissy queens who wear foundation and just want to stick their noses into everybody else’s business and...” and Vance trails off, and now it’s his hand on top of John’s. In clear view of the camera. “John, I’m not trying to insult the guy, I’m just saying, you see a lot of that in this city and it’s nice to meet somebody who’s not about any of that.”

“No,” John replies, a tiny bit of that sweet, dark, heavy tone in his voice, delicious, like good Guinness. And his hand twists up into Vance’s, palm to palm. “No, I’m not about any of that. I like things honest...”

“I’d never lie to you, John,” Vance says back, the faintest hint of a sigh in his voice.

“I can tell that, Vance.”

And then, one of those pregnant, meaningful silences.

Templeton can’t breath. He absolutely can’t breath. What’s Hannibal saying here? What did Vance just accuse him of being? Is that how people see him? Is that how the CEO sees him?

Some fucking queer? An interfering busybody who takes pleasure in rooting through people’s personal lives? Fuck. Fuck. No. He does this job because it’s satisfying and he likes it and with his juvee record, he couldn’t get hired by a real company if he got down on his knees and blew the Director of...

“You boys need anything else? Doing okay?”

It’s Ramona. The cute-as-a-button waitress sounds tickled as anything to have a couple of hot men holding hands at one of her tables, a fist balanced on her black-uniformed hip.

John looks over at her, his silver hair turned to the camera. “No, honey, I think we’re doing just fine, aren’t we, Vance?”

“Meh, you know,” the lawyer smiles back.

“Want me to clear these plates off for you?” she asks. “Get you a pair of dessert menus?”

“Why not?” Hannibal nods back, and turns back to the lawyer, with the girl still standing there. “You up for dessert, Vance?”

“Here or somewhere else?”

“Oh, we have to play by the rules now...” and that’s an excellent point. Charisa’s got very strict rules about the whole sex thing. No sex before monogamy. It’s one of the points in the contract they faxed over.

“Who’s going to know, John?”

Hannibal cocks his head. Smiles a little wider, and lets go of Vance’s head, beckoning the waitress down at that same time.

Templeton can feel his face flaming. He can’t watch any more, he can’t, and his head pitches forward as his hands tear the earbuds out. How could ever have been so stupid as to think that maybe, just maybe, a guy like Hannibal actually wanted...

But there’s tinny shouts, and the matchmaker lifts miserable eyes up to see Vance storming off to the bathroom and the waitress running after him with that little towel from her waist apron, probably yelling out apologies, a big, big scene.

Then his cell phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Templeton. You doing okay?”

Hannibal. Concern in his voice.

“Don’t call me on your date, John. Aren’t you with Vance right now?” he equivocates.

“Come on, kid, you know I’m not.”

A big finger hits the camera lense.

“Oh, goddammit, John!” he yells, and the older couple at the table next to his turn and stare. Templeton wants to die. Right here. Right now. “What the fu...”

“I’m almost done here,” Hannibal says easily. Like it’s every day he finds his matchmaking service keeping tabs on him. “There’s a Dunkin Donuts down the street, open all night. Want to meet me there in a half hour or so?”

“John, jesus, look...”

“Should I kiss him goodnight?”

He slams down the lid of his laptop and lets his forehead hit the table, phone still plastered to his ear. “It’d be appropriate...”

“Oh, good. Just wanted to be sure. See you in a bit?”

He hangs up.

And just stays like that for a few minutes.

Worst. Client. Ever.

+++++

“Don’t look so uncomfortable, kid,” John tells him as they’re standing in line for donuts, half an hour later. “What do you want?”

“Anything greasy and deep-fried sounds good right now,” the younger man grumbles, his computer bag heavy around his tired shoulders.

“Did you need to go back for your stuff?”

“The waitress, she said she'd hold it for me until...”

“That cute thing was in on it?” And Hannibal laughs. “How much did that cost you?”

“Nothing,” Templeton huffs. “I’ll have you know I’m quite good at...”

“Charming cute girls into doing what you want them to?” the CEO says, still chuckling. “And to think, I offered her a thousand dollar tip to dump that glass of water on Vance’s lap for me. Guess I don’t have your smile...”

They both move up in line. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I figured that’d probably cover her rent for the month. Sad, how little a good restaurant like that pays its employees...”

“Why the fuck would you do something like that, John?”

They move up again. John shrugs. “You want a latte, kid?”

And that snaps something in Templeton. Snaps it right the hell apart. “What the fuck were you thinking, doing something like that? What kind of asshole pays a waitress to dump water in his date’s lap? I went to a lot of effort to pick Vance out for you, and you what, shit all over it? He’s a perfectly nice man! I don’t understand...”

“You were watching it, you saw what was going on.”

“Yeah, I fucking did. Everything was going great. John, you can’t treat people like...”

“He insulted you.”

That takes Templeton aback, just a bit. Wait, what? But Hannibal had been almost in to that, it had seemed. Right? So...what? Still. Not cool. “So? Wasn’t my fucking date night!”

“Umm, guys?” And they both turn to where the flustered teen behind the counter just spoke. He waves, just a bit. “Can I get your order?”

“Regular coffee, latte for my pouting friend here, and, oh, two dozen spice cake donut holes,” Hannibal tells him, and turns to Templeton. “Got anything else you’d like to add?”

“You had a twenty-ounce steak tonight, John. Where in the fuck...”

“Kid’s waiting on you, Temp,” Hannibal points out as he retrieves his money clip.

Templeton rolls his eyes, but concedes the point. “Two pumps of vanilla in the latte.”

A wave of Hannibal’s platinum credit card later, they’re both sitting in a snug little booth on the window of the little donut place, that pile of sugary fried dough between them.

The blonde matchmaker watches Hannibal’s fingers pick at one of the little rounds. “How can you eat those? You had a huge steak for dinner.”

“Never got dessert,” Hannibal replies, completely unfazed. “And these are America’s favorite donuts...”

Templeton feels his temper flare up a bit, remembering the oh-so-clever little exchange that preceded the water spillage. But he’s trying to be professional about this.

Professional. Not emotional.

No need to get emotional over something he’s not allowed to be emotional about. No reason at all. “Okay, tell me,” he says, trying to keep himself on an even keel with all of this, “how do you feel the date went?”

“You’re not upset about what he said about you?”

“Who?”

“Vance.” Hannibal dips the donut hole in his coffee, a thin stream of sugar melting out across the black surface tension. “What else are we talking about?”

“We’re talking about how your date went.”

“Are we? Because I would be pissed. You have every right to be pissed.”

The younger man wants to scream. That is so, so not what Hannibal should be worrying about right now. “Because he said I wear foundation and I heard it when I was eavesdropping? Illegally? It’s not really important, John. What’s important is...”

Hannibal sips at his coffee. “You aren’t important?”

Templeton closes his eyes and digs his index fingers along the bridge of his nose, palms together. “This is all about you, John. All, all about you. I wish you would fucking focus on what we’re here to do.”

The little basket of donuts is pushed towards him. “Have a donut, kid. Calm down. We’ll talk.”

“I’m not not calm.”

“You’re shaking like a leaf, Temp,” Hannibal says softly, rubbing his knee under the table.

He shakes his head, and reaches for one of the little bite-sized morsels. He’s not upset. He’s not mad. He’s completely unaffected by the fact that this man blew an entire date just to defend him. Chivalrous bastard. “I had a cappucino earlier,” he states defiantly. “It’s probably just the caffeine.” And pops the entire thing into his mouth.

“Fine, kid,” Hannibal sighs, and stares out the window, one arm around the back of the booth. He’s loosened his subdued tie, undone the top button of his cornflower blue shirt. He seems very, very far away... “How’s this debriefing usually go?”

Templeton nods. “Well, just...your thoughts, I guess.”

“Nice man, easy to talk to, very polished, nothing to dislike, really,” Hannibal says. “But he did insult somebody I respect in front of me. To my face. That’s a deal-breaker right there.”

“John, I need you to take me out of the equation...” he pinches his nose again. “Lets get back to specifics. Okay, so, I saw most of it, so, uhh, what are your thoughts?”

“You didn’t answer me, about the kissing thing.”

“Uhh...”

Hannibal smirks a bit, and looks at him again. “I didn’t kiss him. It seemed wrong. After the water. Should I have kissed him?”

“Jesus, John, I don’t even know where to start with...” Templeton sighs, and then meets the older man’s eyes. There’s humor dancing in those blue eyes, but also some genuine concern, and the matchmaker reminds himself, here to help, here to help... “On a normal early-on kind of date, yes, a kiss is appropriate. Lets somebody know you’re serious...”

“Serious?”

“How do guys date in the Army?”

“Straight,” Hannibal says serenely, eating another donut hole. “The rest of us just tend to fuck each other in the armory, the showers. That sort of thing.”

Templeton tries very, very hard not to let that turn into a mental picture. This man, in uniform, taking him up against a wall. It takes a moment. “Okay, so, a normal date...let’s see...”

“We could use this as an example,” Hannibal suggests.

“Okay, okay. Coffee and donuts would not be my recommendation for a first date, but okay, we’re here, let’s go with it, fine. You would say...”

“Ready to get out of here?”

“Yeah, that works. And I’d say something like, yeah, sure, let’s go.”

Hannibal slides out of the booth and offers Templeton a hand up. No. Not so much offers as grabs on, and doesn’t let go. “Then let’s go, Templeton.”

The matchmaker makes sure he grabs his laptop bag as the CEO hauls him away.

He feels a little better when they’re out in the cool night air, out on the sidewalk, just strolling along in silence towards the nearest subway station. It’s so easy, being silent with this man...

“What should we be talking about, Temp?” Hannibal asks after about a block. “On our date, what do we talk about?”

“I think you did a pretty good job with Vance...”

“I’m talking about right now,” the CEO says, his voice dropping, just a bit. “What do we talk about, right now, you and me, first date...”

He notices Hannibal’s hand is twitching a little bit, and taking a chance, he fits his own into it. Catching his breath as he does so. Wondering if Vance felt this good when he got to touch like this. “Some physical contact is always a good thing. If you’ve had a good time.”

“Let’s say we had a very good time. Let’s say it’s one of the best dates I’ve ever had.”

“Okay...” the blonde says, looking anywhere but at the man next to him, the one whose hand he’s holding, the one whose shoulder he’s brushing now. “On your imaginary best-ever date...what makes it your best-ever date? So I know what we’re looking for in the future.”

“Good time, lots of fun, bit of intrigue,” Hannibal laughs. God, he has a nice laugh. “Beautiful man here with me...”

Templeton slows. “Okay. I’ll see if we can get something like that set up for you...”

“What do I do with him after?” Hannibal asks, stopping them both and turning in to him, still holding his hand.

“Like, when do you get to the kiss, right?” the younger man replies, feeling the temperature in his open-neck button down and tight jeans starting to rise exponentially as the CEO presses a little closer to him.

“Yeah, kid,” and a big hand runs all the way down his back, fingering long the taught strap of his messenger bag, coming to rest right on the side of his ass, still holding his other, pulling the matchmaker close. “When do we get to kiss.”

“Don’t...don’t put your hand on his butt, it’s too forward...”

“What if he likes that sort of thing?”

Templeton stares up at those blue eyes. “Waist. Don’t want your date to feel trapped, do you, John?”

“I don’t want to scare him off,” the CEO agrees, moving that hand around to rest, right on the rise of the younger man’s hipbone. “Not once I’ve found him.”

“Err, right. So...”

“Can I kiss him now?”

This whole thing is really, really out of control. But Hannibal pulls him a little closer, and Templeton can feel a growing hardness in the other man’s very expensive and very tailored trousers, and it’s really, really hard to think, with that pressing up against him. “Slow down, John. You don’t want him to think it’s all about sex, do you?”

“He knows it isn’t. And he wants it, too.” It’s murmured, right against his cheek, and sparks flash through the matchmaker’s vision as his brain short-circuits at those words. “So, how do I kiss him?”

“Uhh,” and he’s grabbing desperately at all the usual advice, but this is definitely the most hands-on session he’s ever had. “Uhh, yeah, don’t force it. It’s gotta feel organic, cause you want it to communicate how you, how you...”

“How I feel?” Hannibal whispers.

Templeton nods, and realizes then that his hands are digging in to the edges of Hannibal’s suit jacket. “That’s sort of thmmrphh...!”

Hannibal kisses him. Harder. More forceful. And fuck, this man is good, this man is very good at this, because the matchmaker feels his knee starting to buckle, and that arm around his back is holding him up, and he’s falling into it, completely falling into it, and...

“Like that?” Hannibal says, very softly, as the kiss ends. “Does that adequately communicate what I’m thinking right now?” Fingers are brushing loose blonde curls off his forehead, and lips are planting another kiss, right there. “Does that say how much I want you to come home with me tonight?”

“No sex before monogamy,” Templeton pleads, half-stupefied by that kiss. Shit, that was a kiss, like he hasn’t had in...no, wait. Has he ever been kissed like that? Ever? “That’s one of the rules.”

“I’m taking you home, sweet boy,” Hannibal whispers. “Rules be damned.”

+++++

He’s fine. Fine with that. Fine with this. Wants this. Wants this bad. Damn the consequences.

Until they hit the elevator.

Then he starts to get nervous.

And then the elevator doors open.

“I’ve got the whole floor,” Hannibal announces casually, sauntering in to his space, a lion returning to his den, or something. The place suits him, warm and strong and sleek and open-plan, not a thing out of place, the matchmaker thinks, but he’s frozen.

He can’t move out into it.

“I shouldn’t be allowing this,” Templeton says, smooth as he can, trying not to stare across Chelsey apartment. He knows it’s probably mixed signals or something, but he’s trying to cover up his own nervousness, that screaming need he’s feeling right now, the need that makes no goddamn sense to him at all. This is a client. A client, for chrissakes...

“Really?” the older man asks, humor tinging the edges of his voice, back to the elevator doors, his jacket slung over one strong shoulder, body framed against the New York nightscape beyond the huge windows, and damn if that’s not the sexiest thing the matchmaker’s seen in his entire life. “You seemed pretty okay with it, Temp.”

“I barely know you,” he continues, holding on to the fake edge of his voice, aping confidence. He really doesn’t want Hannibal to see how off balance he is right now. “We’ve only been on one date, after all.”

Those shoulders pinch up a bit. “Is this not an appropriate thing to be doing on a first date?”

And fuck, that’s the CEO’s nervous-little-boy voice.

The matchmaker in him can’t not respond. Seriously. Honestly. All pretense gone. “No, John, it’s really not.”

“What should we do, then?” Hannibal asks, turning to face him.

Those eyes lock down on him like a heat-seeking missile, and Templeton knows he’s not going to be able to dodge this explosion. He has to lick his lips a few times before the words will come out.

“We, uhh, we should, I mean, you should, umm, you should kiss your date goodnight, if you feel like it...”

“I felt like it,” Hannibal murmurs, closing the distance between them again, urgent, fast, like he’s afraid the younger man’s going to disappear on him again. “I kissed him.”

“So...” and Templeton swallows again, unable to tear his eyes away from the older man’s.

A feat that becomes entirely impossible once the CEO touches his cheek. Tender. “So, what, kid? What do I do next?”

“You say, you... say goodnight.”

“And then my date leaves?”

He shuts his eyes, because he knows what he’s going to say, even though he shouldn’t say it, and there it is. Whispered. Regardless. “You’ll see him again.”

“When?”

“You’ll have to call him. For another date...”

Hannibal is very, very close now. Like he was in his office. And he’s got one big hand up on the door of the private elevator, keeping it from closing. “Will he come? Would he come, if I call him? Will we be together then?”

“I don’t know,” Templeton whispers back, some kind of frantic energy building in his chest, right below his heart, something that needs, needs, needs to be stopped.

"What if I'm sure? What if I know that I want him?"

And that's completely overwhelming, and he has to shove away from it, into the back of the elevator. He has to go, get out of here, run. He has to...

“John, nothing is as easy as you seem to think it’ll be. And those aren’t the rules. That’s just life. You’re gonna scare him off if you come on like this. Jesus, no wonder you needed us...”

Hannibal’s head hits down on top of that outstretched palm, up against the open elevator door. And he smiles. Laughs. Just a bit.

“What?” Templeton demands.

“I don’t need Charisa and the service and the bullshit or anything else,” and Hannibal holds out a hand to him. “I just need you, Temp.”

The matchmaker meets that smile with one of his own. “You are one of the least suave gay men I’ve ever, John. You know that?”

“I’d have to say I’m hopeless,” and those blue eyes are dancing. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Entirely.”

But Templeton takes his hand, and allows himself to be drawn out of the elevator, right in to the overwhelming comfort of Hannibal’s arms, across the wide space, swept up as if they were dancing, and it’s all a blur until the back of his legs hit the cool silk cover of a down comforter.

“I need you, Temp,” comes the starved little whisper in his ear, the nervous hand on his chest. “Please, say yes, say yes...”

“He’ll answer, when you call for that second date,” the younger man confesses, shame and arousal washing through him in equal measure. “I’ll be there...”

“Be here?”

“Yeah, John, right here...”

And he’s pressed to horizontal.

Templeton knows he should get up. Get up right the fuck now and leave, right fuck now. He wants John, he does, wants that body he feels crawling up his, wants that cock against his hip, those big hands skimming up his sides, those lips, those lips brushing his...

He wants.

But...

“John,” he moans. “John, please...”

The CEO kisses him lightly, light on the mouth, once more. He tastes like expensive booze and cheap coffee, warmth and smoke, heavy and masculine, fucking perfect, really, so fucking perfect...

“Please what, Temp? What should I do with you, now that I’ve got you in my bed?”

“Thought you were driving this bus...” he gasps as that mouth moves down the pulse of his neck. Oral fixation, this guy. Big time. Maybe it’s all those cigars he smokes.

Hannibal runs his thumb just underneath the younger man’s lower lip, caressing his chin, kisses him again. “Ah, but I want my man to come back. Physical connection is a big part of any relationship, right? Tell me what to do.”

His cock, inexplicably, jumps at the idea.

Approving.

A lot.

“Oh, fuck, no, John, I thought you said you...I thought you’ve...”

“I’ve what?” His eyes are sparkling. And he rolls his hips down, grinding into Templeton’s exquisitely sensitive groin. “What now?”

Bastard.

Templeton groans, trying not to buck up into all those delicious sensations. “I thought you’ve done this whole...sex...thing before.”

Hannibal laughs, and rolls his hips again. “Baby, I’ve been doing this whole sex thing since I was sixteen.” He leans down, and nips at the matchmaker’s ear. “When did you start?”

“Fuck, John...”

Another hip roll, and a hand slips around, pressing up on the small of his back, pulling them tighter, like he weighs nothing at all. And something about that kind of strength, surrounding him, buried in him, fucking him... Templeton groans.

“You’re the expert, sweet boy,” Hannibal murmurs, a little softer now, fingers playing against the buttons of Templeton’s very expensive and very hard-shopped shirt. He pauses at the open neck, tugging experimentally. “What’s the difference between the one-night-stand sex and the keep-him-forever sex?”

The blonde is really, really struggling at this point. More with himself than Hannibal. Fighting Hannibal, he figures, would be pretty fucking pointless. Because Hannibal’s not giving him an inch, holding him down, keeping him sprawled out on his back, asking him... and for some reason Templeton just can’t fucking figure out, it’s really, really turning him on.

It’s making it a little hard for him to get a cohesive sentence out.

“We don’t...don’t really...offer advice in those areas...”

“Damn,” Hannibal clucks softly, and starts to pull away, settling back between Templeton’s legs, giving the younger man’s inner thigh a firm, hard squeeze. “Guess I’ll just have to go elsewhere for my dating lesson...” his hand drops to cup the matchmaker’s trapping erection, straining against the fly of his pants, working it gently. “But you’re the best, Temp. How can I possibly trade up from you?”

Templeton’s feeling those hands kneading up his legs, across his hipbones. He knows the older man’s teasing him, playing a game, playing him like a fiddle, and fuck if it doesn’t feel really, really...odd. Good odd. Just like John himself. Very, very good, and very, very odd.

“You going to show me the difference, kid? Or should I just do what I’d always do, right now?”

“John, goddammit...” the younger man groans, everything spiraling completely out of his control now, higher and faster, out of his grasp. “John, please...”

“Sounds like a plan,” Hannibal chuckles, and hauls him up by the belt, fast and rough and demanding, that hand back around his back, both of them kneeling up in the sinfully soft bed. And John’s capturing his mouth in a crushing kiss, one that leaves Templeton gasping, breathless.

Too breathless to form an immediate word of protest as the CEO literally rips his three hundred dollar shirt clean off, buttons flying everywhere in a scatter of bright noise in the darkened space...

...and that's the first indication to Templeton that maybe, just maybe, he really, really should consider playing John's game.

Doesn't hurt that it's going to be a hell of a lot of fun, either.

But then, he doesn’t have much of a choice.

Not as the shirt catches around his wrists, and Hannibal’s wrapping it tighter, tying his arms together behind him, mouths still sealed together. There’s way, way too much going on to think about how to stop it - skin and breath and the light touch of hair and the heavier nips of teeth and nails, Hannibal’s belt, scratching against that line of hair, leading down from his nave.

Templeton strains against ruined silk as both the CEO’s hands slide up the front of his chest. “This is the part...” and is this guy serious? Is he still fucking talking? Are they really going to... “...where I usually do this...” and those hands shove him back, twisting and guiding, belly down against the mattress “...and then this...” and Hannibal lifts a long, lean, still-clothed leg over him, straddling Templeton’s thighs, hands moving again, up both sides of the younger man’s chest and neck with a pressure that can only be described as amazing “...and then...” it’s breathed, hot and lustful against the short hairs below Templeton’s ear “...then I take him. I take him hard. Everyone who comes to me wants it hard...”

There’s something almost, almost, sad in those words, an undercurrent the matchmaker knows nobody else will ever catch, subtle and somehow heartbreaking for it. And he knows, in equal measure, that he wants, needs, to take that away. “John...”

“...and they all leave when we’re done, or I make them leave. An empty bed, Temp,” he murmurs, voice still close, so close, and he’s rocking lightly now, the burning heat of his cock threatening to sear right through fine Italian wool and lightweight synthetic, right into the cleft of the younger man’s ass. “Don’t want that any more.”

He can barely think, but this, this... he has to say something about this. Speak to this. Somehow. “M-maybe you should... should...”

Hannibal stops moving, but his hands are still roaming across the landscape of Templeton’s bare back. “Should what, kid?” he urges.

“Try, try...try it different. With your...your future partner...”

“That’s what I’m asking for, baby, happy domestic sex,” Hannibal practically cooes, and there is absolutely no excuse for how sexy his voice is right now. “How’s it different? How does my lover want it?”

The matchmaker screws his eyes shut. He’s going to hate himself for this in the morning... “Face to face, John. You ever tried it that way?”

A soft sigh escaping him, Hannibal licks a hot stripe up Templeton’s neck, biting right below his ear. Thrusts his hips again. “On your back?”

“Yeah, fuck John, on his back.”

Another bite, another sigh, and the CEO rubs his chin against the younger man’s shoulder. “Why that?”

He is going to kill this man in the morning. He really, really is. But... “Lets him see you, how you feel...”

“Mmm, yeah, how I feel...” And that cloth-covered cock against his ass lessens, vanishes, as he pulls away. “That emotional connection thing, right?”

Templeton, to his everlasting embarrassment, he’s sure, moans a little at the loss of all that wonderful body heat. Tries to push back up into it, but a big hand grabs the fabric twisted around his wrists and somehow all his momentum gets turned against him, and he’s flat on his back, palms digging into the soft down duvet

A pair of glittering blue eyes meet his own, just to the side, a leg snaking in between his, and a single finger traces down his throat, adam’s apple, between his pecs, further, further down...

“So what are you waiting for, Temp? Gonna show me how it works?”

He smirks as best he can, what with his insides melting, his mind sliding apart. “Should probably get our pants off first, don’t you think, John?”

Hannibal bites his lip and looks down, like he’s thinking about this very, very hard. “Those are going to be a lot harder to tear off you,” he says seriously, and slips a hand to Templeton’s top button. “But I love a challenge.”

The younger man wants to ask what, exactly, that means, but he doesn’t get a chance.

Nope.

Hannibal pops that top button free of its little sewn slot and Templeton's cock seems to open the zipper itself, cause it's out and proud with a meaty smack, and the older man’s right there, palm heavy and just this side of rough against the underside, cupping both of the matchmaker’s balls and working his cock up, up, up...

Templeton can’t help the strangled little cry that flees his parted lips as he feels the first little hint of precome against his own belly, milked out by Hannibal with that wonderful .

“You like that, baby?” the CEO chuckles, and does it again.

It’s torture, and he’s struggling against the shreds of his shirt, hips bucking, needing more contact than this, needing it bare and free and wrapped in one of those huge, huge hands, and Hannibal’s just going with it all, moving with him, the two of them rolling across the man’s truly massive bed that seems to be a football field’s worth of white down and sinful, sinful fabric that the older man’s trying to fucking bury him in, and Templeton, giddy with arousal, all other thoughts banished for the moment, has not one problem with that.

Until Hannibal’s weight is gone, and he’s fighting up for it like a landed fish, wrists still bound up, wriggling, searching...

“Right here, kid,” the older man says.

And evidently it’s not such a challenge for Hannibal to rip his pants off.

Because the damn things are gone, and he’s half-off the bed from the force of it, and there was definitely the sound of seams tearing when he... “those were tailored!” he moans.

“I’ll replace ‘em, buy him a new pair,” the CEO says, and catches Templeton’s knee where it’s flailing up in the air, jerking the younger man up and around, spreading his legs on either side of his chest, massaging his exposed upper thighs, pressing him back. The younger man whimpers a little as his ass slides across that smooth wool, stopped by a mountain rising beneath that silky surface. “Do you think he’d mind?”

“What mind who?” Templeton asks, a little lost, his brain starting to stick on the idea that there’s a cock behind him and it’s huge and it’s ready and he’s got a chance here of getting it buried up in his...

“My man. Do you think he’d mind if I bought him clothes...” Hands twists around on his bare thigh, snaking his around to massage the round of his ass for a moment, and then he's yanked forward. Hard. Up the plans of John's hard, hard body.

“You, you c-can’t buy affection, John...”

Hannibal nuzzles in a little more, neck craning up, mouth seeking contact, every pass driving Templeton to dizzying heights. He can’t remember ever being this aroused, from the games or the words, or the promise of that cock, or this man, this man he barely knows, this man he feels like he’s known all his life...

“So I could rip them off him at the end of the evening, Temp. If he looks half as good as you do, getting his clothing shredded off him...” he strokes the younger man’s cock right then, that hand amazing, twisting just enough, “I think I’m going to be doing it a lot. He'll need replacements.”

“G-guess that’ll keep him in spring’s trendiest styles...”

“And I bet he’ll be a handsome bastard, too.” He rubs his chin up Templeton’s knee, mouth coming to rest right at the crease of thigh and body, laving that tender skin with his tongue, blowing softly. Lave, blow, lave, blow, right next to the matchmaker’s desperate erection. “Can’t wait to see him, that beautiful man...”

“Johhhnnnn,” he moans, hands trying to jerk apart again, pull around and tug that silver head closer, closer to...

“I can suck his cock, right? That doesn’t make me some kind of creepy old man, does it?”

“Yes, please, John, fuck, for the love of god, you can suck his cock, he is really, really going to want you to suck his cock...”

He hears the sound of a bottle being uncapped. “Can I make him beg for it?” that voice inquires.

Templeton looks down at that goddamn grin, smells the faint scent of good, good lube, and tries to stay calm as it starts dribbling down his tailbone, in between... “He...he will definitely beg you for it.”

"Oh? Good."

That hand’s back, grasping the younger man’s cock again. Hannibal licks the tip, pressing his tongue lightly into the slit there, tonguing off the gathering moisture. He’s still rubbing, pinching, spreading, spreading Templeton’s cheeks. “Just wanted to make sure.”

And before he can think of a witty retort, that mouth pulls him in all the way, a finger pushes in all the way to the knuckle and any and all other considerations are lost.

Entirely.

John's finger is big, like his hands are big, and it's a bit more than he's used to with just the first push, but goddamn if that doesn't fit the whole evening. Hannibal himself. A little strange and a little off-center and whole lot of wonderful.

A whole hell of a lot of wonderful.

Templeton can't decide which he likes more, the warm, wet welcome of John's mouth, sucking and teasing, his tongue doing things that are downright obscene, or that little bit of pressure behind, starting to working him open. Fortunately, thug, he doesn't have to chose, not at all, because neither are stopping, both getting more and more in ten, and when Hannibal urges him up a little, he finds himself falling forward a bit, hips shifting angle and John groaning around his cock even as he catches him, holding him up more gently than the situation would otherwise suggest.

He almost comes right here, from that.

But that would be missing all the fun, so he chokes it back as best he can, letting himself moan through it instead, letting the CEO coax him into a rhythm of sorts, back onto two, two fingers now, then three, opening him wide, feeling the burn of entry every time, forward into that waiting mouth, back again with a twist or a hook, forward to the faintest scrape of teeth across the over-sensitized skin.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and...

"He's close," Hannibal murmurs, slipping off Templeton's throbbing member, slipping Templeton back down his body, and the younger man feels himself shaking, all his internal supports failing him as every nerve screams for penetration, as one big, wonderful finger plays across his slick, stretched entrance. "So close, baby, not sure if he's going to last..." And no, fuck no, John is really not going to keep after this at this point in... "So what should I do with him now, matchmaker? You're the expert, after all," Hannibal urges, and slips that finger back in.

All the way.

Hitting his prostate dead on.

Templeton almost screams a very manly scream, managing at the last second to get out, "f-f-ffuck him, goddammit, you should fuck him!" instead.

"Ahh," Hannibal says, kissing the top of his head, and those hands are between them now, the sounds of a belt unbuckling muffled between both their bellies. "We at that part yet, Temp?"

The matchmaker squirms, managing to scrape up one of Hannibal's hands, stopping him for a moment. "Yeah, but pants...pants all the way off, John..."

"You so sure about that?" the older man asks lightly, and there it is, a column of burning hot flesh, easing out against his belly. "I really have to wait that long? It's out now..."

Templeton screws his eyes up and tries to bite back the waves of over-stimulated pressure, crashing through his body right not. If he has to explain... "It's...it's...it's th-that equality thing you wa...oomph!"

Hannibal just tossed the younger man off, easy, like he weighs nothing, and fits himself in between tumbled legs, leaning down over him for a kiss, blue eyes soft. “Stop, kid.” His hands are gentle with the words, stroking down the younger man’s side, tickling along his ribs, lighter but no less intense than before, running down behind until they meet his own, right over the makeshift handcuffs. “It’s just a game, Templeton. Just having a bit of fun. Fun’s good, but you’re better. You’re here with me, I want you here. Tell me what you need.”

Something in him swells in him at that, something wonderful they haven’t gotten to yet and just maybe...Templeton smiles, hopeful. "You should fuck your man already, John."

Hannibal smiles and rears away, kneeling up next to him, hands leaving his body only unwillingly at the very end. And he winks.

"Soon as I get these pants off."

Watching Hannibal, that gigantic cock rising higher and higher, hunger surging through him, Templeton can’t help but notice that the older man’s hands are shaking a bit. Shaking a lot, actually, as they unfasten all the buckles and buttons between them, fine gray fabrics falling away, kicked off with his socks, and Templeton laughs as his new lover moves over him.

Nervous and aroused. He’s genuinely nervous and genuinely aroused, and that little tell, right there, is telling Templeton it’s not just about the sex. Nothing light and easy here, no. Hannibal means so much more than just a...

“What?” he asks, heavy and low, the word sinking down through the matchmaker’s fevered thoughts. He drags a knee up Templeton’s side and cradles his head up, their cocks aligning and fuck, if that pole of Hannibal’s isn’t leaking against they . “What’s funny, Temp?”

He just shakes his head and lifts his hips, letting his head fall into John’s expansive palm, neck bared. “Seem eager, John.”

“We’re close now, him and I...”

“We are,” he murmurs.

“What does he want, here with me?”

Templeton wants to reach out, wants to reach out and take John, his John, by the hand and pull him in and wrap an arm around his back and kiss them both stupid, smooth it all away. But he’s not free to do that, because of the hands thing, and he’s fine with the whole hands thing, because John needs something here.

Something Templeton sees in a sudden flash of inspiration.

Something Templeton is more than willing to give.

John needs to know that no matter what, how he pushes or what he does or how dominating he just is, he’s got a lover who can challenge him, a man who can hold his own against all his strength, a partner who’s capable of standing even with him. That he’s not going to drown out or smother or outshine or overwhelm.

John needs to know that just cause he’s got a young man bound up in his bed, he’s not necessarily in control here. A powerful man, one who’s able to control everything around him with nothing ever out of place, begging to be surprised.

So he runs his own leg up the little oblique muscles of Hannibal’s side, and wraps it around Hannibal’s back, and thrusts up, catching cock and chest and lips, squeezing and turning, using the slight bit of momentum as best he can, taking John by surprise.

Flipping him him over.

On his back, Hannibal’s eyes are wide now. And then Templeton squeezes down and lifts up, grimacing a little at the sudden burn of muscle. “He’s gonna want you to hold your cock still for him,” he orders. “He’s going want it in him.”

And something hot floods through him, bursting out, coursing through his veins, as he watches a hand snake between them, as another hand settles on his shoulder, as he lines up with a blunt probing pressure sliding up his perineum, up exactly where it needs to be.

“Like this?” Hannibal breaths, words steady but face flushing.

“Exactly like that,” Templeton nods back, and he can hear his own voice shaking a bit now.

“Will h-he... will he like that?” Fuck, he can feel his lover’s heartbeat inside all that heated skin, beating against his own. Against that ring of loosened muscle, right there, so close, Hannibal just starting to push up. “Will th-this...”

“Stop, John. Stop it.”

“Temp...”

He looks down, his body screaming from the effort of holding himself still at this critical moment. No more games. They’re past that now. “Let me, John. Let me...”

Those blue eyes fixed on his close, open, a blink that seems to go on for an eternity while Templeton feels sweat starting to collect on his back while a decision’s considered.

Debated.

Made.

And then he gets the most brilliant smile yet, hotter than the surface of the sun, and no less vital. “Take me home, Templeton.”

And Templeton lets himself drop down right into all of it.

Everything John is.

Templeton groans as he takes Hannibal in, deeper and deeper, too slow to stand, really, but he can’t go any faster. The older man is huge, maybe the biggest he’s ever taken, and the burn of entry is just this side of painful. But the look on the other man’s face, head back, lips slightly parted, like he’s trying to remember how to breath...

He’s lost in it, and that, right there, looking for all the world like he’s never been lost in it before, is enough for Templeton to keep going, sinking down until his ass hits the back of a set of strong thighs.

“How...how you doing, John?” he asks softly, wanting again to touch, remembering again that he can’t. So he rolls his hips forward instead, biting his own lip at the feel of that throbbing length within in, changing angle just a little bit. “You still with me?”

“Temp...” John moans weakly, reaching out to him, a soft palm catching the younger man right under his belly button, tracing up the length of that thin line of hair, sensation prickling outward. Not quite touching where he needs to touch, though, not taking Templeton’s own woefully neglected cock into that big, lovely palm, where it wants desperately to be.

“Yeah?” he asks, lifting up and dropping down a bit, just a bit, just once or twice, to cover his own uncertainty. Every touch of skin, every pass, every little point of contact seems charged, electric, and he can’t remember the last time he felt something like that. Never, maybe. John’s blue eyes are watching him. So he lifts a little higher next time. “W-what is it?”

“You...” and that hand glides around to the side of his waist. “You’re beautiful like this...”

“On...on your cock?” And Templeton, feeling his interior muscles relaxing, welcoming, grabbing on to that colum of flesh inside him, welcoming it further in, starts moving a little faster. Pulls forward and pushes back, a circuit of pleasure.

“Here with me,” Hannibal says, and pushes up on one hand, still holding Templeton around the waist, tugging their bodies together, trapping the younger man’s cock between them against flexing abs. Templeton cries out at the change of angle, at the pressure he’s suddenly taking on his knees, but doesn’t stop. Keeps working. “Can’t...can’t believe...”

“Shh,” the matchmaker says, rolling his hips as far back as they’ll go so he can lean forward and kiss Hannibal again. Kiss him like he thinks he always wants to kiss the older man, hard and drawn out, and gasps as both hands settle on his waist, pulling Hannibal up to sitting, pulling Templeton fully into a wide lap. Christ, the strength in this man... “John...”

“Let me, baby.”

Those hands are moving with him now, that pelvis beneath him, learning the rhythm, and then guiding it, guiding, not dominating, and in the part of Templeton’s brain that’s still working thinks that this might be some kind of personal first for the man...

But then John thrusts up, and sparks fly out into Templeton’s vision.

“Like that?”

“Fuck...”

Hannibal chuckles. And does it again.

Whatever self-control was on display when they started this thing is fading, and fading fast, because the thrusts are getting harder and faster and more, more everything, an iron grip on his waist, keeping him from falling while the world tumbles apart around them, keeping him upright, even as he pushes back as hard as he can, begging for it with his body, ripping growls from the older man.

And then the world tilts again as his hands are smashed into the bed, his leaking cock ground into John’s stomach, one leg falling open and the other fighting up heaving ribs as all that intensity gets turned on him. As they lose all pretense of pattern or concern or what should and shouldn’t be, as raw aggression’s unleashed. As his lover fucks him. Harder than anyone's ever fucked him before.

Templeton can almost hear himself screaming out with the joy of it all.

He’s losing his grip on everything now, all of it, the whole fucking universe falling to pieces, vision whiting with every thrust of that gigantic cock, rutting, impaling him again and again and again and again until the sense of everything else vanishes, and the world’s narrowed to this, only this, only this man, only that pole driving up into his body, hitting his very heart, and he hears his name groaned aloud. His name, his, framed in that impossibly sexy voice, and everything goes supernova in his head, spreading to every cell, exploding outward and inward both in pulse after pulse after pulse, and then he’s falling into blackness.

Going.

Going.

Gone...