Fandom: The A-Team
Summary: Written for a_team_kink prompt: "I have a total kink for someone being fucked hard - seriously hard - where they're whining and gasping for breath, but their lover won't let up and tells them to just take it. Not non-con, just hard sex."
Face has been provoking Hannibal, knowing they won't have any time alone for a week, and also knowing full well how Hannibal will react when they finally do.
Word count: 1517
Face’s back hits the wall with an audible thump, and Hannibal is on him before he can recover, hands all over him, pulling up Face’s shirt, pressing him against the wall with his whole body and - Face groans, it’s been far too long since they had time for this - finally kissing him. It’s all teeth and heat and pressure, Hannibal nipping at Face’s lips and pushing into his mouth, claiming him, while his hands roam over Face’s chest, a thumb brushing his nipple, the other hand moving down and round to grip Face’s ass. Face can do little more than hold on, fists clenched tight in Hannibal’s shirt and hair, and push back into the onslaught, seeking as much contact between them as possible. Face comes up for air when Hannibal turns his attention to Face’s throat, biting and sucking, leaving a red trail in his wake.
“Shit, boss,” Face moans. His voice is hoarse and he can’t stop the needy little whine as Hannibal’s hand slips to the back of his thigh, hitching Face’s leg up to hook on Hannibal’s hip. They’re both hard, their erections pressed together through jeans and shorts, and suddenly this isn’t enough, not even close. “Too many clothes,” Face insists, and Hannibal agrees, pulling back for long enough to strip off Face’s shirt, then his own, before pulling Face towards him by his belt loops, hands working desperately on the button of his pants. Face leans into him, pressing hungry kisses against Hannibal’s throat, knowing he’s only making it more difficult for Hannibal to get into his pants but hating the space between them even more than he needs the contact of hand on cock - which, Hannibal being perhaps the most bloody-minded man in the world, comes soon enough. Face groans wildly as Hannibal strokes him, backing him towards the bed until the backs of his knees hit and Face is dumped on the sheets, bereft of contact. He knows better than to move, knows what Hannibal is doing, but the seconds feel like hours as Hannibal pulls the drawer clean out of the dresser, dumps its jumbled contents on the floor, and plucks out what he needs.
The look he gives Face as he returns is that of a wolf advancing on a trapped hare. Face kicks his pants off, wriggles out of his shorts, and leans up as Hannibal straddles him. As Hannibal kisses him again, Face works on the older man’s pants, manages to pull them down over Hannibal’s hips, freeing his cock, before there’s a low growl in his ear.
“No time. Ready, sweetheart?”
Face was ready for this the first day he laid eyes on the Colonel. He’s permanently ready. He fucking lives for this.
Hannibal moves between Face’s legs, finds himself unable to resist another bruising kiss as Face hitches his legs around Hannibal’s waist, and Face barely even registers the action as Hannibal slicks his fingers before pushing two at once against Face’s entrance. Face cries out - he can’t help himself, doesn’t give a damn if the neighbours hear, if BA and Murdock have to listen from down the hall, because he knows fine well what his cries and moans do to Hannibal. The older man’s eyes glimmer dangerously, and he pushes his fingers in without hesitation. Face bucks his hips, his leaking cock brushing tortuously against Hannibal’s thigh, and Hannibal withdraws, adds a third finger, pushes in up to the knuckles and hooks his fingers just right. Face bucks and moans as those talented fingers find his prostate again and again, the pleasure off-set by the enthralling pain of Hannibal’s teeth on his shoulder, biting hard enough that Face isn’t certain there won’t be blood. Not that he cares - Hannibal’s fingers are inside him, he can do whatever he wants to the rest of his body.
But then, suddenly, the fingers are gone, and there’s only the pain. Face yelps, and Hannibal releases him, moving back a bit, and for a moment they aren’t touching at all.
“Please,” Face gasps. “Please, Hannibal - fuck me.”
He doesn’t need to say it, there’s no need to beg tonight - he does it purely to see that feral look cross Hannibal’s face, the possessiveness, the lust, the love. Hannibal actually pounces him, gripping Face’s hips as he positions his own erection against Face’s hole. He doesn’t add any more lube, and Face thinks the sight of his commander leaning over him, still half-dressed, and the burn of entry might just be enough to make him come right now. Hannibal appears to read his thoughts, and grabs Face by the balls, making him squirm and whimper as he pushes in to the hilt. He takes a moment to enjoy Face’s expression of desperation and want - you old bastard, Face thinks - before the hand clenching his balls moves to his cock and - ohthankgod begins to stroke.
Hannibal is a man of calculated patience, but Face is able to completely undo him, make him growl and curse and lose himself. It’s the fleeting touches of Face’s fingers along his spine, the whine in Face’s throat, his grip on Hannibal’s ass, and a thousand other little details and nuances that are pure Face. He’s seen Hannibal fuck others, whether as part of a three-way or a con or simple pre-approved spying, and to his smug delight, Face has never seen anyone take Hannibal apart like he can. He has, in fact, been working on this all week, winding Hannibal up with desire, knowing exactly what was in store for him when they finally had time alone.
It still takes his breath away when Hannibal slams into him, no slow introduction, no build-up of speed, simply pulls Face against him and starts to fuck him hard and fast. Face can only grip Hannibal’s shoulders, buck his hips in answer to the desperate rhythm, and let himself go, panting and moaning and arching his spine. Hannibal bows his head, worrying the red mark on Face’s shoulder with his lips as he drives into the younger man again and again. Face can hear the thudthudthud of the bed’s headboard slamming into the wall, knows the rest of their team and probably the neighbours on either side can hear it to, and laughs in delight. There’s no better accompaniment to breakfast than BA’s knowing look as Face eases himself gingerly onto his stool, and Murdock’s faux-innocent teasing that won’t end until Hannibal gives him ‘the’ look.
But that’s later. Right now there’s nothing but the thick heat of Hannibal inside him, the gorgeous friction of a big, calloused hand on Face’s cock, and the mounting pressure, the growing pleasure, the thin but deliciously sharp edge of pain beneath it all from his shoulder, the hammering his hole is taking, the scrape of Hannibal’s nails down his chest. It’s almost too much, and Face whines, high and keening.
Hannibal chuckles against his chest. “Take it like a man, Templeton.”
His real name in Hannibal’s rough brogue sends a shudder through Face, and he responds in kind. “Please, John,” he pants. “I need-”
“I know what you need.”
The hand on Face’s cock moves from simple stroking to a twisting-pulling motion, and Face throws his head back against the pillow, his hips stuttering and a final moan rising in his throat as he comes in hard spurts over Hannibal’s hand. Three more bed-shaking thrusts and Hannibal is there with him, growling something like ’JesusfuckingchristTempleton’ as Face clenches himself around the Colonel, bringing him over the edge, the heat of Hannibal coming inside him enough to make Face shudder with faintly revived lust.
The aftershocks seem to last forever, and Face finds he can’t bring himself to move even to clean himself up. Hannibal slumps onto his side, still half on top of Face as he finally shucks off his jeans. He doesn’t share Face’s enjoyment of being naked, but it’s something Face likes to see, and he takes the opportunity to pass an appreciative eye over the Colonel’s lithe, hard body. He’s built for endurance rather than power, but if Face ever needed proof he possesses both, well, he’s just experienced it.
Hannibal takes a few moments to catch his breath. Then he says “You’re a little bastard, Templeton Peck,” with a fond smile on his features. “For a moment I didn’t know if I was going to fuck you or murder you.”
Face laughs, thinking back over the last week of flirting, teasing and inappropriate touching without any hope of immediate privacy, and the Colonel becoming more and more antsy every day. It’s Face’s favourite game, and Hannibal says the same thing every time. He stretches out, popping his stiff joints and then snuggling into Hannibal’s embrace. They’re still sweaty and sticky, but it doesn’t really matter. There are too few moments like this in their lives; washing off the evidence too quickly feels like sacrilege.
“Love you too, boss,” Face smirks.