The Proverbial Quiet One (stackcats) wrote in thewordsmithery,
The Proverbial Quiet One
stackcats
thewordsmithery

A Team Fic: Gloves

Title: Gloves
Fandom: A-Team (movie!verse)
Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Summary: Written for a prompt on the kink meme, which went along the lines of Face having a fetish for Hannibal's leather gloves. A stunning prompt if I may say so!
Rating: Complete porn
Word-count: 3023
Warning: Face has a rape-kink, but there's no actual non-con.



It’s his and Hannibal’s first sexual encounter that gives Face a clue he might have a thing for leather, but really, at the time, there are other things on his mind. Such as the hole in the roof of their shelter, and the snow drifting down through it, creating a damp heap in the middle of the floor, which is slowly melting, the puddle oozing across the rotted floorboards towards the make-shift bed. On which he, Face, is lying with Hannibal, their blankets wrapped around both of them, Hannibal’s arms around his shoulder, his own around his commander’s waist. Body heat, he’d said. Very important, Hannibal agreed, to preserve it. And it is very, very cold, but that isn’t doing anything to prevent the slowly increasing pressure against Face’s hip. Or the tightness in his own thermal underwear.

Too many years spent ignoring this. That’s got to be the fuel for the fire in his gut right now. And have they really never had an excuse like this before?

Hannibal’s hands are moving. Rubbing his back, one sliding down around his belly. Rubbing through the fabric of his jacket, his sweater, his shirt and undershirt, and Face feels for all the world like he is completely naked.

“Friction,” Hannibal murmurs in his ear, “creates heat...”

There are still snowflakes in the man’s hair, testament to how cold it is in here. Face reaches up a gloved hand and brushes them away, leans in to kiss Hannibal, just once, before he finds himself pulled back-to-chest with the older man. And Hannibal’s hand is sliding lower, his arm pushing the blankets aside just enough that Face can see his fingers, encased in those familiar, old leather gloves that have been with Hannibal longer than Face has himself, curling around the straining fabric of Face’s pants. And then he’s rubbing again, fast and hard.

“Yeah,” says Face, a creak in his voice. “Friction is good. But if you keep that up, you’re gonna make a wet patch...”

“I’ll stop then,” says Hannibal. His lips are right beside Face’s ear, his voice nothing more than a low, rough breath in the icy air.

“Ergk!” says Face, his head falling back against his commander’s shoulder, legs splaying out in front of him, hips jerking up against that solid touch.

“Or I can take you right to the edge, warm you up, kid, make you hot, and leave you there. Nice and warm and desperate, how’s that sound?”

“Sounds like a bastard,” Face whimpers.

He does end up with that wet patch in his shorts, but he insists on getting his own back. And the dampness doesn’t bother either of them, not when they can fall asleep like this, Face draped across Hannibal’s chest, hips pressed together, arms and legs wrapped around each other, kissing lazily.

He doesn’t really think of it much after that, but it’s always in the back of his mind, waiting for a chance to surface. For a time when skin-on-skin contact isn’t the immediate concern, when they can have some decent privacy whenever they want it. He’s got other, pre-established kinks to indulge anyway. He’s far more concerned about Hannibal’s reaction when he reveals he occasionally likes to be fucked while wearing lingerie, or whether his lover will be able to talk dirty in the ways he loves. Neither turns out to be a problem in the long run, but still, the matter of leather never quite comes up. Hannibal carries the scent of it with him anyway. Cigars and scotch and leather. So masculine, so powerful, so paternal - and Face wonders vaguely if there might be another kink right there.

And that’s it. Right up until it isn’t. Until the night Hannibal finally gets what Face means when he says he wants it rough, and catches him by surprise in an office. Face is filing away a couple of requisition forms, because people tend to come asking him questions when he doesn’t do so for a while and the team still miraculously has nice things, and Hannibal, who is, he swears, a fucking ninja, sneaks in without Face hearing a sound, grabs him by the back of the neck and shoves him face-first over the desk.

At first, he can’t be sure it’s Hannibal and his retaliation is entirely genuine. He shoves an elbow into the other man’s ribs, but Hannibal seems to get it now, and kicks the back of Face’s knee. Even though he can’t see his assailant, the tiny grunts, the familiar touches, and that warm cocktail of scents reassure Face on some subconscious level and his body responds, his cock twitching, his lips forming an anticipatory smirk even as he fights against Hannibal’s efforts to hold him down. They both know, instinctively, how this goes. Face is outmatched in size, strength, and guile. That’s pre-established. If Hannibal grants him any leeway, it’ll ruin the game. The only safety net here is that he knows this man completely.

Clothing stays on. Hannibal shoves Face’s pants down only enough to expose his ass, leaving his cock trapped in his underwear, unzips himself, and then he’s pushing in. They both groan in unison. There’s a hot flare of pain, but it’s exactly what Face needs, and Hannibal manages to push a predatory edge into his voice, his hands trapping Face’s arms, his body weight keeping Face down on the desk. He thrusts hard and deep, ripping little desperate whines from Face’s throat.

“Shut up, kid. Don’t want to get me in trouble, do you? Just think how lucky you are you’re in my unit. Other commanders wouldn’t be so good to you, wouldn’t give you the pounding you deserve, so shut your mouth before you bring the whole base running and they take you away.”

“Fucker,” Face hisses, with a little flare of admiration for Hannibal’s creativity. “You dirty old-mmph!”

Hannibal’s hand grips Face’s jaw, two fingers press against his teeth, prying open his mouth. Face is in the middle of wishing he could be allowed to talk when he realises that Hannibal is still wearing his gloves. The old leather ones. The ones that smell more like Hannibal than anything else he owns, that are a second skin to him. Those two fingers force their way into Face’s mouth and effectively gag him. He bites down, hard, on soft-tough leather, wandering if he’s going to get in trouble later for leaving tooth-marks in the material, but it seems to work for Hannibal, who growls against Face’s ear and picks up the pace as Face becomes acutely aware of the other hand gripping his hip, the glove cool against his skin. Suddenly, the game isn’t important. Hannibal could sit by his bedside and tell him a story just so long as he’s touching Face with those strong hands in their leather sheathes. How hard and how rough and how dangerous don’t really matter any more, he’s going to come just from the feel of that material against his lips, pressing hard into his hip. He’s never lost control so quickly before, never been driven so frantic by something external, something that isn’t part of Hannibal himself.

Well, fuck. He already had a fixation for the Colonel’s hands. Now it simply goes double.

He’s coming hard, soaking his underwear, before Hannibal has even found his stride, and that’s just fucking embarrassing. Hannibal falters slightly, but he’s too far gone to stop, and Face doesn’t want him to. His cock is already twitching again, his tongue flickering against the pressure in his mouth, his body a quivering mass of nerves. Hannibal laughs darkly against his ear.

“Told you, didn’t I, kid? Told you how much you need this.”

You have no idea, thinks Face. This time, he manages to hold on for Hannibal, and they come more or less together. Far more in sync than they’ve managed before, in fact, but as soon as Hannibal has finished shuddering against him, the game is over and the hand is gone from Face’s mouth. It’s gone because now he has to reassure Hannibal, tell him it was what he needed. For fuck’s sake. Why is he doing this in the wrong order? Millions of people have fetishes for leather or latex or fur, that’s practically vanilla compared to Face’s tastes. He’s spent the last month trying to convince his commander to engage in this role play, and now that particular kink is a real part of their sex life, all he can focus on is those god-damned gloves.

Oh well. Only one thing for it. He’s going to have fun with this one.

Missions get in the way for a while after that. It’s an occupational hazard that Face had hoped would fade out a little now he’s sleeping with his CO, i.e. the person he already spends the most time with, but Hannibal’s a mercurial man, and Face can’t always tell whether his playful, screw-the-rules side is going to win out over the solid core of Colonel that’s probably been there since basic. Face can’t tell, and no one else can either, which is why Hannibal will never make it to General. He isn’t even that handy, predictable kind of unpredictable that’s so common in senior officers - it is genuinely impossible to tell whether the spanking Face will get for winding Hannibal up all week is going to be the good kind or not. Even taking into account Hannibal’s stoic resistance all throughout the mission, the way he sent Face off with Murdock for three whole days without so much as a wistful glance, his apparent complete lack of a sensual side while there are still things in the world he is authorised to blow up.

It’s especially frustrating since there are missions where Hannibal is happy to let fate take its course and spends every moment they’re not actually working screwing Face against every flat surface they can find. Face supposes it isn’t true whim, it all depends on how confident Hannibal feels about his plan. Doesn’t make it any less frustrating during those long weeks he has to sit and watch and wait.

But the instant they’re back on base, and Hannibal has returned from his debriefing with the General, Face is on him. He hounds Hannibal all the way back to the Colonel’s quarters, which are luxurious compared to his own, the tiny grin on Hannibal’s lips betraying his own anticipation. It’s too much. Before the door has closed properly behind them, Face has Hannibal up against the wall, kissing him, hands tugging at clothes. Hannibal slides a hand behind one of Face’s thighs, pulling his foot up flat against the wall beside him so he can undo Face’s boot without breaking the kiss, and Face takes the opportunity to grind his hips against Hannibal, erection against erection, desperate moans from both of them. Hannibal flings the boot away into a corner, but before he goes to work on the other one he starts tugging off his own gloves. Face stops him, taking one of Hannibal’s hands in each of his.

“Leave ‘em on, boss.”

Hannibal snorts. “Why? Don’t want me to leave fingerprints, Face?”

“I like the feel,” Face purrs, kissing and then releasing Hannibal’s hands.

Hannibal chuckles, slides one hand beneath Face’s t-shirt as the other hand works on Face’s second boot. The feel of those strong, steady hands on him always makes Face go weak at the core, but the leather adds a new spark of something to it. He’s already achingly hard, needs his clothes off now, and ohthankgod Hannibal has finished with his boots. He tugs Face’s shirt off over his head with a tearing sound, and advances on the Lieutenant, herding him back towards the bed while at the same time tugging open his belt, unzipping his pants, and finally shoving them down and pulling them off in one beautifully orchestrated movement as he pushes Face backwards onto the bed.

Hannibal keeps his clothes on. All his clothes, and Face didn’t even know he wanted that. Hannibal pulls Face’s hips up against him and grinds down, hard, bare flesh rubbing against coarse fabric, Hannibal giving in completely to the last couple of weeks of chastity and rutting hard and fast against his younger lover. Face lets his head fall back and chokes down his moans, his hands fisting in Hannibal’s t-shirt and giving himself over to the mixed sensations of skin and cotton and, and oh god, that wonderful combination of soft and firm that can only be leather as Hannibal’s gloved hand slides between them and he sets a brutal pace, pumping at Face’s cock. Face just has the faculties to realise that Hannibal is unzipping himself with the other hand, wrapping black-clad fingers around his own heavy erection, and that’s it, Face is gone.

Or would be, if Hannibal hadn’t just stilled his hand and instead gripped Face’s balls and tugged. Face wails in frustration, and Hannibal bites down on his lip to silence him.

“You come when I do, kiddo. Y’hear me?”

Face whimpers his agreement, bucks his hips ineffectually. This is normally where Hannibal would tease him, draw it out as long as physically possible for either of them, but not now. Not today. Not with Face writing beneath him, making all those hot and needy little sounds, his legs coming up to hook round Hannibal’s waist. Today is really, really not the day for teasing.

Hannibal does not keep lube in his quarters. Face has some, but who would bat an eyelid at Templeton Peck keeping sex aids on hand? Hannibal’s quarters are pretty much standard regulation, no photos, no personal items beyond his clothing and toiletries, and certainly no personal lubricants or condoms. And Face knows what he’s in for when they end up back there for the night.

Hannibal knows what they’re in for too. He takes off one of his gloves and pushes it sideways into Face’s mouth, gagging him.

“You tear that, I’ll kill you,” he promises. Face nods frantically. Satisfied, Hannibal kisses him on the nose. Then he hitches one of Face’s legs up onto his shoulders, pulls the Lieutenant into his lap, and lines himself up with Face’s entrance.

He can’t go slow. Face can see it in his eyes, and laughs around the glove, bucking his hips again to tell Hannibal to give it everything, and the Colonel, already panting, follows orders. Face’s strangled cries begin the moment the head of Hannibal’s cock pushes through that tight muscle, and they extinguish themselves rather well, muffled by the leather. He knows that Hannibal wants nothing more than to hear him shout and scream, and one day, Face promises himself, he’ll take his lover somewhere private, some isolated beach or hotel and scream himself hoarse while Hannibal fucks him dry. One day. But certainly not now, and right now the best he can do is moan and whimper and choke out damped sobs, his tongue pushing against soft hide as his teeth clamp down on it. His hands grip Hannibal’s t-shirt, pulling and twisting, and he reckons it’s okay to rip that. There are a million olive drab t-shirts in the world, and he’s going to fucking destroy this one.

Hannibal finds his pace from earlier as quickly as he can, driven to distraction by Face’s moans, his grip, his jerking hips. His thrusts are shallow but fast at first, his cock rubbing against Face’s prostate almost constantly, until he’s driven Face into a quivering, panting, whimpering wreck, and he knows his boy is moments from coming. Too soon, though. He clamps his gloved hand around Face’s cock and squeezes, his other hand lifting Face’s hips.

“With me, I said.”

Face nods again. He shuts his eyes against the cries that struggle to break free from him as Hannibal pulls out almost all the way, then slams back into him again, and again and again, over and over, that vice-like grip never faltering. He pulls at Hannibal’s shirt, only opens his eyes again when he hears the tear of fabric, and that’s exactly what he needed to see - Hannibal’s bare chest showing beneath tattered clothes. And thank god, because right there is something else he needed to see - the glassed-over look in Hannibal’s eyes that signals how very close he is to the edge. Face bucks against the hand that’s gripping him, manages to get a little friction against the leather, and at the same moment clenches his inner muscles around Hannibal. The Colonel’s head falls to Face’s chest and he clamps his teeth down on hard muscle to muffle his own shout of pleasure. Face clenches again and again, and finally Hannibal’s hand moves, stroking him, tugging his cock hard and fast, strong clever fingers and smooth leather combining to drive Face to his climax.

And Hannibal is right there with him, hips jerking frantically, gasping and groaning against Face’s skin. Face spits out the glove and tries to catch his breath, but Hannibal steals it from him with a bruising kiss.

“You,” he pants, “are a kinky little bastard, Templeton. The things you make me do...”

Face grins and readies a retort, but he doesn’t get a chance to fire it because Hannibal isn’t finished, he’s only pausing for breath.

“...They’re nothing compared to the things I’m going to make you do. ‘Cause I think it’s my turn now, huh kid?”

Face laughs in happy disbelief. “Really, boss? Thought you were a pretty vanilla kinda guy.”

The smirk on Hannibal’s face worries him slightly, but the conversation seems to be over for now. Hannibal pulls off his ripped shirt and kicks off his pants, then settles onto the bed beside Face. Face curls into his embrace, murmuring contentedly as Hannibal, still wearing that one leather glove, strokes his hand along Face’s spine, over his ass, and back up again. A gentle, soothing rhythm to lull them both to sleep.
Tags: hannibal/face, the a-team
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