![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kathierif_ficTitle: A Man in Uniform
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kathierif_fic
Fandom: The A-Team (series)
Pairing: none; Face-centric
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
Warnings: none, surprise crossover if you squint really hard
Word Count: 721
Summary: In his line of work, he had seen more than his share of men in uniform, but none had ever done this to him.
Author’s Notes: Written for![[community profile]](https://s.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo, prompt: uniforms/military fetish. (The surprise crossover if you really squint hard is with Leverage, but really, it’s just a throw-away line :D)
It was going to be a horrible movie, Face just knew it. He had spent enough time on set to read the script, and he had had enough time watching the actors, and they all were horrible and completely untalented.
And unfortunately, Hannibal was no exception.
He was as untalented as all the other actors on set.
And yet, Face showed up again and again, casually leaning against a wall behind the director and staying out of the way, or lounging in Hannibal’s chair, giving unhelpful advice and flirting unashamedly with the female actors and the director’s assistant, a pretty blonde.
He had told Hannibal he had nothing else to do, and that both BA and Murdock were busy, with therapy and with some shelter work thing he hadn’t asked about too closely, and Hannibal had let him stay and hang out at the set without sending him out and running errands.
Face didn’t know why, and he didn’t care – figuring out why Hannibal was doing anything was like playing chess against three different people while juggling chainsaws. If Hannibal wanted Face to know why he did what he did, he would let him know.
On the other hand, Face knew perfectly well why exactly he was here, watching the cringe-worthy performance of the actors and the bad decisions of the director.
He just wouldn’t tell anyone why. This was his secret.
If Hannibal ever found out that Face only came to the set to watch him – Colonel John Smith, his commanding officer – in his costume…well, Face would never live it down.
But there was something about the way those knee-high boots, black and polished until they shone, were wrapped around Hannibal’s calves, drawing his attention to Hannibal’s strong legs, and it made Face weak in the knees. In addition to those boots, Hannibal wore a uniform that, under normal circumstances, would make Face in turn weep and roll on the floor laughing. He had no idea what those fake insignia were supposed to stand for, or what country or organization it was meant to represent, but the thing was, Hannibal was somehow able to pull it off and make it mean something.
He simply made this ridiculous fake uniform mean something more, and it also pulled the viewer’s attention to certain favorable parts of his anatomy, for example his ass.
And while Face pretended to ogle the female lead, a beautiful woman named Sophie who sadly had no talent for acting at all, he kept his attention on Hannibal – the way he moved, the way his broad, muscular shoulders stretched the cheap fabric of the fake uniform shirt, the way those boots hugged Hannibal’s calves.
It had come as a shock, to put it mildly, that seeing Hannibal like that - in uniform - had such an effect on him and could him turn on enough that he spent his time on set half hard, the low thrum of arousal running through his blood and making him shiver in anticipation of the evening, when he would finally go home and wrap his hand around his dick, sensitive and eager from a day of watching Hannibal.
He’d never before felt like this, and in his line of work, he had seen more than his share of men in uniform to be relatively certain that he’d never before been affected like this – that he’d never gotten hard or come so quickly as he did when he painted the picture of Hannibal in uniform in his mind.
And so he came to the set every day, flirting with Sophie and the other women and messing with the director, always keeping a cigar stashed in one of his pockets and always keeping an eye on the coming and going of people, to make sure they were still safe, while watching Hannibal subtly from the corner of his eye, collecting images that he would pull up later, when he was alone at home.
If Hannibal knew what he was doing, he never mentioned it, and Face just hoped that he hadn’t noticed it in the first place. Either way, he was thankful Hannibal didn’t try to expose his weird new fetish to the world.
All men had a secret weakness.
And his was, apparently, men in uniform, as clichéd as it sounded.
He didn’t care.
~end.
Author:
kathierif_ficFandom: The A-Team (series)
Pairing: none; Face-centric
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
Warnings: none, surprise crossover if you squint really hard
Word Count: 721
Summary: In his line of work, he had seen more than his share of men in uniform, but none had ever done this to him.
Author’s Notes: Written for
kink_bingo, prompt: uniforms/military fetish. (The surprise crossover if you really squint hard is with Leverage, but really, it’s just a throw-away line :D)It was going to be a horrible movie, Face just knew it. He had spent enough time on set to read the script, and he had had enough time watching the actors, and they all were horrible and completely untalented.
And unfortunately, Hannibal was no exception.
He was as untalented as all the other actors on set.
And yet, Face showed up again and again, casually leaning against a wall behind the director and staying out of the way, or lounging in Hannibal’s chair, giving unhelpful advice and flirting unashamedly with the female actors and the director’s assistant, a pretty blonde.
He had told Hannibal he had nothing else to do, and that both BA and Murdock were busy, with therapy and with some shelter work thing he hadn’t asked about too closely, and Hannibal had let him stay and hang out at the set without sending him out and running errands.
Face didn’t know why, and he didn’t care – figuring out why Hannibal was doing anything was like playing chess against three different people while juggling chainsaws. If Hannibal wanted Face to know why he did what he did, he would let him know.
On the other hand, Face knew perfectly well why exactly he was here, watching the cringe-worthy performance of the actors and the bad decisions of the director.
He just wouldn’t tell anyone why. This was his secret.
If Hannibal ever found out that Face only came to the set to watch him – Colonel John Smith, his commanding officer – in his costume…well, Face would never live it down.
But there was something about the way those knee-high boots, black and polished until they shone, were wrapped around Hannibal’s calves, drawing his attention to Hannibal’s strong legs, and it made Face weak in the knees. In addition to those boots, Hannibal wore a uniform that, under normal circumstances, would make Face in turn weep and roll on the floor laughing. He had no idea what those fake insignia were supposed to stand for, or what country or organization it was meant to represent, but the thing was, Hannibal was somehow able to pull it off and make it mean something.
He simply made this ridiculous fake uniform mean something more, and it also pulled the viewer’s attention to certain favorable parts of his anatomy, for example his ass.
And while Face pretended to ogle the female lead, a beautiful woman named Sophie who sadly had no talent for acting at all, he kept his attention on Hannibal – the way he moved, the way his broad, muscular shoulders stretched the cheap fabric of the fake uniform shirt, the way those boots hugged Hannibal’s calves.
It had come as a shock, to put it mildly, that seeing Hannibal like that - in uniform - had such an effect on him and could him turn on enough that he spent his time on set half hard, the low thrum of arousal running through his blood and making him shiver in anticipation of the evening, when he would finally go home and wrap his hand around his dick, sensitive and eager from a day of watching Hannibal.
He’d never before felt like this, and in his line of work, he had seen more than his share of men in uniform to be relatively certain that he’d never before been affected like this – that he’d never gotten hard or come so quickly as he did when he painted the picture of Hannibal in uniform in his mind.
And so he came to the set every day, flirting with Sophie and the other women and messing with the director, always keeping a cigar stashed in one of his pockets and always keeping an eye on the coming and going of people, to make sure they were still safe, while watching Hannibal subtly from the corner of his eye, collecting images that he would pull up later, when he was alone at home.
If Hannibal knew what he was doing, he never mentioned it, and Face just hoped that he hadn’t noticed it in the first place. Either way, he was thankful Hannibal didn’t try to expose his weird new fetish to the world.
All men had a secret weakness.
And his was, apparently, men in uniform, as clichéd as it sounded.
He didn’t care.
~end.