What Happens in Vegas
Oct. 29th, 2010 09:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Hannibal/Face
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: buttplug, possible D/s issues
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
I can't believe this meme has been going on for so long, and nobody has suggested this yet. Could I really be the only one with this kink?
Even then, please please dear brilliant writers: give me Face wearing a buttplug. Bonus points if it's Hannibal/Face and if Face is made to wear the plug under his clothes - maybe while he's running a con, Hannibal makes him wear the plug to remind him the whole time who his ass really belongs to!
Shameless, shameless, shameless smut. Prompt is the summary. I actually can’t believe I wrote this...
“For the hundredth time, Face, stop squirming!”
The conman bites his lip and nods just a little bit. It’s actually only the fifth time he’s complained, moved or whimpered during this process, but he’s not about to talk back to Hannibal. Not right now. Not while Hannibal’s coaxing that, that thing into his ass.
It brushes his prostate again, and this time the whimper’s more of a pained, pleading gasp. Face is rubbing the underneath of his chin and neck into the blankets so hard he’s convinced he’s going to have rugburn when this is over.
“You are such a baby,” Hannibal grumbles and hits him lightly on one cheek with an open palm. Face feels a snap of a small nylon harness against his pelvis, and wants to die of embarrassment. Not that he’s going to tell Hannibal that. “There, see, it’s done. Get dressed.”
Face rolls over and pulls his pants back on, not sure if he’s okay to stand up yet or not. It’s a weird feeling, the little silicone plug an unfamiliar intrusion held snugly in place. He’s not sure he’s going to be able to walk right with this thing in.
“Is this really necessary?” he whines, and Hannibal gets that all-too-pissed expression that used to be so good for using on privates who forgot to salute. But that had always been kind of funny. This really, really isn’t. “We got out of there alive, didn’t we?”
“I don’t think I should have to remind you that we never would have gotten stuck in that basement, with the house on fire above us, had you not decided to think with your dick and go gallavanting off...”
“Hey, that girl was in trouble!”
“Of drowning in the hotel pool, right,” Hannibal says sarcastically, and wipes the remaining lube off his hands in the sheets. His fingers play with something in his pocket. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. For once, I want you focused on the job at hand.”
A soft vibration runs through Face, rippling upward from his bowels, and he had no idea the old man could be this fucking mean. “Hannibal!” he moans. “How the fuck am I supposed to focus like this?”
"Figure it out."
"This is absolutely unfair," Face protests, knowing he's not going to win.
“Your ass belongs to me, kid,” Hannibal tells him, absolutely serious. "You are going to keep your head in the game this time. That's an order."
"Isn't this a little overkill?"
And Hannibal smirks at that. "You let me put it in there, kid."
"You suck, boss."
"Lobby, fifteen minutes."
Face pulls himself up into an unhappy pile at the foot of the hotel bed. Another of those little tremors run through him as Hannibal leaves the room.
It’s going to be a long day.
+++++
The con they’re pulling this week is fairly straight-forward. Crooked real-estate developer, trying to move in on a family’s ranch. Face wasn’t exactly convinced that this was going to work, since the bastards had pulled the imminent domain card before with the help of the Nevada state government, but that was probably why Hannibal was extra-worried.
That, or the fact that the family happened to have a drop-dead gorgeous twenty-three year old daughter who’d taken the semester off college to stay at home with her mom while all this was going on. She’s beautiful, really, and she was spending this entire meeting watching Face over her lemonade with those huge, luscious, cock-sucking lips. She's a sorority girl, isn't she? She has to be.
She catches him looking at her now, and smiles coyly. Hannibal makes no indication of noticing, caught up in her conversation with the father about the particulars of a group of thugs that had been bashing holes in his buildings, but Face feels a sharp rumble go through him, and he almost jumps out of his chair.
“Did you have something to say, Face?” Hannibal asks him mildly, and Face knows he sure as shit better say something. What was going on?
“About your legal options, have you run all those to the ground?” Face asks, grasping for usable words. The father nods his head. Thank god. “Are you sure?”
“Mister Peck, if we could get these folks off our back legally, we’d do it.”
“What you’re saying is that we’re cheaper than lawyers,” Face states casually, as if he doesn’t even notice the next little vibration up his spine, “or you’re working against the local mafia contacts. Which is it?”
The father stares, and Hannibal makes a note on the little pad he brings along to make the customers feel better. “It’s serious business, Mr. Randall, going against the mob.”
“I understand if you don’t want the job...”
“No,” and Hannibal winks at Face and pushes the button again, “it just makes it more interesting, is all. We’re going to need names. And I’m going to have to borrow your daughter.”
Hannibal hated him, Face told himself as he dug his hands into the arms of the chair, clenching so tight he was sure he was ripping through the fabric. Hannibal had to hate him. That was the only explanation for why this was happening.
+++++
“So, what I am doing with you guys?” the daughter asks brightly. She’s got one of those sequined, barely-there tops on. Her boobs are practically hanging out of it, and her skirt is leaving nothing to the imagination.
Worse still is Hannibal. The colonel’s sitting beside her, a possessive hand on her knee, Italian silk perfectly tailored around his heavy wrist. The man’s done that thing where he darkened his hair again and combed it up. The heat’s pooling in his belly and there’s that fullness in his bowels that he can’t ignore, not even after this entire day, and Face can’t look either of them in the eyes as he hands over the glasses of champagne. He's not sure which one of them is causing that first feeling.
Purely physical. Purely physical. Purely physical. It's a mantra in his head.
BA rolls the privacy shield down in the limo. “Which hotel was it again, Hannibal?”
“MGM Grand,” the colonel replies, and whispers something in the girl’s ear. She giggles. Hannibal’s looking right at Face as he does it, too, all that intensity dangerously present. “Remember how we’re playing this, Face. We don’t have room for mistakes.”
Remember? He shifts a little on the leather seat. His tie is too tight. The air is too close. He’s had half a glass, and that’s way too much. Hannibal’s hand is in his pocket.
“Right, we’re catching their attention. You, uh, Liz, are playing Hannibal’s mistress, I make a move, we get grabby in the bathroom, big scene, arrested by security. Hannibal, aren’t we just going to get thrown out?”
There’s that damn button again, and this time, Face can’t stop himself.
Murdock, playing around with a radio set to the same frequency as hotel security, just grins. “You doing okay there, facey?”
“Yeah,” he coughs. The vibrations haven’t stopped yet, shuddering through him, sparking that place inside him never never knew about, never wanted to know about, before today. “You know how excited I get about missions.”
The plan goes pretty well. Face makes a scene with the girl, Hannibal acts like the arrogant ass he’s been behaving like all day, Murdock intercepts the call and gets them all hauled into the security offices instead of out into the alley. Hannbal gets his foot in with the owners, and all the necessary intel, in one smooth stroke.
Liz either doesn’t know she needs to turn it off, or doesn’t care, because she spends the entire time rubbing Face absently through the wonderfully smooth slacks he’s got on for this. What was he supposed to be, bodyguard to Hannibal’s rich asshole character? He can’t think, the stimulation too intense, with her hand in front and the slow, soft rumble from behind.
Watching Hannibal work the room, Face tries to stay focused, but all he can think about is what a shame it would be if he ruined a pair of $600 pants. He’d really like to be able to keep this one.
+++++
Hannibal does his thing, some stuff blows up, BA gets to use his cutting torch and Murdock even gets to steal a helicopter and fly it around the Strip. Everybody’s happy, except for Face, who’s caught upstairs at four AM, pinned against the wall by a very persistent blonde.
“Mmm,” she says, licking a line up his jaw, “Templeton, you saved my parents’ ranch. How can I ever thank you?”
It's such a line. “How about a nice fruit basket?” he jokes with a gasp. The friction between the wall and his ass and her persistent little pushes are translating straight into the harness, and into the plug. She doesn’t know it, but she’s almost fucking him with it. It’s obscene and delicious, and after the entire day of stimulation, his willpower has just about liquified.
She sinks to her knees, one hand trailing after her down his chest. She hasn’t bothered to try to undress him, and he hasn’t offered. It’s more than he’s capable of at the moment. He’s barely capable of forming words.
He hears her unbuckling his belt, and suddenly a cold rush goes through him as her hand stops cold.
It’s the harness.
He looks down, terrified. She’s poking at it, like you’d poke a dead jellyfish on the beach, like it might still be alive and somehow dangerous. “What is this, Templeton?” she asked sweetly, as if she doesn’t know.
He closes his eyes and rolls his head back in defeat. “Buttplug.”
Her hand doesn’t come off. “You’re a kinky bastard, aren’t you?” she murmurs, and her mouth does some little thing around the tip of his cock. She moans softly. “Must have been hard all day. Poor Templeton. Did you...”
“Yeah,” he agrees. Then his brain shifts out of neutral, and he swats her away. He can’t let her do this. Hannibal ordered him, Hannibal was going to kill him, Hannibal would never trust him again. “Hannibal put it there.”
She looks up at him. “Are you saying you’re bi or gay or something? I really don’t care...”
“Look, Liz, you’re a beautiful woman, and I think you really know what you’re doing, and I’d love to, but,” and he draws a shuddering breath, “Hannibal’s my commanding officer.”
She gets this look of comprehension on her face, and rises back up, readjusting her clothes. “You belong to him, huh?”
“That’s not what I said...”
Liz pats his chest, and plants one kiss on his cheek. “Too bad, flyboy,” she tells him, and her perfume fades as she leaves the room.
Face hears the door close, and collapses. It’s only when he hits the floor that he realizes the damn thing’s been vibrating all this time.
“How you doing, kid?”
Face looks up. His pants are still unzipped. He’s sure, absolutely sure, he’s never looked worse. He thinks Hannibal picks him up at some point, because he’s lying on the bed now, his cock painfully swollen.
“You suck, boss,” Face says. He’s tired. It’s late. He can’t deal with any more of this right now. “Oh, fuck, Hannibal, fuck...”
“Does it hurt, kid?”
“Why are you even asking me that?”
“Answer the question.”
Face screws up his eyes. It really doesn’t get any worse than this. “Yes, it feels kind of weird, sir.”
Hannibal hasn’t moved his hands away. “Are you going to keep yourself in line from now on? Keep your dick in your pants?”
“Didn’t I just?”
“Your dick is nowhere near your pants,” Hannibal observes, looking at him, and them rolls him over on his side, cutting off any protestation Face might have been able to make.
Hannibal's hands encircle Face’s waist, and then he feels the harness snap off, and there’s a curious emptiness. Something, a shirttail maybe, brushes against his cock and hips jerk, looking for pressure, looking for anything.
A hand closes down around it, blessed pressure engulfing his engorged member. He’s so worked up, it takes three or four pulls, and Face is coming all over Hannibal’s hand, and his own chest and the sheets and fucking everything. Aftershocks ripple out, and he notices with some embarrassment that he’s still hard.
Face moans, and a moment later, there’s a finger pushing in. The muscles haven’t constricted back yet, so there’s no burn, only the wonderful finger, filing him back up. Face hadn’t realized how empty he felt after the plug came out.
“It’s not enough,” he gasps, and there’s something better, something hard and hot and slick, drilling into that void. Hard hands hold his shoulders and throw him down into the bed. It’s fast and heavy and Face feels the sweat beading on his back and hears the cries coming from his throat as Hannibal fucks him, setting a brutal pace that has Face’s toes curling and fighting the carpet for purchase.
He comes again, Hannibal holding his head down into a pillow, stifling the scream. A second later, a few quick, uneven thrusts later, and Hannibal’s warm seed floods his bowels, the older man biting down hard on his shoulder as he comes.
Face literally can’t move. Hannibal pulls out and comes back with wet washcloth, cleaning them both off with an odd gentleness. When he’s finished, he throws it away behind him, and straddles Face’s chest, tracing circles around his nipples through the now-ruined dress shirt. Hannibal’s got his own shirt on still, too, although they’ve both lost everything below the waist. Face can feel Hannibal’s dick against his bellybutton, spent but somehow still insistent.
“Who owns your ass, kid?”
Face doesn’t hesitate. “You do, sir.”
“That’s right,” Hannibal says, and arranges them both so that they’re laying down, Face’s boneless body nestled against his. He turns off the light. “And don’t you fucking forget it.”
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: buttplug, possible D/s issues
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
I can't believe this meme has been going on for so long, and nobody has suggested this yet. Could I really be the only one with this kink?
Even then, please please dear brilliant writers: give me Face wearing a buttplug. Bonus points if it's Hannibal/Face and if Face is made to wear the plug under his clothes - maybe while he's running a con, Hannibal makes him wear the plug to remind him the whole time who his ass really belongs to!
Shameless, shameless, shameless smut. Prompt is the summary. I actually can’t believe I wrote this...
“For the hundredth time, Face, stop squirming!”
The conman bites his lip and nods just a little bit. It’s actually only the fifth time he’s complained, moved or whimpered during this process, but he’s not about to talk back to Hannibal. Not right now. Not while Hannibal’s coaxing that, that thing into his ass.
It brushes his prostate again, and this time the whimper’s more of a pained, pleading gasp. Face is rubbing the underneath of his chin and neck into the blankets so hard he’s convinced he’s going to have rugburn when this is over.
“You are such a baby,” Hannibal grumbles and hits him lightly on one cheek with an open palm. Face feels a snap of a small nylon harness against his pelvis, and wants to die of embarrassment. Not that he’s going to tell Hannibal that. “There, see, it’s done. Get dressed.”
Face rolls over and pulls his pants back on, not sure if he’s okay to stand up yet or not. It’s a weird feeling, the little silicone plug an unfamiliar intrusion held snugly in place. He’s not sure he’s going to be able to walk right with this thing in.
“Is this really necessary?” he whines, and Hannibal gets that all-too-pissed expression that used to be so good for using on privates who forgot to salute. But that had always been kind of funny. This really, really isn’t. “We got out of there alive, didn’t we?”
“I don’t think I should have to remind you that we never would have gotten stuck in that basement, with the house on fire above us, had you not decided to think with your dick and go gallavanting off...”
“Hey, that girl was in trouble!”
“Of drowning in the hotel pool, right,” Hannibal says sarcastically, and wipes the remaining lube off his hands in the sheets. His fingers play with something in his pocket. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. For once, I want you focused on the job at hand.”
A soft vibration runs through Face, rippling upward from his bowels, and he had no idea the old man could be this fucking mean. “Hannibal!” he moans. “How the fuck am I supposed to focus like this?”
"Figure it out."
"This is absolutely unfair," Face protests, knowing he's not going to win.
“Your ass belongs to me, kid,” Hannibal tells him, absolutely serious. "You are going to keep your head in the game this time. That's an order."
"Isn't this a little overkill?"
And Hannibal smirks at that. "You let me put it in there, kid."
"You suck, boss."
"Lobby, fifteen minutes."
Face pulls himself up into an unhappy pile at the foot of the hotel bed. Another of those little tremors run through him as Hannibal leaves the room.
It’s going to be a long day.
+++++
The con they’re pulling this week is fairly straight-forward. Crooked real-estate developer, trying to move in on a family’s ranch. Face wasn’t exactly convinced that this was going to work, since the bastards had pulled the imminent domain card before with the help of the Nevada state government, but that was probably why Hannibal was extra-worried.
That, or the fact that the family happened to have a drop-dead gorgeous twenty-three year old daughter who’d taken the semester off college to stay at home with her mom while all this was going on. She’s beautiful, really, and she was spending this entire meeting watching Face over her lemonade with those huge, luscious, cock-sucking lips. She's a sorority girl, isn't she? She has to be.
She catches him looking at her now, and smiles coyly. Hannibal makes no indication of noticing, caught up in her conversation with the father about the particulars of a group of thugs that had been bashing holes in his buildings, but Face feels a sharp rumble go through him, and he almost jumps out of his chair.
“Did you have something to say, Face?” Hannibal asks him mildly, and Face knows he sure as shit better say something. What was going on?
“About your legal options, have you run all those to the ground?” Face asks, grasping for usable words. The father nods his head. Thank god. “Are you sure?”
“Mister Peck, if we could get these folks off our back legally, we’d do it.”
“What you’re saying is that we’re cheaper than lawyers,” Face states casually, as if he doesn’t even notice the next little vibration up his spine, “or you’re working against the local mafia contacts. Which is it?”
The father stares, and Hannibal makes a note on the little pad he brings along to make the customers feel better. “It’s serious business, Mr. Randall, going against the mob.”
“I understand if you don’t want the job...”
“No,” and Hannibal winks at Face and pushes the button again, “it just makes it more interesting, is all. We’re going to need names. And I’m going to have to borrow your daughter.”
Hannibal hated him, Face told himself as he dug his hands into the arms of the chair, clenching so tight he was sure he was ripping through the fabric. Hannibal had to hate him. That was the only explanation for why this was happening.
+++++
“So, what I am doing with you guys?” the daughter asks brightly. She’s got one of those sequined, barely-there tops on. Her boobs are practically hanging out of it, and her skirt is leaving nothing to the imagination.
Worse still is Hannibal. The colonel’s sitting beside her, a possessive hand on her knee, Italian silk perfectly tailored around his heavy wrist. The man’s done that thing where he darkened his hair again and combed it up. The heat’s pooling in his belly and there’s that fullness in his bowels that he can’t ignore, not even after this entire day, and Face can’t look either of them in the eyes as he hands over the glasses of champagne. He's not sure which one of them is causing that first feeling.
Purely physical. Purely physical. Purely physical. It's a mantra in his head.
BA rolls the privacy shield down in the limo. “Which hotel was it again, Hannibal?”
“MGM Grand,” the colonel replies, and whispers something in the girl’s ear. She giggles. Hannibal’s looking right at Face as he does it, too, all that intensity dangerously present. “Remember how we’re playing this, Face. We don’t have room for mistakes.”
Remember? He shifts a little on the leather seat. His tie is too tight. The air is too close. He’s had half a glass, and that’s way too much. Hannibal’s hand is in his pocket.
“Right, we’re catching their attention. You, uh, Liz, are playing Hannibal’s mistress, I make a move, we get grabby in the bathroom, big scene, arrested by security. Hannibal, aren’t we just going to get thrown out?”
There’s that damn button again, and this time, Face can’t stop himself.
Murdock, playing around with a radio set to the same frequency as hotel security, just grins. “You doing okay there, facey?”
“Yeah,” he coughs. The vibrations haven’t stopped yet, shuddering through him, sparking that place inside him never never knew about, never wanted to know about, before today. “You know how excited I get about missions.”
The plan goes pretty well. Face makes a scene with the girl, Hannibal acts like the arrogant ass he’s been behaving like all day, Murdock intercepts the call and gets them all hauled into the security offices instead of out into the alley. Hannbal gets his foot in with the owners, and all the necessary intel, in one smooth stroke.
Liz either doesn’t know she needs to turn it off, or doesn’t care, because she spends the entire time rubbing Face absently through the wonderfully smooth slacks he’s got on for this. What was he supposed to be, bodyguard to Hannibal’s rich asshole character? He can’t think, the stimulation too intense, with her hand in front and the slow, soft rumble from behind.
Watching Hannibal work the room, Face tries to stay focused, but all he can think about is what a shame it would be if he ruined a pair of $600 pants. He’d really like to be able to keep this one.
+++++
Hannibal does his thing, some stuff blows up, BA gets to use his cutting torch and Murdock even gets to steal a helicopter and fly it around the Strip. Everybody’s happy, except for Face, who’s caught upstairs at four AM, pinned against the wall by a very persistent blonde.
“Mmm,” she says, licking a line up his jaw, “Templeton, you saved my parents’ ranch. How can I ever thank you?”
It's such a line. “How about a nice fruit basket?” he jokes with a gasp. The friction between the wall and his ass and her persistent little pushes are translating straight into the harness, and into the plug. She doesn’t know it, but she’s almost fucking him with it. It’s obscene and delicious, and after the entire day of stimulation, his willpower has just about liquified.
She sinks to her knees, one hand trailing after her down his chest. She hasn’t bothered to try to undress him, and he hasn’t offered. It’s more than he’s capable of at the moment. He’s barely capable of forming words.
He hears her unbuckling his belt, and suddenly a cold rush goes through him as her hand stops cold.
It’s the harness.
He looks down, terrified. She’s poking at it, like you’d poke a dead jellyfish on the beach, like it might still be alive and somehow dangerous. “What is this, Templeton?” she asked sweetly, as if she doesn’t know.
He closes his eyes and rolls his head back in defeat. “Buttplug.”
Her hand doesn’t come off. “You’re a kinky bastard, aren’t you?” she murmurs, and her mouth does some little thing around the tip of his cock. She moans softly. “Must have been hard all day. Poor Templeton. Did you...”
“Yeah,” he agrees. Then his brain shifts out of neutral, and he swats her away. He can’t let her do this. Hannibal ordered him, Hannibal was going to kill him, Hannibal would never trust him again. “Hannibal put it there.”
She looks up at him. “Are you saying you’re bi or gay or something? I really don’t care...”
“Look, Liz, you’re a beautiful woman, and I think you really know what you’re doing, and I’d love to, but,” and he draws a shuddering breath, “Hannibal’s my commanding officer.”
She gets this look of comprehension on her face, and rises back up, readjusting her clothes. “You belong to him, huh?”
“That’s not what I said...”
Liz pats his chest, and plants one kiss on his cheek. “Too bad, flyboy,” she tells him, and her perfume fades as she leaves the room.
Face hears the door close, and collapses. It’s only when he hits the floor that he realizes the damn thing’s been vibrating all this time.
“How you doing, kid?”
Face looks up. His pants are still unzipped. He’s sure, absolutely sure, he’s never looked worse. He thinks Hannibal picks him up at some point, because he’s lying on the bed now, his cock painfully swollen.
“You suck, boss,” Face says. He’s tired. It’s late. He can’t deal with any more of this right now. “Oh, fuck, Hannibal, fuck...”
“Does it hurt, kid?”
“Why are you even asking me that?”
“Answer the question.”
Face screws up his eyes. It really doesn’t get any worse than this. “Yes, it feels kind of weird, sir.”
Hannibal hasn’t moved his hands away. “Are you going to keep yourself in line from now on? Keep your dick in your pants?”
“Didn’t I just?”
“Your dick is nowhere near your pants,” Hannibal observes, looking at him, and them rolls him over on his side, cutting off any protestation Face might have been able to make.
Hannibal's hands encircle Face’s waist, and then he feels the harness snap off, and there’s a curious emptiness. Something, a shirttail maybe, brushes against his cock and hips jerk, looking for pressure, looking for anything.
A hand closes down around it, blessed pressure engulfing his engorged member. He’s so worked up, it takes three or four pulls, and Face is coming all over Hannibal’s hand, and his own chest and the sheets and fucking everything. Aftershocks ripple out, and he notices with some embarrassment that he’s still hard.
Face moans, and a moment later, there’s a finger pushing in. The muscles haven’t constricted back yet, so there’s no burn, only the wonderful finger, filing him back up. Face hadn’t realized how empty he felt after the plug came out.
“It’s not enough,” he gasps, and there’s something better, something hard and hot and slick, drilling into that void. Hard hands hold his shoulders and throw him down into the bed. It’s fast and heavy and Face feels the sweat beading on his back and hears the cries coming from his throat as Hannibal fucks him, setting a brutal pace that has Face’s toes curling and fighting the carpet for purchase.
He comes again, Hannibal holding his head down into a pillow, stifling the scream. A second later, a few quick, uneven thrusts later, and Hannibal’s warm seed floods his bowels, the older man biting down hard on his shoulder as he comes.
Face literally can’t move. Hannibal pulls out and comes back with wet washcloth, cleaning them both off with an odd gentleness. When he’s finished, he throws it away behind him, and straddles Face’s chest, tracing circles around his nipples through the now-ruined dress shirt. Hannibal’s got his own shirt on still, too, although they’ve both lost everything below the waist. Face can feel Hannibal’s dick against his bellybutton, spent but somehow still insistent.
“Who owns your ass, kid?”
Face doesn’t hesitate. “You do, sir.”
“That’s right,” Hannibal says, and arranges them both so that they’re laying down, Face’s boneless body nestled against his. He turns off the light. “And don’t you fucking forget it.”
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no subject
Date: 2011-05-04 07:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-04 08:56 pm (UTC)Hee! Yeah, buttplugged!Face is somehow really, really fun, isn't he?
no subject
Date: 2011-05-04 09:58 pm (UTC)