Kinda like it when you call me daddy

[grinded]

Doesn't everyone like to be pampered and spoiled? You could certainly understand the desire. How about receiving the benefits of experience and knowledge...through someone else, someone older than you and more distinguished? Be good, then, and you'll be rewarded. Be bad - well, remember: a punishment isn't off the table for someone with your youth.

— OR —

They're so young - yet so, so tempting. But you know what they say. The more forbidden the fruit, the sweeter the juice. They're absolutely off-limits. And wouldn't you love to taste them, no matter if you feel guilty or not? Look at yourself. Do you feel like a pervert? This person could be an outlier, or maybe you've always had a weakness, even if you didn't realize it before. At least you can take care of them like few others chasing after them could. You know exactly what they want and need.

• Comment with your character, information, and what role they'll play.
• Is there an age gap? Is this actually illegal? It could be kink play, though, or characters acting older and younger.
• Please note that there also doesn't need to be daddy kink "play" if you don't want it. There could just be an older/younger or an inexperienced/refined dynamic. Just be sure to clarify how heavy or light you'd prefer to go.
• Older ladies are fine, too.
• Reply to others.
• Thread.

Comments

[itrhymes]

This is what Hannibal enjoys. The surrender. He feels Robert loosen under his hands, give into what he wants but can't allow himself to have, can't give to himself.

What he only comes to Hannibal for.

"Honest about your feelings." There is an indulgent half-smile on Hannibal's face, and it surely radiates through his words. "Honest about what you need." He leans forward still further, brings his other hand to rest lightly on Robert's relaxing shoulder. He runs a thumb along his shirt, feels guarded muscle loosening. "Honest about what you want. This is not a situation where you need to mask yourself, Robert."

Hannibal tilts forward, bent in half at the waist. Robert is, of course, a man's height, tall enough that Hannibal can rest his lips against his hair. "You can tell Daddy whatever it is you'd like."

[fourknives]

Robert feels lips in his hair, hears Hannibal's voice, low and soft over his head -- and it pulls a sharp breath into his lungs. He isn't startled, this isn't the scary part. What's scary is what Hannibal is asking him to do.

Even now. This type of play isn't new to them, but it is infrequent and still, every occasion has been so different from the last. It's a slippery platform, and Robert finds that his footing is not often secure in this place.

It's a harder ask than it seems -- Robert doesn't know what he needs or wants. He wants to be left alone most of the time, but that gets lonely. He needs to clean up his act, his bad habits, but it's impossible to do all by himself, which makes him feel like a failure from the start.

The thing about this game is, that these are not problems that Hannibal can fix. This isn't where you get your shit together.

Robert is quiet for a few, long moments. His head bows by a few degrees, consideringly, coming to his realization and resenting himself already.

"...I want..."

Robert doesn't even know how to phrase it. He knows what it feels like, he knows what's wrong, but -- he doesn't know what to do with it. He struggles with it for another moment before sitting up with an irate huff, frustrated.

Then, he turns around -- pressing past Hannibal's knees and closer to him, arms reaching up and past the other man's sides. They coil around his waist and Robert bury's his face into Hannibal's chest, arms resting on his lap as they squeeze around him.

"...I'm...tired, Daddy. I just...want...us." Help him out, Hannibal. He's tired of being responsible, aware of how shitty he is and feels, losing a constant battle with himself for control over his decisions. Daddy, take the wheel.

[itrhymes]

Hannibal lets Robert come towards him, lifts up just enough that there's room for frazzled hair to dig its way against Hannibal's lower chest.

The response brings a light to his eyes, something honest and warm even amidst all the calculating. Hannibal enjoys this with Robert, enjoys the vulnerability and dependence.

"That's excellent, Robert. That's exactly what this is for." Hannibal is sitting up, though he lets his hands rest on Robert's elbows once he's sat back too far for Robert to be burying his head against him anymore. "Let Daddy take care of everything for tonight." No more decisions for Robert, nothing important. Hannibal can take care of that - will happily take care of that. He'll stitch them closer with exquisite care.

Hannibal's chin is tucked towards his chest, head bent low so he can look at Robert while sitting back in his armchair. "Come here, little one." In his lap.

[fourknives]

Clutching onto Hannibal is partially an excuse to hide; Robert still feels kind of stupid sometimes, when they do this. He doesn't remember getting 'babied' very much growing up -- and definitely not from his father. It seems almost like something that shouldn't be allowed, or perhaps...something he didn't deserve.

Still doesn't deserve, maybe.

Hannibal pulls away but Robert doesn't panic -- he looks curiously up, open to the expectation that he's about to take the both of them a step further. It's how this works -- the rhythm they play in could be set to a metronome.

Robert hesitates, but he plants his hands into the seat cushion and lifts himself up. He moves forward with his head bowed, legs pulling up until he's in the chair with Hannibal, on his lap, one leg curled under the other that drapes off the front of their shared seat. He tentatively leans his weight into Hannibal, his hands buried into his own lap, still withdrawn into himself this early in. Robert can't shake the shameful thought that he hasn't done anything to earn this kind -- and this amount -- of affection, from anyone.

[itrhymes]

Robert climbs up onto the armchair, and luckily neither of them are very large, even if both are tall. Long limbs fold naturally enough, and soon Robert is in his lap.

Seated across Hannibal's thighs, Robert is naturally too tall to be reasonably tucked under Hannibal's chin - but only if he sits up properly. Robert is already instinctively collapsed in on himself, spine curved, chin tucked, eyes averted. His hands don't cling to Hannibal yet.

Hannibal watches his hesitation, the beauty of his eyes obscured by his own lashes. It's a fragile thing, but not soft - blown glass, just for Hannibal to see. Robert projects casual confidence in all other social settings. To see him weighed down by trepidation when he's confronted with something that matters to him, something he truly wants, is breathtaking.

Hannibal's arms, so far relegated to being relaxed at his own sides or letting just his hand come into contact with Robert, both come forward. He embraces Robert, pulling the man closer against his chest instead of folding around him. Hannibal leans backwards into the armchair and takes Robert with him.

"That's it." He says, voice soft against Robert's hair. Hannibal presses his lips there again, dry and lingering. His eyes slide closed for a moment, even if Robert can't see his expression. "You know that Daddy likes holding his baby boy." Holding him, guiding him. This makes it easier and more fluid - a dance between the two of them, following the rules of what Robert can justify to himself.

"Go ahead." Hannibal, as usual, enjoys the tease of escalation almost more than he enjoys eventually getting what it was he even wanted. His gaze is skyward, a half-smile on his face. "Cling to Daddy. I like feeling your hands holding my shirt."

[fourknives]

Robert feels himself being pulled in by Hannibal -- physically, but just as well in a sense that isn't tangible either. He wants to tense up, keep himself guarded, protect from unexpected threats, but...Daddy is supposed to keep him safe. It's just hard to remember that. Difficult to trust it when you can't trust most people.

He can hear Hannibal so loud in his ears as he rests his head on him, his voice becoming the bulk of the atmosphere around him, every echo in his head.

Hannibal is usually so encouraging of Robert doing anything he wants for his benefit -- but this is the first time Hannibal has told him to do something for his enjoyment. Doing something for Daddy. It nearly brings Robert to look up at him, but hiding down here below his gaze feels safest for the moment. Just...let Robert sink into this a little bit more, first.

"...Okay, Daddy." One hand lifts up, tentative, fingertips brushing Hannibal's shirt before applying enough pressure to feel the form of a torso lying underneath. The cloth is probably more expensive than what Robert paid for his fucking couch--

No, don't do that. Robert grabs a fistful of Hannibal's shirt and presses his closed fist against his sternum. He doesn't have to think like that right now.

Robert sighs...a deep breath, slow on the exhale, shoulders slackening a few degrees. He turns and digs the side of his face into Hannibal's shoulder, remembering: he's safer here.

[itrhymes]

Hannibal sighs, a soft swell of a movement that Robert will almost certainly feel more than he'll be able to hear. Hannibal's shirt wrinkles, gathers in on itself like a whirlpool promising to drag anything in its reach down with it forever, and Hannibal nearly hums with pleasure as he brings a hand against the side of Robert's head. He holds him there, where Robert is hiding against his shoulder, and he slowly rubs at his temple.

"What a good boy." And Hannibal just holds them there. Robert's shoulders loosen, the careful arch of his spine slowly bends in towards Hannibal, his legs fall heavier against Hannibal's own. Hannibal feels every step of the full-body process that is his little one relaxing, and all he does is sit back and let the atmosphere drawn them forward.

His other hand comes up, touches Robert's chin. A thumb brushes against Robert's cheek, ignoring the prickling stubble there. "I admit, Robert, my mind often goes to the fantastic when I see you this way. Are you familiar with Enkidu, of Mesopotamian lore?" Hannibal does not wait for an answer, however. He simply keeps petting Robert's hair and continues, voice soft. Each sentence carefully added on.

"A feral child, sculpted from clay. It's a common enough theme in ancient literature. Children who are untameable, except by extraordinary means." Hannibal playfully runs a fingertip against the grain of Robert's stubble before just holding him there, loosely resting a hand against his jaw. "Children who find their own families." There's a thread of something in Hannibal's chest. It might become pain if he lets it.

He breathes steadily, in and out, and is careful what walls he touches in his mind. "You've found yours, little one."

[fourknives]

Robert, in play or in real life, does generally prefer being quiet. He is known to internalize, processing what he observes and evaluates it thoroughly. Media, mostly, as all fiction is reflection and commentary on the human experience, but even just observing people nets a lot of knowledge. People don't observe what's around them -- not when their heads are so far up their own asses.

Point being: Robert has, if nothing else, has absorbed some very interesting anecdotes from Hannibal concerning cultures, contemporary or ancient, and their various modes of expression. Hannibal seems to be a pretty keen art and history buff, and while it's pretty fucking pretentious, at least he doesn't buy a thousands-of-dollars expensive piece of art with no intent to know its meaning.

Everything Hannibal does bursts with meaning of some kind -- that's the terrifying thing about when they do this. There is so much intent and care in their interactions that it's brutally obvious when Robert misses a step.

Daddy is quite forgiving, though. Doesn't even expect an answer to his question, doesn't put the heat of a spotlight on Robert, who can be content to just rest there against his chest, soaking in his words like a story. A story is what Hannibal essentially gives.

One with a very pointed meaning, sharp enough to pierce with little pain, but the pressure as Hannibal's words dig in is not unnoticed. Robert's hand grips tighter without intention, head angling as his gaze lifts up to find a fraction of Hannibal's face. It rattles the bars in Robert's mind, the scaffolding that holds him upright, because that is such a painfully large thing to promise someone under circumstances that are both true and literally fiction. Hannibal knows about Marilyn and Val; he isn't saying things in ignorance. What does Robert do with this, this promise of a 'family' with Hannibal? Is he saying this just as Daddy, or...?

Robert doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to pierce the building cocoon that Hannibal is wrapping around him, but...he swears it's just unraveling on its own.

"...But, I'm-- I'm...bad," Robert grumbles into Hannibal's neck, flinching with shame. "I wasn't good to my...my last family. That's why I'm alone. I'm no good."

Lets be honest, he wouldn't have cleaned up for Marilyn, and if she hadn't died, she would have left. Because he's flawed, broken, he can't be fixed.

[itrhymes]

Hannibal holds his feral child - his partner, the color of clay in the sun, the shade of rich soil - in his arms, and he feels like a hunter. Like he's drawn something into a trap it can never escape, as if his arms are his jaws.

He presses his lips against Robert's hair again, this time to breathe him in. He smells like the suicide of a coward - like cigarette smoke, stale and tired - but he also smells like Robert, deeply, and Hannibal holds him in place perhaps just a hair more tightly than the game requires.

Robert gives his sins over to Hannibal, and Hannibal swallows them with wide jaws.

"Everyone has done bad things, Robert. No one escapes their vices forever. Not even Daddy." And some people never even try to run from them. Hannibal keeps one hand against Robert's hair and curls the other around his shoulder, holds him greedily close.

"You're not alone, little one. You're exactly what Daddy wants."

[fourknives]

An admission that resonates fiercely through the air like struck crystal -- Robert's eyes grow rounder as he hears it. No one admits their faults, not especially around Robert, who usually sits higher up the leader board than many on how shitty a person has been in their life. Someone always eventually accuses him of being worse, so reliably that it's pointless to compare failures.

Hannibal's admission is in forgiveness of Robert's faults. When was the last time anyone has done that for him? He remembers. He just wishes he didn't.

Exactly what Daddy wants -- it can't be true. Robert isn't right for anything. He wasn't good for Marilyn, he isn't good for Val, he wasn't even quite right enough for Joseph. Is Hannibal just telling him what he thinks he wants to hear? Robert feels something desperate boil up, confused and perhaps frustrated. His hand pulls on Hannibal's shirt more earnestly as he struggles with the thoughts fumbling around in his head.

"Until I'm not good enough. Until I disappoint you. I won't get better, Daddy."

Robert believes it isn't his choice. He believes that a broken glass can't fix itself. He doesn't believe in himself to bother trying anymore.

...Fuck. Robert feels his throat closing in under an invisible pressure, like a snake coiling around his neck. Daddy doesn't exist forever, Hannibal doesn't love him that way, he must be even less invested in Robert than anyone he's been with in the past. "...And you'll leave too."

robert is a class act, staying in character while under duress, 10/10 would play headgames w again

[itrhymes]

An energy builds between Robert's shoulders again. He hunches them in towards his ears instead of letting everything lean into Hannibal. Hannibal's dress shirt wrinkles further, some of the threads groaning in protest.

"This sounds like a story you have told yourself often, my dear." Time to switch tracks, just slightly. Small endearments, soft platitudes will not help press through this issue. They may press it away temporarily, but they won't solve any of it. "Do you lay in bed at night, afraid to sleep, counting the ones you've lost already and anticipating those left to lose?"

Hannibal's tone is not mocking, or even truly sympathetic. It's factual, it's calm. He is a soothing, steady narrator - truth made flesh.

Or he would be, if he didn't still bend everything to suit his design.

Hannibal tilts in closer. His arms are jaws, his fingers teeth, and he swallows Robert whole. He'd eat him, Hannibal knows all at once. If something terrible happened to Robert, he would have to. "Are you so certain I would leave, where others have? Your Daddy is a very stubborn man. Perhaps that is one of my vices, in fact. But it is not one I plan to give up."

Hannibal pulls back, enough to look down at the top of Robert's head. "Look at me, baby boy." He can see a bit of his nose, a shadow of his chin, but most of it is hidden where Robert is coiling down away from him. "Look at Daddy."

[fourknives]

Part of Robert feels a knee-jerk reaction to argue much too aggressively, all over one single word that Hannibal uses: 'story.' It sounds belittling. Robert knows what his faults are, knows the inevitable truth if he doesn't fix them. He ends up alone. Where's the fantasy in that if he has seen it happen threefold?

Another reference of Hannibal's 'vices.' Robert understands the intent, but it's so difficult to believe that anyone has flaws as big and troubling as his own. He just doesn't know the differences in their coping mechanisms, and capabilities for guilt. All Robert sees are people who don't seem so world-weary, so broken, so unstable as he is. Grass is greener, et cetera. It feels like ignorant placating.

Hannibal shifts away, Robert paying no real mind to it, until he's spoken to again. He doesn't want to look up, doesn't want to expose his buckling emotions to him. He stalls before finally obeying, glassy eyes staring up under defensively furrowed eyebrows. Robert doesn't flush easily, but around his eyes seems to glow a pink siren that tells that tears are definitely a possibility right now.

[itrhymes]

Hannibal waits, the air between them charged even as Hannibal himself stays as before - the eye of a storm. He watches Robert with a calm affection that doesn't grow rushed at the sight of Robert's pink-edged eyes. Hannibal doesn't need to hurry into comforting him, or destroying him further - all of this can happen at its own pace.

The hand in Robert's hair comes around, with all the softness of a bird settling its wings, to rest on Robert's cheek. Hannibal's palm spreads wide across it, his thumb just below the inner edge of Robert's eye. He pets him there, just two little movements.

"I enjoy you being around me, little one. And I am more than strong enough to hang onto what I value." Hannibal stays here, watching Robert, watching glassy eyes look back at him. "Is it so hard to believe that Daddy wants to keep you near him?"