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Papa	By : Prentice Category: G through L > Hannibal Views: 2668 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Papa

Author: Prentice

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Will/Hannibal

Category: Alternate Universe, Dark, Romance

Warning: Disturbing themes, implied cannibalism, possessive behavior, and incest.

Author's Note: This was written as a fill for a prompt on the hannibalkink meme on dreamwidth. The prompt was: Will is Hannibal's son and Hannibal loves his boy to the exclusion of all others, including Will's mother, who Hannibal has long since gotten rid of. I kind of view this as just a snapshot into their lives so I hope the OP enjoys it!
Summary: There is a puddle of red beneath Will's feet by the time he is home.

Papa

There is a puddle of red beneath Will’s feet by the time he is home. Thick and vibrant, it congeals between his toes in sticky globs that burst like overripe cherries whenever he wiggles them, painting his skin a brilliant red that seems to glow against his pale flesh. Specks of crimson decorate his calves, an upward pattern that splashes towards his knobby knees and creamy thighs, the tent of his boxers drawing the hem higher, exposing more flesh.

Delicious, Hannibal thinks as he pulls off his tie, the silk threading through his fingers and falling to the floor. It slithers down in a graceless heap, a dark blue that’s nearly black, and he wishes, almost painfully, that he had tied it around good Will’s neck. It would have been glorious there; a delicious extra that would have swayed as he moved, brushing gently against soft round nipples that would have become tender to the touch and made him shudder with every pass.

Hannibal breathes in an appreciative huff at the mental image as he moves closer to the boy, sharp eyes taking in all that exposed vulnerable flesh and all that beautiful, beautiful red. This is a masterpiece, he thinks, my creation come to life. My creation. No one else’s.

Possessive pride flares hungrily in his belly. He had created this. This handsome young man, his beautiful little boy.

Hand lifting, he brushes his fingertips against the slope of one bare shoulder, lips curling in fleeting amusement when Will startles badly, feet slip-sliding in all that glorious color, before being caught by Hannibal’s hands, his long fingers curling around a small waist. His Will will never be big like he is, never be taller or more broad. But he is perfect, a true fractured work of art, and Hannibal loves him – loves him – and will never let him go.

“It’s only me,” he murmurs, pulling his boy towards his chest. “Only Papa.”

“Papa,” Will sighs in return, head tilting upwards, body swaying back. His curls – soft brown like the finest chocolate – brush against Hannibal’s cheek, an exquisite streak of red smeared across his forehead. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I don’t expect you did,” Hannibal replies, nosing gently against the side of Will’s face. He smells different today – not like the sweet scent of something young and fresh, but instead of copper and salt, of blood and sweat. It’s a mouthwatering combination. “Playing the way you were.”

“You said I could,” Will points out, glasses going slightly askew as he tilts his head just a little more. His throat is an exposed line, pale and long. Lips’ dragging against his boy’s temple, Hannibal pulls him just a little bit closer, humming approvingly as his fingers slide over bare flesh, those soft little nipples he’d thought about before tightening under his attention. A soft shuddery noise escapes Will’s lips. They’re speckled with tiny droplets of crimson, almost imperceptible from a distance but so delightfully tempting this close.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Hannibal murmurs, hand sliding up Will’s chest and neck until he can hook a thumb into the boy’s mouth. Almost instantly, his Will starts to suckle it, tongue teasing just the way Hannibal likes. “My dear Will.”

“Papa,” Will manages to moan around the digit, eyes closing behind his red dappled glasses. He’s all but lying against Hannibal; weight a familiar comfort, trusting in his strength to keep them both on their feet. Hannibal brushes another kiss against his skin approvingly.

“Come now,” Hannibal sighs out eventually, carefully pulling his thumb from his boy’s mouth. It leaves a wet trail down his chin, glistening and pretty, and for just a moment, Hannibal imagines Will on his knees in front of him, face dribbled with saliva and come, and has to force the image away, locking it tight behind iron-clad self control. “I need to feed you; you’re a growing boy.”

A small huffing noise escapes Will’s lips as his eyes flutter open, brows lifting. “But I’m not finished, I – ”

“Need to eat,” Hannibal interrupts smoothly, gaze flitting down to his boy’s handiwork. Handiwork and mess. Sighing, he meets the boy’s eyes, lips set into a stern line. “But first you will clean up this mess. Meet me downstairs in thirty minutes. You can finish after.”

“But Papa – “

“No, William,” Hannibal cuts in again, voice sharp enough to make his boy flinch. The sight of it makes something inside him twitch, a harsh tug that forces him to soften his tone, thumb rubbing comfortingly against Will’s skin. “You know how I feel about you missing meals.” Fingers tipping his boy’s face towards him slightly, he presses a gentle kiss against warm chapped lips, tongue flicking out hungrily, before pulling back. “Clean up quickly and come downstairs. I’ll help you finish this later, if you’re quick enough.”

Immediately, his boy’s eyes brighten, shining behind his crooked glasses as he pulls away hurriedly, feet making a wet sound against the floor and starts to pick up his tools. Chuckling, Hannibal watches him, feeling strangely indulgent and buoyed by paternal pride. His Will was such a lovely little thing, innocently eager to please and never outright demanding Hannibal’s attention but always ready for it.

Nothing at all like his mother, really, when Hannibal thinks about it. She had been a bull dog of a thing, always hungry for things that Hannibal could never give her, and wanting things he’d never promised. That hadn’t changed when Will came along,

Curly haired and quiet, the young boy had always seemed to prefer Hannibal’s company over that of his mother, seeking him out whenever they were at home, and quietly pining for him when he was away. Young or not, fully aware or not, his Will had always known who he truly belonged to, even if his mother hadn’t. Not until it was far too late.

Turning on his heels, Hannibal moves to the door, stopping only momentarily to scoop up his tie and throw one last look over his shoulder. “Hurry along, Will, and be sure to pick up that puddle before it dries completely. I don’t want you tracking paint all over the house.”

With that, he leaves, smiling at the soft string of curses that float from out the room. He’ll have to punish his boy for that later. Perhaps after dinner – he had a lovely loin just waiting for them downstairs, fresh and ready to be cut.
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Papa