How To Be Eaten.
A post-fall fic exploring Will’s past, weaving through time to find Hannibal, love, cannibalism and other drugs.
TW.
The mind perceives existence as a thread unspooling, one event birthing the next, past sculpting present, present carving the future. Yet in dreams, the mind dissolves, slipping between moments, untethered by time, stripped of causality. There, in that formless drift, we glimpse a hidden truth: that life, which appears so linear, is but the rippling echo of a primordial force, a breath from the vast and originless void, where only the great nothing hums.
Here, we are not architects of our future, nor sculptors of our fate. We are first-degree witnesses, adrift on an endless ocean, where waves do not rise from some distant beginning but have always been—moving, colliding, unfolding everywhere at once. And yet, to touch each moment, the mind slows, weaving the illusion of time, a trick of perception that lets us believe in sequence, in order, in a story being written rather than simply revealed.
So Will couldn’t bring himself to blame his mother for everything that had happened in his life. Even when she had plunged his head beneath the water, her trembling hands gripping his small shoulders, he couldn’t find it in himself to resent her. She had whispered fevered prayers, calling upon God to cast out the darkness she believed had taken root inside him. If anything, he wished no one had come to save him. If anything, his mother had been right.
“What a precious little thing, with those big blue eyes,” an old woman cooed, leaning over the stroller where baby Will lay swaddled in blankets.
Elizabeth Graham forced a smile, the corners of her lips twitching as though the muscles had long forgotten how to hold such an expression.
She didn’t think her son was precious. She didn’t think anything of him at all, really. Her body had been hollowed out into a graveyard, and Will was nothing more than another tombstone. Another punishment from God. Another child of the devil sent straight into her womb, a creature she had to purge from this world before he could curse it. But no one believed her. They called her sick. Delusional. Hospitals and medications, white rooms with no edges, bitter liquids forced between clenched teeth.
So she learned to pretend. To be quiet. To smile, to nod. Because if she didn’t, they would take her away again. They would lock her up, and the demon child would be left to wreak his havoc on another family.
So she remained quiet about Will.
Will didn’t think he remembered being a baby. But the sensation of boiling water flooding his nose, blurring his vision, pressing against his skin like a second, searing body…that never left him. Sometimes, even now, he could feel it. Unaware of where the memory came from, only that it lived inside him, dormant until sleep pried open the locked doors of his mind and the truth came spilling through the cracks.
“LIZZIE, NO!” A man’s voice, half-swallowed by the water.
“Let me go! We have to do this!” she yelled, thrashing against his grip, her wet hair plastered to her face in wild strands. She clawed at his arms, but he shoved her back, sending her stumbling against the tile as he lunged toward the water. He pulled baby Will out, cradling the soaked bundle against his chest, his breath coming hard and fast.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, brushing dripping strands of hair from Will’s forehead. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay.”
“My God, no wonder you’re such a weird little thing,” Margaret Thatcher scoffed, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling. She tilted her head, her yellowed, brittle hair cascading over her shoulder in stiff strands. Her long red nails tapped against the armrest as she studied Will with blue-shadowed eyes, lined heavily with kohl.
“I mean, with a mother like that,” she added, taking another slow drag. “Who wouldn’t turn out a little strange?”
Will sat silently beside her, small hands clasped in his lap. Outside the smudged car window, fluorescent gas station lights buzzed faintly in the night. They were waiting for his father, who had gone inside to buy cigarettes. A few years had passed since his mother had been institutionalized, and in that time, Robert had met Margaret in some roadside bar. She had been around ever since—rude, sharp-edged, wrapped in the stale scent of nicotine and whiskey.
“You’ll have a big brother to look after you,” Robert had told him when they loaded their things into the truck, bound for Margaret’s trailer park. “It’ll be good for you.”
Jason was fifteen when Will was five, and he did not look after Will.
Jason thought Will was stupid. A silent, strange little boy who never talked, never fought back. They shared a room, and Jason wasn’t bothered by Will’s presence there, no matter what type of activities he was engaging with. And after a while, he decided Will should participate in his activities, whether he wanted to or not. And so, whenever Will felt the crushing weight of something pressing down on his back, the scent of sweat and old pillowcases thick in the air, he remembered Jason.
Robert and Margaret were heavy drinkers. They would come home in the early hours of the morning, fumbling at the door, voices slurring into incoherence before one of them collapsed in a heap on the couch. Sometimes, they didn’t make it that far. Will had stepped over them more times than he could count, their bodies sprawled on the stained carpet, their breath thick with liquor.
Jason took those moments alone with Will as opportunities to experiment with the human body. Maybe he wanted to be a doctor, who knows? He definitely liked to see what he could fit inside Will, no matter what it was. It was a fun game for Jason, who had a crazed smile on his face throughout the entire time.
This went on for two years, until one night, Will woke to screaming.
He followed the sound, his small feet padding hesitantly across the cold floor. When he reached the kitchen, he froze.
Margaret was clawing at Robert’s arms, her fingers scrabbling for purchase as his hands tightened around her throat. Her face, once flushed with fury, was draining of color, her lips parting soundlessly.
As if something had snapped, her body crumpled, falling heavy against the floor with a dull thud.
Robert turned, chest heaving, eyes dark and unreadable as they landed on Will’s small, rigid form in the doorway.
“You listen to me,” he said, voice steady, almost gentle. He crouched to Will’s level, his large hands bracing against his knees. “If you ever tell anyone about this, you’ll be out on the streets. And you know what happens to little boys out there, don’t you?”
Will’s breath hitched. He said nothing.
Robert nodded as though he had expected the silence. He reached out, resting a heavy hand on Will’s shoulder.
“I did this for you, son.”
Will was young, but he knew his dad hadn’t done it for him. Margaret wasn’t kind, that much was true. She gave him smaller portions at dinner, let his clothes sit unwashed, ignored him when he needed help. She threw away anything that reminded him of his mother—photos, trinkets, even the blanket he had clung to as a child. She forced him to sit through adult movies he was too young to understand and asked him strange questions afterward.
No wonder Jason was sick.
But Robert hadn’t killed her to save Will. He had done it because that was the way they were, him and Margaret. They fought constantly. This time, it had gone too far. And Will believed his father when he told him he’d end up on the streets if he said anything. So he stayed quiet.
He stayed quiet as his father made him stand there while he cut Margaret into pieces, muttering under his breath as he worked, as if she was still arguing with him. Will stayed quiet as he watched Robert fit those pieces into a wooden box like a grotesque puzzle. He stayed quiet when they drove out to an empty stretch of land and buried it beneath the cold dirt. Margaret had been a drunk, a mean and bitter woman. People expected her to disappear. When Robert went around, red-eyed and slurring about how she had left him, no one asked questions. He sent Jason to live with his grandparents. That was that. No one came looking for her. Or if they did, Will never heard about it.
“You got a lighter?”
Will looked up from the dock where he sat, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the boatyard. A boy stood in front of him, dirty blond hair sticking up in places, green eyes catching the light.
Will pulled out his lighter—a cheap gas station one, red and blue—and handed it over. The boy flicked it a couple of times, then lit his cigarette, inhaling deep before flashing a grin. Will didn’t know it then, but he would keep that lighter for years.
They were sixteen when they met, two kids killing time in a place where time stood still. Will’s father worked on boats, fixing motors, and so did Dean’s. But Dean’s dad wasn’t around much. When he was, he was the kind of man people avoided.
Empty afternoons filled with smoke, grease, and books became something else with Dean around. Will had never had friends before—he didn’t like how people looked at him, the way they filled silence with empty words. But Dean was different. Like Will, he carried an invisible weight, the kind only wounded boys could recognize in each other. Will saw it in the way Dean deflected with humor, in the glint of his eyes that only those who fought demons had. But they didn’t talk about it. They didn’t need to.
Instead, they would drive around in Dean’s old car, wind tearing through the open windows, Nirvana blaring from the radio. They climbed onto the roof, lay back, and smoked while staring at the stars. Will didn’t understand, then, the strange tightness in his chest when Dean laughed or the way his skin prickled when Dean’s arm brushed against his own. He only knew he wanted it more.
When Will dozed off in Dean’s car, he would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat. Dean’s hands would find his shoulders, grounding him.
“My brother gets those, too,” Dean had said once, voice low.
Will didn’t know much about Dean’s brother. They went to the same school, but Dean never talked about his family. All Will knew was that the nightmares ran in their blood, that his brother was quiet and strange, and that he liked dogs. Like Will.
At home, things got worse. Robert had learned after Margaret that it was easy for a man like him to get away with things. And so he started collecting bones.
Women from bars, the ones no one missed. He’d bring them home, slit their throats, make Will mop the floors. Cut them up. Take a marrow. Dispose of them.
Will learned to shut down. His body moved through the motions like a machine, a vessel emptied of anything human.
Dean talked about running away all the time.
“We can make money easy. I know a few tricks, and we don’t need much,” he’d say, lighting a cigarette, the glow illuminating his sun-kissed skin. “We’ll take my car. Sleep in it if we have to.”
One evening, Dean picked Will up from the boatyard. Will’s hands were trembling. His father had hidden a body earlier that day—the first one that year, in that town—and he couldn’t shake the cold weight of it. He wasn’t hiding it well. Dean noticed.
“We leave tonight,” he said. “I can’t take this anymore either, you know? My dad—he…” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll get rid of them tonight.”
So they left. They drove until the world stretched out wide, until they were nothing but two boys parked in the middle of a canyon, the night vast and open above them. They stayed there, one night, then another.
One morning Will woke to soft, broken sobs in the driver’s seat.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice groggy.
Dean wiped at his face, shook his head like he could brush off the feeling. But he couldn’t.
“I have to go back,” he whispered. “I can’t leave my brother alone.”
And so they turned around.
When Will walked back into the house, Robert didn’t say a word. Just looked at him, long and heavy.
Dean never showed up again. Not at the boatyard. Not at school. Not ever again. All that was left was the blue and red lighter.
With your deep and nuanced understanding of the show, I wanted to ask you how to write a good Hannibal in fanfic? I struggle writing his emotions and the nuances of that without turning him into a Mary Sue :(
It’s nice of you to consider my opinion!
Hannibal’s Vulnerabilities, Will’s Limitations.
Hannibal’s emotions are particularly challenging to convey through Will’s point of view because Will himself struggles to perceive Hannibal as someone with genuine vulnerabilities. When he says things like “I wasn’t aware you had one (a better nature),” “Hannibal never worries,” “He’s always playing with us”, it reflect his deeply ingrained belief that Hannibal operates on an entirely different plane, detached from ordinary human emotions. To Will, Hannibal is more a creature than a man, a creature of control and manipulation rather than one capable of suffering.
It is only when Will gains an external perspective, through characters like Bedelia or Chiyoh, who understand Hannibal intimately but without Will’s projections, that he can grasp the depth of Hannibal’s grief, anxiety, death drive, and profound emptiness. This is why Will needed Bedelia to tell him that Hannibal was in love with him…he could not, or would not, trust his own perception.
Will’s tendency to project is at the core of this dynamic. His entire profession is built on slipping into the minds of others, particularly killers, to understand them from within. But this skill, which makes him an extraordinary profiler, also isolates him. He sees reflections of himself in others rather than truly perceiving them for who they are. This is why his relationships, whether with Abigail, Molly, Alana, or even Jack, remain fraught and distant. He is not simply a man who knows others too well; he is a man who only knows himself through others.
This is why moments of true revelation unsettle him, why he is so visibly taken aback when Hannibal speaks of Mischa or asks him to run away together. Will believes he understands everyone, yet he is constantly confronted with the limits of his own projections. His ability to profile depends entirely on how much he can see himself in another. He struggled with the organ harvesters because they were not serial killers in the traditional sense, there was no psychological mirroring, Hannibal was the one to suggest this possibility. And he failed to see the Ripper standing right before him, not because of a lack of intelligence, but because Hannibal didn’t share the exact same darkness as he did. As Jack said, they are “identically different.”
If writing from Will’s perspective, you need allow space for this confusion. His understanding of Hannibal must be gradual, fragmented, shaped by outside perspectives and long periods of familiarity. It is not immediate or instinctive; it is painstakingly earned.
Writing from Hannibal’s point of view, though, is much easier. Hannibal aestheticizes his pain, transforming vulnerability into something poetic, grandiose, always reframing his suffering in a way that reinforces his own sense of control. He did not eat Mischa in pure shock; in his mind, it was an act of symbolic forgiveness. He does not acknowledge compulsion, only choice. Even when he loses control, he will not admit it, he will rewrite the narrative to ensure he remains its master.
At his core, Hannibal’s greatest fear is powerlessness. And so, he does what he does because he can, because it is elegant, because it is fun. But the truth, one he will never allow himself to face, is that he is bound by an impulse as consuming as any of the killers Will has ever known. The difference is that he will never surrender to it. Instead, he will sculpt it into something exquisite, something that appears deliberate, something that keeps him sovereign over himself and the world around him.
Why do you think Will and Hannibal both went through scarcity but relate so differently to money? (love your blog)
Will grew up poor, but there is no indication that he suffered from literal hunger. More likely, he lived in a state of constant limitation, having enough for basic sustenance and shelter but little beyond that. His poverty was not one of extreme deprivation but of restriction, of never being able to afford more than the essentials. Later in life, however, Will gained financial security through his professional roles…his work as an FBI consultant, his teaching position, and even as an author of a book used in official training. By the time we see him in the show, he is far from poor; in fact, he has amassed significant wealth. Yet his attitude toward money is cautious, even frugal. This is a common trait in those who grow up without financial security. Money is not seen as something to be indulged in but as something to be preserved. The fear of losing it lingers, and so he is unlikely to splurge, preferring comfort over excess, stability over extravagance.
Hannibal’s trajectory, by contrast, is one of dramatic extremes. He was born into wealth, lost it in an incredibly brief yet profoundly traumatic period of scarcity, and then regained it, never to lose it again. The nature of his deprivation was far more intense than Will’s, his suffering was not just financial but existential, marked by starvation, war, and the destruction of his entire world. This kind of scarcity often breeds an obsession with indulgence rather than security. Those who experience such extreme deprivation, especially those who later come into great wealth, frequently develop compulsions toward excess, seeking to consume, possess, and experience everything available to them as a way to compensate for past lack. Hannibal, with his tastes, opulent lifestyle, and relentless pursuit of pleasure, embodies this tendency. He doesn’t just enjoy luxury, he devours it, making an art form out of indulgence itself.
This contrast in their financial psychology also mirrors their deeper fears. Hannibal’s greatest fear is the loss of control, but paradoxically, he has a repressed desire to relinquish it. His indulgences, his love of fine dining, extravagant possessions, and excessive refinement, serve as an outlet for this tension, a “safe” way for him to surrender control without ever truly doing so. He allows himself to indulge because he remains the master of his own excess.
Will, on the other hand, fears losing his mind. His life is not built around control in the same way Hannibal’s is, but rather around creating an environment that minimizes risk. He does not need extravagance, he needs stability, predictability, a life free from unnecessary variables. His frugality is not just financial but existential; he seeks security, not pleasure, and constructs his world accordingly. His job then is his way of indulging in risk.
In the end, their differing relationships with wealth reflect the deeper structures of their personalities. Hannibal, ever-consuming, transforming indulgence into control, and Will, always conserving, ensuring he never steps too far into uncertainty.
Hannibal’s Grief Over Abigail
It’s remarkable how often the fandom overlooks Hannibal’s grief for Abigail, reducing his suffering in Season 3 to nothing more than his longing for Will. Yet Hannibal himself equated Abigail to Mischa, a connection that carries a lot of weight. He killed her not out of necessity, but as an impulsive, symbolic gesture to prove a point to Will, an irrational test fueled by emotion rather than logic. The idea that he did not, at the very least, lament that choice is impossible. Regret may not be the right word since Hannibal rarely regrets, as he believes everything he does serves a higher purpose, but lament, or grief is unquestionable.
Hannibal is a master of compartmentalization. He doesn’t allow himself to mourn openly, especially for something he chose to do. To grieve would be to acknowledge a mistake, and so he instead internalizes the loss, pushing it into the depths of his psyche, where it festers beneath the surface, or turns it into something poetc. His recklessness in Italy, his lack of caution, his self-destructive indulgence, was not just for Will. He lost more than a lover in that kitchen. He lost the vision of the future he had constructed, the closest thing to a family he had ever allowed himself to imagine. Abigail was the last fragile link to the past that shaped him, a shadow of Mischa reborn in the present. She was his by choice, by fate, by a cruel cycle that neither of them could escape. Her presence, along with Will’s, had formed the illusion of something whole, something that could replace the void inside him.
But Hannibal destroyed it with his own hands.
His hesitation in that final moment was the hesitation of a man who knew he had already lost everything. He could not bring himself to ask Will, Do you want to come with us? because he feared rejection more again. Instead, he acted preemptively, cutting himself off from Will before Will could cut himself off first. He severed the bond before it could be yanked away from him.
And in doing so, he sacrificed Abigail.
She had always been a scapegoat, from the very beginning. She died the death she had always been fated for, returning to the kitchen where she was first marked for slaughter. Given a second life, she failed to take ownership of it, afraid, trapped in the patterns of her past, choosing submission over self-definition. She clung to Hannibal because fear had taught her that devotion was the only way to survive. And so fate played its hand, stripping her of her second chance and delivering her back into death at the hands of the father she had chosen.
Will, too, lost something that night. Not just Abigail, but the illusion he had built around her, a relationship built on unstable ground, an excuse to remain close to Hannibal under the guise of something else. And Hannibal lost the glue that had kept them bound together, the one fragile piece that had made their entanglement feel like more than just violence and hunger. Keeping Abigail alive but hidden had been a test, a way to see if Will wanted him, or if he only wanted her. And when the answer became clear, when Hannibal realized that it wasn’t her absence, but the belief that she had been taken from him, that Will could not forgive, he knew their bond had been broken.
Not because Will loved Abigail, but because that moment, that betrayal, was proof that Hannibal could not be trusted, because he was the one to sever their bond in the first place.
And so, in the end, both men stood in the wreckage, blinded by their own illusions, pleading for the other to see them.
Hannigram would use baby voice, a thesis.
At first glance, the idea of Will and Hannibal using a baby voice with each other seems entirely out of character…something that contradicts their carefully curated personas. But if we strip away the operatic grandeur and treat them as real people rather than mythic figures, it becomes almost inevitable that they would engage in some form of age-regressive behavior.
Age regression, a psychological response to trauma, has some manifestations, and one is that it can happen as individuals unconsciously reverting to a younger, often idealized version of themselves. It’s a coping mechanism, a way to seek comfort and safety in a world that has historically denied them both. Given the immense trauma both Hannibal and Will have endured, Hannibal’s childhood horrors are well-documented, and while Will’s past is less defined, his symptoms speak for themselves, it would be unnatural for them not to display some form of regression when they finally allow themselves to be vulnerable and completely unshielded.
When all their defenses are stripped away, when they are safe in each other’s presence, their inability to voice their needs directly could manifest in subtle but unmistakable ways. Not necessarily a literal baby voice, but exaggerated childish expressions, playful pouting, overly tight clinging, muffled sounds of contentment, or affectionate gestures that mirror the uninhibited love of a child. Both men struggle to ask for comfort in explicit terms, so instead, they might demand it in ways that bypass adult self-consciousness altogether.
It’s tempting to view them as cold, calculated figures, monsters sculpted from Shakespearean language and untouchable intellect. But beneath that, they are still two lost boys who have spent their lives starving for connection. When they finally find it, the weight of their masks might slip just enough for them to seek solace in the most instinctive, human ways possible.
All of that to say, “pweaseee, baby? will you kill this man with me? 🥺”
Not Hannibal related, but could you recommend some free access psychology resources that are peer reviewed? When I'm reading your posts I get the urge to learn more! :)
Of course! There’s APA’s Free Journal Articles, The American Psychological Association, which provides access to selected articles from many journals. There’s also The Open Psychology Journal, an international, peer-reviewed, open-access journal that publishes articles across all areas of psychology.
Frontiers in Psychology is an open-access journal offers rigorous peer-reviewed articles spanning various psychology disciplines. There’s also the Directory of Open Access Journals (DOAJ), which is a directory that lists open-access journals from various fields, including psychology. And the Verywell Mind’s Compilation, an article that lists several full-text psychology journals and articles available for free, offering guidance on accessing the latest psychology research.
These are also great if you’re looking to publish! I want to say though that while peer review is generally a positive standard, some of the most groundbreaking insights often come from obscure, unconventional sources. Those hidden corners of the internet where raw, unfiltered ideas emerge. The real challenge (and opportunity) lies in bridging these unconventional perspectives with peer-reviewed research, rather than being confined to a cycle of intellectual reinforcement. True discovery requires a willingness to take risks, to explore beyond the established, and to look within before seeking scholarly validation, which, while valuable, should be a milestone rather than the starting point of your journey. Saying this as a psych researcher myself :).
I think you have a brilliant mind...Care to book rec?
Ahh, thanks haha! Of course:
The Hour of Our Death by Philippe Ariès, a historical-psychological study that traces how Western attitudes toward death have evolved and what that reveals about the psyche.
Powers of Horror by Júlia Kristeva, ideas and insight into abjection and how it relates to women in horror.
Agua Viva by Clarice Linspector, a poem in prose, in which the life of everything that is, intensely, is celebrated.
Pale Fire by Vladmir Nabokov, a novel disguised as a poem with commentary, where an unreliable editor hijacks the text to weave his own delusional tale of exile, obsession, and identity.
hii! I have been reading your posts about Will as a father and I completely agree with all of them! but they also made me think about possible ways (or examples) of how Will would show his 'problematic' behaviour like you said, I hope this makes sense...Sorry english is not my first language!<3
Hello, yes, I think I did mention this in those essays? If not, then, I’ll say it again: I believe Will, without the intention to eroticize it, but with the full intention to reinforce attachment, would condition a child to be obsessed with him, and codependent on him. I believe he would also express his violent outbursts with this child. This is hard for fans to accept or imagine, but in a reality where Will has a child whom he has conditioned to love him unconditionally, is a reality that is completely different than canon, which is why I believe he would be violent. Rarely, yes, but he would. It would be the one person he knows he is able to do whatever he wants, and they would still be with him, and still love him. But again, it would be rare, and in outbursts, in specific episodes of rage and impulsiveness.
honeygrahambitch:
“The mongoose I want under my house when the snakes slither by”
“Might want to crawl back in there if you know what’s good for you”
“Hide us from the wrath of the lamb”
Point is, Hannibal has always seen something extremely powerful in Will. Since day one. And in three seasons we have only partially seen this feral side of him. Hannibal seems to be the only one who is aware of this and he is always trying to warn those around him, but he warns them with a sense of pride. He is not intimidated by what lurks inside Will, he is excited by it, he is ecstatic every time he gets a glimpse. Especially because he knows Will is more passionate and angry than him because to Will, killing is very personal, it’s never just for fun.
Hi Milk, do you think there's any possibility of Will not really desiring sexual intimacy with Hannibal? Not because he doesn't desire him but we don't know if Will likes the idea of penetration, and we don't have any canon proof if he is into men.
Would Will actually want to be penetrated by Hannibal?
The first thing I will say is that I don’t think we needed any “canon proof” if Will was into men or not, because I don’t think he categorizes Hannibal as men, but as a complete unique form of life that wouldn’t really fall under any sexuality. Will is into Hannibal, regardless if he’s into men.
As for the rest, it’s often assumed that if either Will or Hannibal hesitated in desiring sexual intimacy, it definitely wouldn’t be Hannibal. His inherently sensual nature, fluidity, and overt passion toward Will make it easy to believe he would embrace physical intimacy without reservation. Will, on the other hand, struggles with invasion, control, and the mingling of violence and pleasure in his psyche.
While we lack explicit evidence of Will’s sexual fluidity, what we do know is that he lives in a near-constant state of invasion: by Hannibal, by other minds, by his own intrusive thoughts. This pervasive lack of personal boundary could make him wary of certain aspects of physical vulnerability. Specifically, penetration may be something he instinctively resists, not as a rejection of intimacy with Hannibal itself, but as an extension of his broader discomfort with being entered, seen, or possessed too completely. It isn’t that he would never allow it, but rather that it would take time, trust, and a shifting dynamic between them for him to reach that point.
But Will seems far more eager to be the one doing the invading. His fascination with dissecting Hannibal’s mind is obsessive, and his jealousy toward those who have accessed parts of Hannibal he cannot, like Bedelia or even Alana, suggests a deep-seated desire for exclusive, unrestricted entry. Hannibal, for all his expressive intensity, is also an enigma to Will, someone he has attempted but failed to fully penetrate, both mentally (in totality) and physically. In this sense, the idea of Hannibal allowing himself to be invaded, yielding in a way he never does, would hold immense appeal for Will. It would be an act of ultimate access, proof that he has been granted something no one else has.
Their intimacy, then, would be less about traditional roles or expectations and more about their ongoing battle for control, dominance, and understanding.
Did you notice this?
In season one, Hannibal manipulates Will, frames him for crimes he committed, locking him away in prison as a way of controlling his emotions. By imprisoning Will, Hannibal hoped to contain his growing feelings for him, emotions he could not fully understand or accept. Will’s confinement was less about punishment and more about keeping his emotions caged.
While in prison, Will sends someone to kill Hannibal. Though afraid for his life, Hannibal is, paradoxically, impressed by Will’s ability to provoke such an action, even indirectly. He tells Will that, even though he’s imprisoned, he’s more in control than ever before. However, rather than feeling victorious, Hannibal is driven by the desire to repair their fractured connection. He orchestrates Will’s release because he wants to be his friend.
By season 3 Will becomes the one who manipulates Hannibal. He pushes Hannibal into a position where he surrenders voluntarily, choosing to sacrifice his freedom and life. He wasn’t looking to imprison Hannibal, but to dominate feelings he felt victimized by. In prison, Hannibal sends someone to kill Will. Hannibal may be physically confined, but Will says he “has agency in the world”. Will orchestrates Hannibal’s escape, because he is his friend, and he wanted to run away with him. But he didn’t. So he picked up the pieces of the broken teacup he swore would never gather itself back together, and he reversed time, and ran away with his friend.
I can't imagine Will being affectionate with Hannibal in a way that isn't a heat of the moment thing like in the finale. Hannibal maimed him through affection...What is your view on this?
It’s true Will would tread cautiously around Hannibal’s affection, for it has been woven with pain. Hannibal has bound love and suffering so tightly together that unraveling them would demand immense effort from both of them. It is unlikely, perhaps even impossible, for two men like them to sever that bond completely.
But they are not creatures of purity, nor do they seek it. Violence is not a specter looming over them but a current running through their very being, a force as intimate as a lover’s touch. They have long since intertwined pleasure and pain, finding eroticism where others only see fear. To strip them of this, to force them into some redemption arc of salvation and purification, would be to deny the essence of their existence, to betray their story.
The truest path for them is not to resist but to surrender. To embrace pain and pleasure without hesitation, to wield fear not as a weapon against themselves but as an instrument of heightened sensation. They are the holy profane, sacred in their impurity.
And yes, Hannibal maimed Will, but I believe he would say “I was only trying to reach you,” and Will knows.
I read the last Will as a dad post you made, and I got some thoughts I'd like to share if that's okay ^^"
So we can uselessly say that the child will grow up in a condition of incredible instability, but she/he can't know it both because of her/his age, and because Will is very careful to keep it "hidden". Maybe filling it all with sweet attentions after having outburst and getting violent. So, once the child is a bit older, like going into the teenager years, insecurities begin to crop up suddenly...As if an unexpected reality were hitting her/him with force. (As if a phase in the line of 'who am i?' which I think it's common among teenagers).
Some example of insecurities would be the child not being able to express what they feel, fear to speak up/defend themself and more, but I think the most brutal would be the feeling of not feeling real...I'll try to explain better, a victim of manipulation tends to not see reality cleary because the manipulator have done a good job by making the victim depending on them and bulding up a reality between white lies, as if putting them in a bubble where everything seems stranger and not their. And this would lead the child of feeling an immense fear of abandonment/not being listened to, that people won't care about their opinion.
And so I also think, the child now teenager, would rebel to their father, for what he made them be and for all the things he has done to them but they can't explain cleary. But because of Will's tactics, the child would shush and think there was no point for their outburst and their sudden hate to their loved father.
Oops, so sorry this is longer than I expected ^^" you can tell I had fun writing this and I hope my thoughts have sense! Keep in mind I am not in the field of psychology and only expressing my thoughts build from my experiences. I hope this wasn't a burden to read :(
Of course it wasn’t a burden, it delights me when you guys send long asks with your takes and insights, it’s the best!
And I see what you mean, I think you’re right. I imagine Will’s daughter being very patient with him but also too permissive. She would let him get away with weird behavior, without much questioning because she is so afraid of being replaced. If Molly happened in this universe, it would devastate her. The boy would be much like Dean Winchester, I think. Devoted, but with a lot of resentment boiling up. If he had a girl and a boy then uh oh, that would be a lot of trouble. The kids would not get along and the boy would resent his sister for having a more tender aspect of their father.
I love exploring this universe, always send me any asks you have on this, it’s so fun to talk about it!
I'm curious what you meant by Will sees Hannibal's aggressions to his body in a different way than a normal person would. Could you elaborate because I agree but couldn't put it into the proper words
To a “normal” person, every violent action from Hannibal would evoke fear, a primal urge to flee, or at the very least, a confrontation, a demand for accountability (he fails every time). Yet Will has never once framed Hannibal’s actions in such terms, never once called attention to the pain inflicted upon him to claim victimhood. His relationship with Hannibal is not bound by a desire for justice. Will’s indifference to who Hannibal kills, as long as it doesn’t affect him directly (and even those he seems to dismiss quite easily).
Will has a deep obsession with Hannibal’s attention.
To Will, the marks on his body are not scars of suffering, they are proof of Hannibal’s interest, his desire, a testimony of his importance in his life. Will even seeks validation from Bedelia, asking her to confirm, which is when she says that “Hannibal likes that he is marked in such a way”. He wants to be the one that survives Hannibal, which is why he has such a loud resentment towards Bedelia, as she she too survived but was left unscathed. To Will, this suggested some type of inferiority in the way Hannibal sees Bedelia and him (“why did you not hurt her?”).
His perception of love is distorted, twisted in its very foundation. To Will, love is not tenderness or sweetness; it is not the warm embrace of affection. Love is a proving ground. If you have not seen me at my worst, how can you claim to love me? If we have not scarred each other, how can we be sure our love is real? If you have not done everything in your power to hurt me, how can I know I still want you, even after this? If love is always soft and kind, then how could I trust I actually want it? Love, to Will, must endure through pain, blood, and loss, only then can it be certain, only then does it prove itself worthy.
honeygrahambitch:
Hannibal: *compliments the Dragon in front of Will*
Will: hE Is UgLy AnD ImPoTeNt
Funny thing is, Will was most likely incorrect about him being impotent which just makes it funnier. I mean on Earth would he choose this specific insult?
Will is such an insane character. I mean, he really was testing out his potential new mate. By sending him to kill Hannibal, he couldn’t know if he’d manage (the only reason he didn’t succeed was due to gloating), but he was certainly curious if this dude who shows up offering devotion was truly all that. Guess he wasn’t. I wonder if Matthew had succeeded, what would Will do next? I mean, he would’ve tied himself to the guy in a way that would be difficult to sever himself from. I think it’s a very intriguing concept to explore, specially in fics (canon divergence where Matthew actually kills Hannibal or sends him into a coma.
Yess I do agree it is such a funny and interesting thing to talk about, I'm taking about Will being a dad! Tho it's difficult to imagine how Will would react to some things, so it's good I found my people here<3
Okay so I wanted to give some thoughts about him having a daughter first, I do agree a potential daughter would let Will get away with weird behaviour like staited in other posts, due to fear to rejectment and all of that. I also really feel like she would keep things hidden from him, I don't imagine him as the 'overprotective' parent like most people would think, but would control his daughter in a not so parental-like way. If this makes sense. An example would be her personal things in her room, like as if he needs to know what she's feeling and if she's feeling something he's not aware of. So as this sounds, no good at all. If the daughter is a sensible/fragile person, and is in the artistic field, it would make sense for her to keep a notebook with her so she can write what she feels in that moment. (It would be interesting to know how Will would see his daughter if she's a sensible person, like so fragile that the people can eat her up.)
And I also feel like there's something in her mind that tells her not to give too much information to her own father, I imagine her being paranoid to the thought of her father looking at her personal things, and him knowing everything she does.
Let's imagine first the picture of a teenager that is naturally a sensible person, a girl that feels too much and is too much empathic. She understand her own father has some problems, and doesn't want to be a burden or being looked down just because of her fragile nature. So she does everything for Will, including outside for other people around her (like school/friends). Mixed with fragility and the history she has at home, this would lead her to put herself in danger without realizing it. Sounds like Will can't let her go if she's like this, doesn't he? He probably knows better, and would know how to make her feel bad if she disagree with something.
So sorry if this sounds a bit cracky, I wanted to write down some of things I had in mind since the last post :') I hope these have somewhat sense and I hope this somewhat could open something new to muse about! aha
She would likely be very quiet, but very disruptive. It would be hard for Will to know what she’s truly up to. She would look like a quiet, dreamy girl but would know well how to hide secrets (she learned from the best).
hi!! i really loved your take about Hannigram and age regression because that is something i've not really ever seen being discussed in regards to their relationship. would you mind elaborating on that (i.e how you think it would start between them and how either would have different behaviors when in such a vulnerable state and how the other would feel caring for them)?
i'm ace myself and i'm sorry if people were giving you a hard time about sharing your own thoughts on their relationship. you should be able to share what you want on your own blog without being given a hard time for it <3
aww thank you, it’s alright, though, I blocked those people awhile ago :)
The only fic I’ve seen that explores this a little is the famous Seventh Sense, which although not explicit, it does show some behaviors, specially from Will that could be subtle age regressions. And @suchawrathfullamb ’s Tangle of Thorns explores this more directly, and I think it’s a good example of how it would realistically start.
Here’s an excerpt from the fic:
When did it start, he would ask himself sometimes. He used to think perhaps Hannibal finally did learn how to reverse time and there he was, being the teenager he never got to be. The cartwheels in his stomach, the breathlessness, the anticipation, the infatuation, the obsession, the pet names, the baby voice, for fuck’s sake. For a few seconds he would feel bad for his ex wife, but those seconds were washed away by a wave of irrelevance. Nothing could stand beside Hannibal, it all became dust next to him. In Will’s aching heart, he occupied all corners like poison, completely overtaking and lethal.
It’s deep intimacy and familiarity bred from years of living together, but it’s also an element of “this individual manages to bring the most insane and deeply buried aspects of myself to the surface”. If Hannibal is able to bring the darkness out of Will, that he suppressed so hard, and Will is able to bring vulnerability from Hannibal, that he also suppressed hard, then it’s likely that given the right conditions, they would also be able to bring the traumas from the past to the surface in a way that isn’t violent or dangerous, such as “baby voice” or, as someone said in the reblogs, “excessive nuzzling, cuddling, scenting, clinging, sleeping like entwined octopuses, little noises of contentment as they touch and kiss”.
I think it could start with something accidental, such as a drunken Will mumbling and complaining about something in a childish way. I think Hannibal would actually fall into this very easily. Not with baby voice, but as the reblog said, nuzzling, scenting, noises of contentment, etc. Hannibal is already quite tender and affectionate even in canon, so I don’t think it’s that hard to imagine him feeling very comfortable to regress with Will. Specially with nuzzling/scenting and probably playful bites, little pinching on the waist, butterfly kisses, etc.
why do you think the fandom has the dad kink with hanni and will?
Haha, because Will is this dangerous character that looks like he has a soft spot but no one gets it except for the dogs, so the fans self insert into the show as (usually) a daughter, because of the societal idea that a father is more tender towards a girl, and they want to feel like they are the “only special one”, who gets the vulnerable and caring side of the grumpy and dark guy who seemingly dislikes everyone, but them.
Most likely individuals who have a hard time feeling loved and important. They probably have felt irrelevant most of their lives so they crave to feel like the most beloved and cherish, specially if it’s by someone who isn’t easy to impress. And Hannibal because it’s very comforting to know that he monster loves you. This means you have almost nothing to fear, specially if it’s a daughter he raised, as Hannibal wouldn’t have killed her as he did Abigail (he did not know her for a long time and did not develop a deeper attachment than he would if he had raised her).
Then others see Will as vulnerable in season one and want to nourish him but they are younger so they don’t want to self insert as a mother, and they are attracted to him but either have sexual trauma (so a daughter is the safe option because it allows physical intimacy but without it being sexually invasive) or don’t see themselves getting in between Hannigram so the daughter role is the one they choose.
And if you do kink them as daddies, and want to share why (in anon if you prefer), that would be very interesting to discuss and for us as a community who likes the show and psychoanalysis to have some unserious fun about serious topics :).
to answer you: yes, I have a daddy kink with Will and I think mine stems from the desire to experience intimacy that is only eroticized but there's still that safety of it being wanted and consensual and seen as tender and paternal. Am I took fucked up? lmao
Thank you so much for answering! And no! Oh my god, of course you’re not fucked up, you are very bright and self aware for knowing yourself like this, there is no shame, it’s a good thing that you are able to channel this into something fun and safe like fiction! And I know exactly what you are saying, it’s very common for those who have struggled with sexuality to feel more safe in fantasies where a figure of fear and/or disgust becomes a figure of desire. It’s a way of taking back the narrative and turning pain into pleasure.
In answer: I’m thinking of a fic I wrote in which Abigail gets a stomach ache from Will’s secret junk food stash and Hanners makes her congee and reads to her. That’s the whole plot and so do I have a daddy kink? Maybe? My father was my favorite parent until he went MAGA so sure those stories might be wish fulfillment. But a kink I don’t know.
In the context we’re talking about here, we refer to a kink when the characters’ relationship with the daughter/child is eroticized in subtle or non subtle ways. I don’t think yours is a sign of that, it seems like a fantasy about normal parent/child interaction!
how different do you think hannibal and wills story would be if hannibal had worked from the outside in rather than the inside out? rather than slowly getting his hooks into wills psyche, just straight up seducing him successfully from the beginning. i know we can make jokes and assumptions that they could have hooked up in season two but i wonder. like if the physical romance was already there, how much more difficult would it be for will to resist hannibal? or would it not change much at all? these are my shower thoughts lol, i enjoy your thoughts so i thought i’d run it by you
In a way, getting his hooks into Will’s psyche was Hannibal “straight up seducing him successfully”. Will, specially in season one, was way too lost and repressed to accept a direct, physical approach to seduction. I believe if Hannibal had tried something else, then it would have to be to seduce him through the Ripper, since Will was infatuated with him (as a killer) already. And to answer your question, I think it would change a lot, yes. Will is touched starved and Hannibal is a touch master. Will would have a hard time letting go of the level of pleasure and affection he’d get from Hannibal in this canon-divergence.
on the musing abouti daddy kinking hannigram, embarassingky enough, i honestly never ever got the daddy kink thing, had an ex who called me by it during sex for a bit and it didnt put me off but i didnt really enjoy it either. then after many many fandoms i stumble on hannibal and for some reason these mfs are the only ones thst do it to me? its really hannibal mkre than will, my dad died when i was 16, and in a way that totally puts my dad on a pedastal he reminds me of hannibal in that he was always the scariest man in any room, capable of great violence, but very intelligent and not necessarily a show off. not good at expressing emotions and causing pain theough any attempt. my memory has forced me to forget a loooot of the negative parts of my relationship i had with my dad even though it was only a few years ago and so i struggle to connect whyy i sexualize normal moments he has with abigail (not that i think he was predatory to her but more so god i wish i was her bc even in that context of a paternal figure id find that so sexually affirming) . and whyyy daddy kink hannibal fics give me a feeling of security, a good kind of embarassment, a weird sense of freedom, and obviously that level of comfort making it feel easier for me to express sexual desires ? idk. maybe i explained it to you. dont feel pressured to reply im just curious if this inspires any rhoughts if not then i appreciate u letting me ramble and open this avenue of thought at least to myself
Thank you so much for having the vulnerability to share! It’s more common than you think! You said an ex called you “by it”, by it, did you mean daddy? If so, are you trans or a cis man? Perhaps neither and your ex was just calling you daddy cause they wanted to haha.
Asking because I have been noticing an interesting pattern in Will vs Hannibal daddy fantasies between cis women and trans men, and I am finding it very fascinating, if you don’t mind me asking, of course!
Either way, we can definitely try to understand this. So by remembering your father primarily as an authoritative yet emotionally distant figure, you create a narrative where his power and intelligence are foregrounded, while his emotional shortcomings are softened. Hannibal fits into this reconstructed memory perfectly, because he is dominant, powerful, emotionally restrained, and yet highly protective (at least in his own twisted way).
The safety found in daddy kink Hannibal fics likely stems from the fantasy of an all-knowing, all-controlling figure who provides structure and approval, something that might have been inconsistently given in childhood. The paternal figure might represent both the superego (moral authority) and the object of forbidden desire (the Oedipal dynamic), making this attraction a way to reconcile those two forces.
Your wish to be in Abigail’s place, even in a non-sexual father-daughter dynamic, suggests that Abigail represents an idealized version of yourself in relation to the father figure. This could be an attempt to rewrite your past relationship, to imagine a dynamic where paternal approval and security are tied to erotic affirmation rather than emotional distance or neglect. Desire is structured around a lack, you crave Hannibal’s approval (as a stand-in for your father’s), and in fantasy, this approval is inherently sexualized.
The fact that “normal moments” between Hannibal and Abigail feel sexually affirming to you suggests that authority and care, when coming from a father figure, are erotically charged due to their scarcity in reality. Because Hannibal, like your father, is emotionally distant and capable of harm, his approval or tenderness becomes exceptional…and that rarity makes it even more desirable. Eroticizing these moments may be a way of regaining control over past emotional deprivation, transforming it into something you can derive pleasure from rather than something painful or unresolved.
The daddy kink fics providing a “good kind of embarrassment” and a sense of freedom points to the psychological relief found in submission within a structured, paternalistic dynamic. Embarrassment implies vulnerability, but when it is safe, when the authority figure (Hannibal) provides approval and guidance, it becomes affirming rather than humiliating. Relinquishing control within a defined structure paradoxically creates a space where deeper desires can be safely explored. The emotional distance of the father figure (Hannibal) makes this dynamic even more appealing because it turns approval into something that must be earned, heightening its value.
Keep indulging in those fics, they help you resolve a lot of unconscious issues, providing a safe way to engage with them! <3
First off I felt totally called out in your answer about why some people in Hannibal fandom have a daddy kink. I (cis woman) have this fantasy where I get badly hurt and either Hannibal or Will sees me hurt and then takes care of me. It's actually more about being seen than saved. In both cases what is appealing to me is the aspect that I don't think Will or Hannibal is a very caring person so for them to care about me I must have some value. Often I imagine myself as Will because it makes it more believable ad I don't have to imagine my (or a female) body. Not that any gender deserves to get hurt more than others. It just puts a barrier between me and the imagined violence.
In general I have found a lot of healing while being in this fandom. I have childhood sexual trauma and have had a lot of difficulty dealing with it. I'm in my mid twenties and have just now started dating someone for the first time in my life and I have no idea how to navigate this! Touch in particular is really hard but fortunately I've found someone really patient even though they don't know what's going on. Through this fandom I've come to accept parts of me that I've had a lot of shame about. For a really long time I've resented all the kinky parts of myself out of fear. I felt that they made me evil or more like my abuser. But it feels easier now to own them. I feel really grateful for all of the people who make content in this fandom!!!
I get it, anon! Imagining ourselves as either Will or Hannibal is very common in the fandom and most fandoms, in reality! It’s a way to dissociate, it’s why the majority of those who engage in m/m fiction are cis women or trans men, as it offers a way to dissociate from the female body that might have suffered trauma.
And you’re absolutely right, it does offer a sense of value in this fantasy that you are being cared for individuals who don’t seem to care about much else. It’s the appeal of “dark characters”.
I’m so glad you’ve found healing and a safe place to engage in things that were painful and now have a vessel for you to regain some control over the narrative and find a way to heal <3.
I love the name Mia!<3 sounds like a name Will would choose for her.
When you said 'disruptive' and 'hide secrets' made me think of something...Like, maybe she would talk a little around her father at some point, maybe as a way to make him think she wants his attention? But I mean in a way like she wants to know how her father would react to that, even if small. And then to bigger yells of attention.🤔
I kind of imagine Mia as a girl who analyzes whoever is there in front of her and gives a critical judgment in her head first, finding imperfections and small signs that usually escape the eye of all people. And so she did to her father, but it's hard to analyze him fully. That's probably a secret she keeps by heart, because she'd go to the line of 'not everyone deserve to know every secrets you have.' , including her own father.
Mia means mine in some languages, so I thought it would be fitting that possessive dad Will would choose that name :).
She’d be a very smart girl, I agree. I believe Mia would be a tricky kid to deal with, due to Will’s inability to reinforce boundaries, and so she would not know how to draw a line at what’s her problem and what’s her dad’s problem.
Okay so I am a sucker for data and surveys so I thought I could add to the uhhh discussion of daddy kink in the Hannibal fandom? For context, I’m a trans man, since you inquired about that earlier for an anon. For most daddy kink fics and just in general, it’s not so much of the title but more so the actual care and attention? And even for the title, I honestly prefer Dad over Daddy. My father was emotionally & physically abusive when I was younger, so there’s also that. I was sexually abused when I was younger as well, though the exact figure who did it is unknown. I relate to anon’s jealousy(?) of parental scenes with Abigail and Hannibal, as well as their unintentional sexualization of those scenes, but only when applied to them.
Oh how interesting, thank you so much for sharing, anon! It does add to the intriguing data hahaha.
I have a theory that this dynamic stems from how Will embodies qualities typically associated with femininity and the “girl dad” archetype, while Hannibal, rather than being his direct opposite, occupies a more complex and nuanced role. This could explain why, within the “daddy” niche, cis women tend to prefer Will, while trans men gravitate toward Hannibal.
To expand on this: Will’s affection is not contingent on anything other than existence itself, he loves without condition, without expectation. His is a passive, all-encompassing kind of care, making him fit the “girl dad” role; he would not demand much from a daughter, allowing her to explore the world freely, without judgment or constraint. Hannibal, by contrast, is a sculptor of those he loves. He does not simply accept: he refines, shapes, and nurtures toward an ideal. His child would not only be cherished but also carefully molded, held to high expectations, yet guided with precision and tenderness.
These preferences may reflect different paternal experiences. The cis women I’ve spoken to in this fandom often describe relationships with fathers marked by either abuse or an enmeshed, complicated bond. Meanwhile, many trans men recount a dynamic of maternal codependency or emotionally distant fathers, figures they perceived as cold or disappointed in them. These formative relationships seem to influence the way father figures are later internalized, idealized, and, at times, eroticized in fantasy.
Of course, this is a broad generalization based on patterns I’ve observed within this fandom, specifically among those engaged in this particular fantasy. If it doesn’t resonate with you, that’s entirely understandable…it’s not meant as a universal truth. What fascinates me is how these early dynamics shape the fantasies we construct around paternal love, authority, and desire.
I am in the camp that I would Will would call Hannibal daddy in bed, although I think it would mortify Will at first..... I think his repressions just wouldn't be able to stay repressed forever, especially with Hannibal and his aura. An older man, in control, exudes a type of comfort/safety, seems to be a natural caregiver (when he's not eating people of course lmao)
Hahaha, that’s certainly a theory, anon! I think Will is way too daddy himself to do it just out of a natural inclination, but I do think they would 100% roleplay, so in that context I think Will would love to call Hannibal daddy. And honestly? Lowkey vice versa!
in response to the dad kink topic of conversation with hannigran
1) damn really just calling me out
i watched the show for the first time when i was in a very tense situation with my parents (planning on moving out the second i turned 18) and while i thought both will and hannibal were attractive, i spent far more time thinking about them in father figure roles. i think the hug that hannibal gives abigail in the kitchen (we all know the one) was what really solidified his role as Dad™️ in my head
2) i hadn’t even thought about the whole “dangerous towards everyone but me” aspect of a will/daughter dynamic, but now that you’ve put it into words, i think you’re completely spot on. i wouldn’t say that i was closer with my own father (he was a withdrawn man who spoke little and emoted even less) but i preferred that over my mother’s constant lectures and preferential treatment of my siblings, and i think that’s why will appealed to me as Dad™️
he was the perfect blend of my real life father’s lack of affection but with the perfect addition of: he COULD be soft and affectionate if given the chance (as seen with his dogs) and i found myself yearning for that emotional connection
3) i’m not proud of it but i spent months after watching the show living within my own head (much like will does at times) imagining a scenario where i was will’s daughter that hannibal also ends up feeling a paternal bond with….and much like will, i was more than willing to overlook the damage hannibal was able to inflict because he showed care as he plunged the metaphorical and literal knife down.
sorry this is long winded
Thank you for sharing! This is fascinating, and how everything works in the psyche. And I don’t think you should be ashamed of spending a lot of time inside your head, anon. Sometimes it’s the only safe place we have! <3
Not going anon here lmao as someone who tags Mads Mikkelsen as daddy on the regular I'm quite enjoying reading all these H&W theories! And honestly.... I cant pretend to feel shame either lmao if anyone deserves the tag then its that man IMO
Absolutely. No shame over here! We celebrate healthy ways to engage in our unique sexualities haha!
Okay so I am not cis, but I'm not a trans man either, I float somewhere in the gender spectrum of "i have no idea but i sure as hell am not cis". That being said I AM afab. And I find myself very drawn to daddy kink and hannigram, but I dont find myself placing Me in these imagined scenarios. I apply the kink to them, or other ships, but if I try to imagine myself as part of the imagined scene it becomes instantly disconcerting.
I think I've always projected onto fiction but also draw a very strong line between Myself and Fiction. So to put myself in these scenarios, even imagined, defeats the purpose for my mind. I think it helps to know i was sexually abused at a very young age, and again in my teen years, so I wonder if the disconnect comes from not wanting myself to be in a sexual situation but finding coping by putting it onto fictional characters where its not real and thus cannot touch me.
Thought sharing my perspective might be an interesting outlier answer compared to the ones you've gotten so far haha
Thanks for sharing! I think most fans self insert in an indirect way, as in they don’t imagine their literal selves, but rather create a character that they can project into but still remains distant enough for the mind to actually enjoy the fantasy, so I think that might be what you mean? It’s very common. I’d say it’s rare for people who suffered abuse to literally self insert, most of us need the safety of a somewhat different character that we can step into but it’s not literally us :).
thedeathofthelamb:
it’s so fucking odd that Will got married. It shows just how much he truly was in love with Hannibal and considered him an actual life partner, cause tell me how???? this man on his late thirties who had been single and isolated by choice, meets his soulmate, everything goes wrong and then he cannot deal with loneliness anymore and suddenly gets married. no wonder Molly is such an important element of reinforcement for hannigram…
Hi, how are you? Could you do some kind of headcanon about how Will Graham's character would react to his girlfriend cheating?
Realistically? I don’t think he would care on an emotional level since he barely had a deep connection with his wife, let alone any type of girlfriend (which is such a funny term in regards to Will). He might use the excuse to kill them or at least the other person, although I don’t think he would either, since he prefers to kill what he considers “bad people”.
Ok I need to ask this; Will's and Hannibal's reaction of their daughter killing an animal at a young age and then later on a person?
(if she was raised by both Will and Hannibal I mean)
If their daughter killed an animal at a young age, Will would meet the revelation with his usual blank expression, perhaps just the barest furrow of his brow, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He’d ask her why. Did the animal hurt her? Was she curious? He wouldn’t raise his voice. Instead, he’d make her bury it or dispose of it properly, watching her the entire time, searching for signs. If she was curious, he would redirect that curiosity: introducing her to anatomy through already-dead creatures, controlled, methodical. If it was self-defense, he’d teach her how to avoid harm without inflicting it in return.
But in the back of his mind, he would know. He’s seen this before, hundreds of times, on crime scene photos and in interrogation rooms. The first tell-tale sign, the first domino in a chain that doesn’t end well. But how could he judge? How could he call it monstrous when he himself had stood on that same path so many times?
Hannibal, on the other hand, would be amused. He’d watch Will’s reaction with veiled interest, perhaps even suggesting to their daughter that she keep it from him, just to see how long she could. He wouldn’t scold her, not as a child. But he would explain the concept of unnecessary cruelty, not out of morality, but principle. Killing for a reason is art; killing without purpose is wasteful. He would let the moment pass, filing it away for later.
And later would come. When she was eighteen, maybe twenty, and a body lay at her feet instead of an animal’s.
Will would stare. Silent for a long moment, before asking in that slow, measured cadence of his, “Why did you kill this person?” The same way he asked if the social worker was inside the horse. Not condemning, not accepting…just peeling back the layers of an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted.
He would help her. Of course, he would help her. Moving the body, hiding the evidence, all with the efficiency of a man who has done this before, who knows exactly how much blood will seep into the floorboards and what it takes to scrub it out. But when it was done, he’d take away her weapons. He’d tell her, not in anger but in frustration, that she was being reckless. That she was jeopardizing herself. That she was too young to be this careless.
And depending on her reasons, he would either lecture her in that circuitous, disorienting way of his, never fully condemning, but never truly approving…or, if he found himself understanding her, if he agreed in some way, he would say nothing at all. Just a blank stare, a slow nod. “Next time, you tell me,” he would say, his voice even, unreadable. “Don’t take matters into your own hands.”
Hannibal, predictably, wouldn’t care in the slightest. If anything, he’d be more offended by the lack of refinement. He would chide her, not for the act, but for her lack of precision, her lack of grace. He’d insist she learn, properly, under his guidance, he’d want to shape her hand around a blade. And then he would probe. For hours, for days. Picking apart her reasoning, setting her mind through a labyrinth of psychological experiments, orchestrating little tests of control, just to see what she would do.
And as for Will and Hannibal themselves, there would be arguments. Will would say they ruined her, Hannibal would insist that nothing is ruined, that everything is subjective. They’d circle each other with words the way they always do, pushing and pulling in a dance we all know too well.
Hi, this is for the anon who was talking about using fandom to cope with surviving csa. I’m a survivor too, though I’ve got some more distance on it.
I thought I’d gotten past it.
There’s a story, though, that showed me I still have a lot of work to do. I’m nervous about putting it forward because . . . saying “trigger warning” doesn’t scratch the surface. It’s not about the event itself. In fact you can skip that entirely. It’s about all the unhealthy ways we blindly cope afterward, believing we’re doing what it takes to survive.
I knew it was a dark fic, and I generally like those, but I’m not exaggerating when I say it put me in a full body anxiety attack so deep I almost landed in the ER. I got back into therapy That Day. It was a violent way to crack through the repression, though a necessary one, for me.
But I encourage the other anon to proceed with extreme caution. Especially since Hannibal and Will are generally their comfort characters, and in this fic they’re the aggressors toward Hugh Dancy’s character Adam.
It feels insane to say “this hurts so much, try it!” but the anon talked about feeling seen. Reading that story made me feel more seen in my stumbling recovery than decades of therapists and well intentioned loved ones.
The story is Shelter Us, Harbor Me by lovetinture. It’s is skillfully and wrenchingly well written. If they’re interested, I wrote a follow up story called Seaglass to help process the firestorm of emotions Shelter Us caused and try to get the characters to a place of peace.
I wish them well in their recovery, and I thank you for facilitating such raw and necessary conversations.
Oh, wow, thank you for sharing. I’m curious to understand the plot, so I too will be checking this out! Proceed with caution everyone who wants to read it! And I’m so glad you were able to move through that, anon, triggers can be quite brutal, I’m glad you were able to get help <3.
Coming back here to just thank the anon who answered my ask about csa. That answer warmed my heart thank you so much. I rarely get to connect about these topics with people let alone with someone who understands and can (unfortunately) relate. It makes me sad to think that there are so many people who feel alone and isolated in trying to recover from csa. I will go and take a look at that fic you suggested. I usually find fics a safe place to explore feelings about abuse even though they may be heavy and difficult at times. Take care, I hope you the best!
<3. I’m currently reading it and it’s a very interesting take on Will’s character, certainly one most of us haven’t considered or perhaps one most of us would never consider. I’m enjoying so far, it’s well written and the relationships are really intriguing.
Wow I loved reading your post about Will's and Hannibal's daughter killing, it was so interesting!! Your writing is so eye candy to me, it also helps me to have an excuse to read more in English aha.<3 (What if we give their daughter a name, or maybe we can just go with Mia?🤔)
About her as a kid killing animals, I would think she's curious to know how they work, and if Will ends up explaining, she might use the informations in the future for sure.
And to make this a bit more 'tragic', what about her growing up with some problems as well? In her teenagerhood, when she starts school, I feel like she's not enterly interessed in school, and this leads her to not give her 100% to study and all. And I can tell Hannibal is not gonna be so happy about this, because she'd prefer daydreaming or do other things than passing the whole day studying and all.
And when she becomes a young adult, and starts with killing...I think she'd kill for reasons, not just because she wants to or because her brains tells her to do it. If she was exposed to abuse in her teenager hood, like going with the wrong company (which can be also be related to Mia somehow..) and then be hurt by it? She wants revenge, so this contradicts Hannibal's 'view' of killing a person for art. And with revenge, it would be going out her way to find all the people who hurted her in the past, that used her. She would showing signs of rage in the smallest things, like yelling at her fathers for the smallest things, or purposely rebelling and not listening to them. Or even more extreme, turning to self-destructive behavior to try to keep emotions in check. A constant repressed anger that she can't explain, and that she doesn't see because she is trapped in a bubble that her manipulative abusers have put her in.
In my obnoxious psychoanalyst mind, Amara (let’s call her Amara?) could never have been anything but studious. With Will and Hannibal as her fathers, intelligence was not just valued, it was a currency, a language, an expectation. She grew up in a house where knowledge was power and where ignorance was, at best, a weakness, at worst, an offense. Hannibal, with his cultivated elegance, would never have allowed a daughter of his to be anything less than refined, well-read, and articulate. Will, with his sharp mind and restless thoughts, would have instilled in her an instinctive understanding of analysis, of pulling apart the threads of a person to see what lay beneath.
But for her to resist this? To reject academia, to be something other than a product of their careful shaping? It would take something catastrophic. A break. A wound so deep that even Hannibal’s carefully applied sutures couldn’t close it. He was too charming, too subtly insidious, to be outright defied without cause. He didn’t demand love; he made himself irresistible. His approval was a prize, his disappointment a punishment so quiet and profound it could shape the course of a life. And Will, who flinched away from his own nature, who feared seeing too much of himself in her, would never give her the kind of clarity she longed for.
If she resisted, it would not be from nothing. If she rebelled, it would be because something inside her had broken against them.
Perhaps if she had a disability, with a high need of support, with a mind that did not fold so easily, a mind that existed almost entirely outside of the external world, then that would make sense. Otherwise, she would be moldable, shaped entirely by their hands. She would be academically gifted, of course, there was no way Hannibal would allow for anything less, but also artistic. She wouldn’t have been given a choice. Music, painting, literature, all of it would have been pressed into her from a young age, not as an indulgence, but as a necessity. A Lecter must be cultured.
Boundaries, though? Morality? That was another story. How could she understand something so abstract when it had never been clearly defined for her? When killing was not a crime but a question of taste, of necessity, of circumstance? If she ever killed, it wouldn’t be for revenge, or for anger, or for any deeply rooted sense of justice. It would be because. Because that was simply a thing that happened in her world. Because it had never been presented as anything but a possibility.
Romance was an impossibility. Not because she wasn’t capable of it, but because they wouldn’t allow it. Hannibal would ensure that anyone who came too close mysteriously disappeared, and Will, despite his reluctance to involve himself, would never truly let anyone have her. Not because he wanted to control her, but because he didn’t trust himself, didn’t trust what he had passed down. And besides, she didn’t have many people interested. She was too strange to them, too unsettling. Children her age avoided her. She was the one adults and teachers adored, but her peers found her off-putting. Too articulate, too composed, too unlike them.
She reached for Will constantly, but he was just out of reach. He never truly let her in, never asked her what was in her head, too afraid of what he might find. Afraid of the possibility that he had passed his darkness to her, that she was infected with something. And on the other side, there was Hannibal, always asking too much, prying, dissecting, folding back the layers of her mind like he was peeling an orange. She wanted to tell Will everything, perhaps because he didn’t want to know. Perhaps because she wanted to force him to look at her, really look at her, and see whatever it was he was afraid of.
She knew she was wanted. She had not been an accident, not a burden, but something willed into existence by love and desire alone. And yet, she felt like an intruder in her own home. When she was small, she had been a miracle, the center of their world. Hannibal had lavished her with attention, Will had brushed his fingers through her hair with affection.
But now she was nothing more than the shadow of what she had once been. Hannibal cared more about what Will thought of dinner than what she had to say. Will no longer reached for her, no longer reassured her presence with a touch. She was the leftover glow of something that had already burned bright and faded, the toy that had once been beloved, but now sat forgotten on a shelf, collecting dust.
Hi milk, I love all your analysis about Hannibal and Will.
Especially how it would be if they had a daughter. And you said that they, especially Hannibal, would make sure that their daughter is well educated ( art, history, literature, manners, culture, and so on) but also in academics.
But what do you think if the daughter has a learning disability? Severe ADHD, dyslexia or 'mathematical dyslexia' ( I forgot what it's called, I hope you know what I mean)
I'm dyslexic and have ADHD myself, and even most psychologists don't really understand it fully, because the problems are something you just can't explain to someone who doesn't have it themselves.
I think Hannibal would try and figure out how to accommodate her and Will might figure something out with his empathy.
But what do you think about it?
As a psychiatrist and general doctor, it’s certain Hannibal would find many ways to accommodate or, because he doesn’t that type of personality, would try to experiment with her to see if he can “fix” her or perhaps even create something entirely new. He loves to play God, after all.
Will would certainly be empathetic, yes. We’ve seen him with Peter, and Georgia. He seems to feel like he is also disabled somehow and that he can relate to them.
I think Hannibal would put even more effort into her education in this context. He would likely take it as a challenge. And he would make sure he’d find something she is naturally good at, turning her weaknesses into strengths. Again something he seems to enjoy doing.
This fic is terrible. Terrible in the way a tragedy is, in the way disaster unfolds before your eyes, compelling and inescapable. It is perfectly written, crafted with such precision that you can’t look away. Like a documentary recounting something horrific, like news footage looping devastation, it grips you with that morbid, unrelenting curiosity…how bad does it get? Does it sink deeper, or is there any way out? Why is this happening?
It’s the worst-case scenario, the nightmare of the abused becoming the abuser, of captor and captive dissolving into one indistinguishable whole. Stockholm syndrome, a love story that isn’t a love story, affection so twisted it circles back around to something horrifyingly tender. And it feels real…so real it becomes surreal, like a fever dream too vivid to be anything but memory, like trauma itself.
It confuses, frustrates, unsettles. It sends chills down your spine even as it does something else, something unspoken, something shameful. It’s indulgent in the most sickly sweet way, in the way trauma tries to rewrite itself, twisting, bending reality into something survivable, something that makes sense.
Every word out of Will’s mouth is a flashback, a visceral tug backward, maybe to personal memories, maybe to something older, deeper. Perhaps to something carved into the bones of every woman ever born, an inheritance of fear, of knowing.
And it is perfectly written. Unafraid. It walks the razor’s edge between exploitation and exploration, between something obscene and something revelatory. The line blurs, dissolves. Was there ever a point? Is this about healing, or is it simply a place where the sickest minds come to indulge?
But it is something. It exists, and that is reason enough to read it. It is bad and dark and awful.
Good luck.
i do NOT have a daddy kink. I've tried, i really have, it's just not there for me. i was assigned female at birth, for your aggregated data collection purposes
so my interest in Hannibal lies elsewhere. I do think their dynamic with Abby is cool though
Hahaha, why would you try, anon?! No, that’s very okay! The data is only for the ones who do have the kink, though haha, but thanks for sharing! Of course, there are all kinds of fantasies and preferences in the fandom :).
Hi, this is the fic rec anon again. I’m torn between thanking you for reading the story and apologizing for putting it in your orbit. Like the other anon said, this can be an isolating headspace to be in.
In that vein, I wanted to ask you for something, and I’m struggling to say it right. Would you, if/when you have time, read my follow-up story? It’s not nearly as skillful as Shelter Us, it’s my first fiction story. I wrote it in a furor of - idk - obsession, terror, self-preservation, and bleak determination to wrench myself back from the emotional cliff. I think I did alright, but they’re big footsteps to walk in.
It’s really uncomfortable asking. Obviously, there’s the addictive gratification of an artist gaining approval that seems both universal and shameful. But more than that, so much deeper than that, there’s a raw plea for people to tell me the hope I clawed back from the jaws of this story isn’t just a self indulgent fantasy. That a story of healing can be as real as the destruction that preceded it.
And perhaps most intimidating of all, I like to imagine that maybe my hope can be shared. We feel like we’re alone but we’re not. We can’t see each other in the dark, but we’re there.
I want to reach out and grab someone’s hand, offering and taking strength. But how on earth do I do that when my means of expressing myself is wrapped in so many layers of obscurity and horror?
It’s not like I’m going to be able to sit Work Bestie down and say, first we’re going to watch a show where murder and cannibalism are metaphors for love. Then I’m going to explain the HEU and how a mediocre movie is somehow the best portrayal of the emotional isolation that comes from being forced to mask in exchange for affection. Then an even more mediocre movie where the best part is the antagonist who appears for a grand total of seven minutes. Then you’re going to read a gut punch of a story where the characters I’ve asked you to love and empathize with all brutalize each other. THEN you’ll be ready to understand what I’m trying to tell you about my emotional state.
How the hell?
But you’ve gotten to step 4 out of 5. I don’t have to pull you into my world, you got here on your own, and I am starved to the bone for company.
You don’t know me, you don’t owe me anything. Just getting this far is a lot to invest emotionally on the word of an internet stranger. But I have to ask. I have to ask every time I get a chance like this. Maybe the fear of asking is part of the work. I don’t know. I’m still just stumbling forward.
Either way, thank you again.
Please, never feel ashamed to ask validation on your art. It’s something we all crave. I read it. I found your ending much more satisfying. The ending of the original story made me sick to my stomach, even though it is the more “realistic” one, unfortunately. So thank you for rewriting it in my head, something had been haunting me, but it has been replaced with your story <3.
Tysm for opening up the discussion on daddy kink and sa trauma healing! I wrote a fic similar to the one anon recommended but it was Will and his biological daughter, but I was too afraid to post it so I never did. I was shocked at how you were able to analyze the daughter in the same way I wrote her. Anyway tysm, love your blog!
Aw no problem, it’s a necessity, really. And honestly, anon? Post your fic. We’ve seen it all in ao3 hahaha, just make sure you tag it properly, but do it as long as we still have freedom of expression. It means something to you and if you want to, post it. Our fandom is much more understanding and accepting for these darker themes than most.
Lesbian Hannigrammer with a daddy kink thing, yes we exist!!! I love both of them RPing as Daddy for each other. Peace and love on planet earth
Yes hahaha! <3
How do you think Will's daughter he raised on his own differs from the one with Hannibal? I loved the analysis but they seem different and I was wondering why.
The difference between Mia and Amara is rooted in the men who raised them, their circumstances, their needs, the versions of Will Graham they belonged to.
Mia was raised by season one Will. A man isolated, desperate for connection yet terrified of the ache that comes with it. She was not an individual to him but a creation, a totem of unconditional love, affection, and acceptance, the things he craved but could never truly touch. She became every feminine archetype in his life: maiden, mother, lover. The embodiment of the illusion that he was good, something he clung to with white-knuckled desperation.
She was born when Will was barely twenty, so before he had control, before he understood the shape of his own mind. She was a product of that chaos, a little insect trapped in the web of his need. He kept her close, too close, because he had no one else. She was his, and that meant she was him.
Amara was different. Amara was forged by love, not need. She was not a desperate grasp for stability but a calculated act of defiance, a miracle Hannibal created simply because he could. A challenge to God, a work of art. She was perfect, sculpted by two men who wanted to prove that they could make life itself bow to their will, defying the laws of nature.
But perfection dulls. The shine of her infancy wore off.
This Will was no longer searching for meaning through another person, he had Hannibal. He no longer needed a companion to tell him he was good. Now, he feared connection, because Hannibal destroyed everything he bonded with.
And so Amara became an offering, an attempt at something untouchable. If she belonged to both of them, then perhaps Hannibal would not ruin her. Because she belonged to him as well.
Hi! I’m a cis queer woman and a fellow Hannibal fan ofc. While I don’t personally enjoy daddy kink or dynamics like that (even though I did have a rough childhood, which is a noted contributor), I think your impromptu poll on this is very interesting because it dips into a trend I’ve always noticed— people in the Hannibal fandom tend to be more open to or likely to participate in/have “harder” kinks or ones that society as a whole may find awkward or even taboo-adjacent. Many of us are also prone to enjoying contemplating and analyzing things more and have more of a philosophical-adjacent mindset than others. I think it’s very telling about this that the core message of the show is understanding and acceptance and that subjects like violence, manipulation, cannibalism, mutual power struggle, etc are things that contribute intrinsically to the character’s stories in a way that has a gloss of deeper meaning and symbolism. So I think it has a unique edge in drawing in people who are neurodivergent/live with mental disorders like BPD or DID, are queer, interested in certain kinks, or may otherwise be inclined to view those things more objectively in the fictional context and be more willing to think on them. Anyways. Those asks and responses of yours have been making me wonder what percent of the fandom is into daddy/mommy kink, harder kinks like knifeplay or bondage, monsterfucking, or have a different mindset around things like death, morality, connection, etc…. Maybe someone should make a big poll questionnaire lol. Thanks for reading my very lengthy ask that’s more of a letter to the blog author lol 🫶
Absolutely! The nature of the show contributed to the kind of people that participate in fandom, I think it’s why it has endured the test of time, frankly. Other fandoms who tend to be more prude, have a rotting quality to them. It gets exhausting after awhile. It’s tiring to feel as if you have to hide or over explain yourself all the time to avoid the flood of judgement. I love it here. I love our freaky little corner.
Milk, do you think that version of Will (from Shelter me) could realistically exist?
Some of it, I do. In my theory Will is schizophrenic so the episodes are likely to happen. That specific type of abuse? No, I don’t Will would become the perpetrator of this type of violence. His preferences seem to lie elsewhere, in the shady paths where he always remains a victim.
hii, do you know any good Will as a dad fanfiction you personally enjoyed? i'm having a hard time finding them🥺🙏🏻
No :( I feel like most fans are only now getting the courage to expose their daddy fantasies, so hopefully we’ll be getting some in the near future! For now, it seems we are all accidentally sharing our little headcanons, so maybe that’s something you can enjoy? Maybe I’ll venture into it and write one myself but writing fiction is so overwhelming :(
Ouch, that was too deep. But I still loved reading it piece by piece.<3
Amara is a pretty name, and I can't help but wonder if it was inspirated by an italian word perhaps?🤔 Because 'Amara' would mean 'bitter', but refering to a girl. And 'Mia' means 'mine', still refering to a girl. I'm asking because I'm actually Italian myself, so these were my observations to the matter!
And about Amara again...Ouch, I never experienced anything like she did, but as an empathic person myself, my heart feels sore for her. I can imagine her being so in sore about the whole situation (refering to her teenager years), that she would unload all the pain on sheets of paper with her signature on each ones. Those sheets contain sadness, anger, and acceptance. A mix that even she has difficulty understanding and explaining. But she has the feeling that Hannibal, her own father, is the cause of her constant confusion and eternal sadness. (Maybe that's also why Will is so scared to know what she may feel, maybe because he tried to read one of those sheets..)
And so she would try to turn the damage they have done, in some ways. Maybe one day when she strangely managed to get the attention of both her fathers, she would unload some kind of realization, that she always wanted to use as a dagger. To see a reaction, to be seen. To be understood. After all, Hannibal insisted so much on having an educated daughter, a lover of writing and literature, who knows how to communicate.
Hm, maybe she'd something like…
"Imagine being skinned alive, and then being told to function normally for the rest of your life. Get. Over. It."
(I read this somewhere, but I have some ideas in my head about what she would say or how she would express her feelings...If I get some ideas, I would totally share if that's okay.<3)
-🐛
Yes, Amara means both bitter and love (variations of it) in different languages! I thought it was fitting hahaha.
I think she would be a Margot type of woman, you know? Keeps to herself, only finds strength later in life. I wonder about the dynamic of some universe where she and Mia meet each other. I know Mia would resent Abigail, but I wonder how she’d feel about Amara.
please write a daddy hannigram please please I'm begging!
Rotten Meat.
“Full name.”
“Mia.”
“Full name.” The nurse barely looked up, his tone flat with impatience.
“Right. Sorry. Mia Graham.”
A sigh. He wrote it down.
“Mia Graham. Date of birth.”
“December 18th, 1996.”
More scribbling. Mia shifted her weight, glancing around the reception area. Stale air. Harsh lights. The distant hum of something mechanical, endless.
“Age.”
She stared at him. “Can’t you figure that out by my date of birth?”
“Do I look like a mathematician?” He gave her a dry look.
She rolled her eyes. “Nineteen.”
“No jewelry.”
A grunt of irritation, but she pulled off her rings, her bracelet, her necklace, and dropped them into the box he held up. He handed her a folded set of clothes in exchange.
“Put these on. There’s a bathroom behind that door.”
She took the pile, hesitated, then went inside. The tiles were cold under her feet. As she changed, her mind worked through the possibilities. The place. The rules. The people. How long she’d be here. She needed to get out. She needed to get to her dad.
She stepped out in the facility uniform, handed over her old clothes. A toiletry kit was pressed into her hands.
“Follow me.”
The hallway stretched out ahead of them, long and sterile, white walls swallowing sound.
She hesitated, then—"Do you know if my father was caught?“
The nurse didn’t answer right away. His brow lifted. A sigh, short and annoyed. "No.”
“No, he wasn’t caught, or no, you don’t know?”
“No.” His voice was sharp now so she swallowed the frustration.
They reached a door. He swiped a keycard, the lock beeped, and the door swung open.
“This is your room. No food inside, only water. No noise past nine. You need to be here at seven, every day. Wake-up is at eight.”
And then the door clicked shut behind her.
She stared at it, exhaled slowly.
“Are you crazy?”
The voice had a strange lilt, the accent unfamiliar. Mia turned.
A girl sat on one of the beds, a book open in her lap. Platinum blonde hair, almost white, smooth and glossy like something artificial. Honey-colored eyes appraised her.
“Uh… no?”
“Okay. Well. Then. Welcome to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Children of the Criminally Insane.” A smile. Dry, sarcastic.
Mia lifted an eyebrow. “Thanks.”
“I’m Amara.”
“Mia.”
Amara gestured lazily toward the other bed. “Mia, this is Savannah.”
The girl lying there didn’t look up, just acknowledged Mia with a slight nod, pencil moving over the paper in her lap.
“Hey,” Mia muttered, dropping her things onto the remaining bed. The room was as bleak as expected.
“Not very homey, is it?” Amara mused.
“Nope.” Mia didn’t look at her, just focused on organizing her space.
“So… Mia. Mia what again?”
“Mia Graham.”
“I’m Lecter. Amara Lecter.”
Mia stilled, then turned, taking her in again.
“Lecter as in…”
“Yes, yes, father is quite notorious.” Amara waved a hand dismissively, like she was used to this. “But tell me about you, Mia. Why are you here? Or, better yet, who’s your father?”
Mia hesitated. Hannibal Lecter’s daughter. It wasn’t every day you met the child of a literal monster.
“Or is it a mother?” Amara went on. “I have to say, I’m dying for some killer moms here. All we get are dads, which is predictable.”
“Um. No.” Mia shifted. “My dad’s not a serial killer.”
Amara’s smile curled at the edges. “Oh, I didn’t assume he was. Not everyone’s father is as… interesting as mine. But he’s something, isn’t he?”
Mia said nothing. Just sat down on the bed.
“Savannah’s dad is the Tooth Fairy,” Amara added.
Mia snapped her head up. “Holy shit.”
“Right? As you can see, we have quite the paternal figures. Which makes me wonder—who’s your dad?”
Mia sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Will Graham.”
“Hmm.” Amara tilted her head, considering. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”
Savannah finally spoke, quiet but certain. “Your dad’s the guy who killed Mason Verger.”
Mia turned to her. A pause. Then, a nod.
“Wait—Mason Verger.” Amara’s eyes narrowed, then widened slightly. “Your dad’s the empath profiler?”
Mia gave a humorless smile. “Ringing bells now, are we?”
“My dad was interested in him,” Amara said, thoughtful. “Read a bunch of articles on his abilities.”
“Great,” Mia muttered.
“He was right after all,” Amara added, more to herself, lips quirking.
“Right about what?” Mia asked.
“That your dad had it in him. It’s why he was so good at what he did. He had the desire to kill, too.”
Mia held her gaze but didn’t respond. She knew. She’d known her whole life. Not the desire to kill, maybe—but something was there, always stirring in him, always on the edge.
“Great.” Savannah added. “So we’re the room of famous killer dads. Can we turn the lights off now?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just got up and flicked the switch.
Darkness settled. Mia lay there, staring at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come. Thoughts of her dad wouldn’t let it.
Rotten Meat. Chapter Two.
The cold was the first thing Savannah felt. It settled into her skin like an unwanted guest, creeping under the thin blanket, pricking at her fingers and the tips of her ears. She opened her eyes slowly, the room still dark except for the dim light seeping through the thick curtains. The air smelled sterile, vaguely metallic, like something scrubbed too clean. Her breath came out in a soft cloud, barely visible in the pale light.
She took a moment to just exist in it. The quiet. The stillness. A second of peace before the day began. The drawings on her bedside table sat stacked neatly, graphite smudges on the edges of the pages. Proof she was still here, that she hadn’t disappeared into herself entirely. She ran her fingertips over them absentmindedly, grounding herself. The bed beneath her was stiff, unyielding. It wasn’t home.
She missed her father’s breakfast in bed. The way the smell of his coffee would fill the house, strong and sharp, waking her up before his voice ever did. She didn’t miss the Dragon. The thought hit her like ice water, tightening her chest. Her breath caught, quickened. Not now. Not here. If she let it take her, they’d bring the needle. She forced the air back into her lungs slowly, evenly, fighting the tremble in her hands. Breathe through it. Stay in control.
Across the room, Amara was already awake, brushing her hair with mechanical precision, bed made as if she’d never slept in it. The sight of her still unsettled Savannah, though she thought she’d be used to it by now. A month of waking up to the same person should have been enough time to adjust. But then again, Amara wasn’t just anyone. She was Amara Lecter. There was something inherently off about her, something that went beyond the cold, composed demeanor. Savannah had always been good at reading people, but Amara wasn’t like other people. She was raised in it. She didn’t know what her dad did, she lived with it, grew up under it, admired it. It made Savannah’s skin crawl, but she didn’t let it show.
“Good morning, Savannah.” Amara’s voice was as smooth as ever, almost pleasant.
“Yeah,” Savannah grunted.
The other girl—Mia—was still curled up under the covers, her dark hair spilling over the pillow. She was pretty. Almost eerily so. Big, swollen lips, thick lashes, skin that looked like it belonged to someone in a magazine. It was strange seeing her here, in a place like this. Her father was all over crime websites, articles, speculation. Will Graham. Savannah remembered her dad reading about him, intrigued by an article about how he had evaded the FBI for so long, how he had manipulated an entire team of trained professionals. They had thought Mia was missing. Had she run with him? Had she been part of it? And if so, how had she ended up here?
The door creaked open at exactly eight, like it always did. The nurses were punctual, strict. If they weren’t in the cafeteria by nine, there’d be consequences. Savannah hated breakfast here. Everything was either soggy or bland. No coffee. No caffeine. It felt cruel.
“Are you coming?” Amara was already moving, slipping through the door.
“Um… yeah, hang on.” Savannah tied her hair up quickly, throwing on a robe and slippers. Her body still felt heavy with sleep.
“Maybe we should wake her up,” she murmured, glancing at Mia.
“Or,” Amara said, not bothering to turn back, “she should learn the consequences of not following the rules on her own.”
Savannah rolled her eyes. Of course Amara would say that. Ignoring her, she leaned down and nudged Mia gently.
“Hey. Sorry, but you gotta get up.”
Mia groaned, rolling over. “Yeah, okay.” Her voice was hoarse with sleep.
Amara disappeared down the hall. Savannah lingered. “I’ll wait for you, so you don’t get lost on the way.” She sat back on the edge of her bed. “But you gotta hurry. They’re annoying about schedules here.”
Mia pushed herself up, running a hand through her tangled hair. Her eyes were impossibly blue, still half-lidded with sleep. Savannah watched as she took a sip of water, pulled on slippers. There was something about her. She wasn’t like Amara—there was no cold calculation, no unsettling detachment. But there was something else.
The walk to the cafeteria was quiet at first, the halls lined with dull, lifeless colors.
“So… was your dad finally caught?” Savannah asked, voice low.
Mia didn’t look at her. “I actually don’t know. I’m trying to find out.”
“Do you think we have access to anything here? News or something?”
Savannah shook her head. “No. They keep us pretty locked away from reality.”
Mia sighed, her fingers twitching slightly against her robe.
Savannah hesitated before speaking again. “So what happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Mia blinked. “Huh?”
“With you, I mean. Your dad was a fugitive. They thought you were missing.”
Mia’s expression flickered, something unreadable crossing her face. “Oh. Um.” She hesitated, looking away. “It’s complicated.”
Savannah didn’t push. She knew what it was like to not want to share. “Yeah. No, I get it.”
They turned the corner. The smell of overcooked oats and watered-down juice filled the air. Savannah wrinkled her nose. “Food here’s pretty boring, by the way.”
“That’s fine. I’m used to boring food,” Mia said blankly.
Savannah raised a brow. “Right. Well. That’s… good, I guess.” She glanced toward the cafeteria, spotting Amara sitting alone, eating with slow, deliberate movements. “Amara wasn’t. She didn’t take it well in the beginning.”
Mia smirked. “Yeah, I bet she was really bummed out that they don’t serve people meat here.”
Savannah let out a short laugh. Mia laughed too. It was the first normal moment she’d had in days.
Amara barely looked up as they sat across from her. Her posture was perfect, her grip on the spoon delicate, precise. She looked up at Mia with an unreadable smile.
“Tell me, Mia. Is the bowl of soggy fruit and watered-down sugar with a hint of orange juice to your taste?”
Mia smirked, taking a bite. “It’s fine.”
Amara nodded, satisfied. “So,” she said lightly, “what happened that got your father caught?”
Mia’s expression hardened instantly. “My father was caught?”
“Was he not?” Amara tilted her head. “You’re here. I assumed he was.”
Mia exhaled, shoulders relaxing.
“So he wasn’t, as far as you know?” Amara pressed.
Savannah narrowed her eyes. “Amara. Leave it. She doesn’t know us. Stop poking.”
Amara turned to her with that same sharp smile. “I’m not poking. I’m simply curious.”
Mia looked down at her food. “I used myself as bait so he could run.”
Silence.
Amara’s smile widened. “I hope he did, then.”
Mia’s lips curled slightly, almost imperceptibly.
“Savannah’s dad was obsessed with mine,” Amara added.
Savannah groaned. “Oh, here we go.”
“It’s true,” Amara said smoothly. “Collected articles, wrote letters. He had a shrine.”
Mia raised a brow. “A shrine?”
Savannah sighed. “I never said shrine—”
“You said it was a room with a table full of candles and pictures and letters.”
Mia glanced at Savannah. “Sounds like a shrine to me.”
Silence settled between them.
Mia turned to Amara, voice softer. “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Being raised by a cannibal serial killer.”
Amara shrugged. “He’s just my dad to me.”
Mia leaned back, arms crossed.
“I guess… but… how was he? Really? Like… as a father?”
“Lovely. He was the loveliest man I’ve ever known.”
Savannah’s stomach twisted. They all sat there, silent. The weight of Amara’s words pressing into them, filling the empty spaces in their minds.
•
Mia sat stiffly at the desk, her hands pressed flat against the surface, fingers drumming idly as she waited.
The woman at the front desk glanced at her computer.
“Okay, so, you get Doctor Chilton. He’ll see you in a bit.”
Mia’s fingers stilled.
“Chilton?! The head?”
“That’s right,” the woman confirmed.
Mia frowned.
“Usually you’d get Dr. Bloom, but—”
“Wait, wait, wait—Dr. Bloom? As in… Alana Bloom?”
The woman nodded, barely looking up from her screen.
“She works here?”
“Yep. And I guess you already know her, which is why she can’t be your assigned therapist.”
Mia exhaled sharply, leaning back in her chair. Damn. Alana would’ve been useful. If she could’ve talked to her, she might have been able to get something—some hint about her father’s whereabouts, or at least how much they knew about him. Instead, she was stuck with Frederick Chilton, which was probably the worst possible outcome.
She sighed, dropping her head back against the chair and waiting to be called in.
And Chilton’s office was sleek, a blend of opulence and cold modernity. The kind of space that suggested wealth and power, but not comfort.
“Mia! Hello.” Chilton’s voice was bright, almost rehearsed, as he rose from behind his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
Mia sat, wary.
“How are you today?”
She shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”
“Great.” He smiled like a politician. “How have you been adapting?”
“Fine.”
“And your roommates?”
Mia scoffed, shaking her head. “You put us all together on purpose.”
Chilton’s smile didn’t waver. “I simply thought you might relate to one another. It would be helpful for your adaptation.”
“Relate?” Mia let out a short, bitter laugh. “Hannibal Lecter eats people. The Tooth Fairy kills families. My dad killed an asshole. How is that the same thing?”
Chilton watched her, expression unreadable at first. Then, something flickered—amusement.
“All three are very dangerous, very mysterious, and very intriguing men.”
Mia gave him a dry, unimpressed look. “Right.”
She leaned back in her chair. “You know I’m not telling you anything, right? I know this is just an investigation disguised as therapy.”
Chilton’s brows lifted, his smirk widening. “No, I thought you wouldn’t. After all, you are the daughter of an FBI special agent. You know how things work.”
Mia nodded.
“So tell me about you, instead. How are you feeling, Mia?”
Time crawled in Chilton’s office. Circular conversations. Non-answers. Every question led nowhere, and every answer she gave was twisted into something for him to analyze.
By the time she was dismissed, she felt wrung out and no closer to anything useful.
At dinner, she poked at her food—meatballs and chips—while Savannah took the seat next to her.
“So who’d you get, Dr. Bloom?” Savannah asked, popping a chip into her mouth.
“No. I got Chilton.”
Savannah blinked. “Chilton?! Isn’t he the head of this place?”
Mia nodded. “Yeah.”
“Damn.”
“You got Bloom?”
“Yeah.” Savannah chewed, thoughtful. “They wouldn’t give you her?”
“Conflict of interest. My dad and her were colleagues.”
Across from them, Amara, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke. “Mine too.”
Mia turned to her. “Your dad knew Alana?”
“He was her mentor when she was doing her residency.”
Mia frowned. “So who do you get?”
Amara smiled. “Chilton too.”
“Wait—weren’t your dad and Chilton colleagues too? And they still assigned you to him?”
Amara gave a small shrug. “Chilton’s interests are more important than any conflict in this case.”
Mia scoffed. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
Savannah tilted her head. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Chilton is a pompous poser,” Mia said flatly. “Tried to get an interview with my dad more times than I can count. He’s obsessed with fame. So of course he wants to dig around our heads. We’re just a means to get to our dads.”
Amara smirked. “He’ll get you too, don’t worry.”
Savannah made a face. “I hope not.”
“He probably will, though,” Mia said. “Your dad is still out there. It’s a high-profile case. Chilton is probably dying to talk to you.”
“If he hasn’t already been listening to your sessions,” Amara added casually.
Savannah tensed. “You think he tapped the place?”
Amara grinned. “Wouldn’t put it past him. My dad says he’s… unorthodox.”
Savannah raised an eyebrow. “I don’t even want to know what he means by that.”
Mia exhaled, pushing her tray aside. “I think we’re all about to find out.”
That night, Mia couldn’t sleep.
She turned over in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind running circles around itself. When she closed her eyes, he was there.
Warm. Next to her. Safe. His presence keeping the cold away.
She clung to that feeling, holding onto it like a lifeline, until exhaustion finally pulled her under.
•
They were already in bed when the door opened.
“Savannah, you need to come with me.”
Michael, the night nurse, stood in the doorway, his voice calm but firm. The room stirred—Amara shifted, Mia sat up, all of them suddenly awake and on edge. Savannah pushed the blanket off and slowly got out of bed, slipping into her robe and slippers.
She hesitated before following him out, but there was no point in asking. She already knew. There was only one reason they’d be pulling her out of bed at this hour.
Her father had been caught.
Michael walked ahead, leading her through the dimly lit corridor. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, their glow harsh against the sterile white walls. Her feet moved on instinct, her pulse drumming in her ears.
They went down the elevator. Stepped out on the first floor. At the end of the hall, he stopped and opened a door.
Inside, a large man in a dark blue suit stood hunched over a table, examining something in front of him. The second she saw him, her body froze, breath catching in her throat.
“Miss Dolarhyde,” he said, turning toward her. “I’m Jack Crawford.”
His voice was steady, weighty, as he flashed an FBI badge.
Savannah’s heart pounded.
“Please, sit,” he said, motioning to a chair.
She stepped inside hesitantly, the air in the room suddenly feeling heavier. Michael shut the door behind her.
“Miss Dolarhyde, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She lowered herself into the chair, hands gripping the robe around her, though about correcting him on her name but…He was probably getting it wrong on purpose. He didn’t sit.
“Um… don’t I need a lawyer or something?” Her voice felt small in the room.
“Do you have one, Miss Dolarhyde?”
She exhaled. “No.”
“I’m not infringing on any of your rights by asking you questions. You can refuse, of course. But it would be helpful if you didn’t.”
His tone wasn’t aggressive. He didn’t need it to be. His presence alone filled the space, a quiet kind of authority pressing down on her.
“I already told the police everything I know.”
“Tell me.”
Finally, he took a seat across from her, folding his hands on the table.
Savannah hesitated. Why did she have to do this again?
“Miss Dolarhyde,” Crawford said, voice even, “another family has been killed.”
The words hit like ice in her veins. Her entire body went rigid.
“I just came from the scene. Five people.”
He reached into a folder and slid several photographs across the table toward her. The images blurred in her vision—blood, bodies, the aftermath of something too horrific to fully process.
Her stomach turned violently. She tore her eyes away.
Crawford pulled the photos back.
“I need you to tell me everything you know. We need anything.”
Savannah shook her head quickly. “But I can’t help! I don’t—I don’t know anything useful!”
“You know there’s a pattern, right?” he interrupts.
She swallowed, shaking her head.
“He kills every full moon,” he said simply. “Which means, Miss Dolarhyde, that we have about twenty-eight days until another family is brutally slaughtered. So if you could, please, tell me anything. Anything.”
Savannah swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight, clogged. She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself.
“He burned down the house,” she started, voice dull, mechanical. “I wasn’t there. He left me a text message, told me to go to an address—Grandma’s house.”
She paused, gathering herself. “I went. He wasn’t there. There was only a note. I gave it to the authorities already. That’s it.”
Crawford studied her. “Why weren’t you at the house when he set it on fire? Where were you?”
She hesitated but knew there was no point in lying.
“I… I was at a motel.”
“You ran away,” Crawford said.
She nodded.
“Why?”
She swallowed again.
“Because I was scared.”
“Scared of what?”
She shifted in her seat, the back of her neck prickling.
“I saw things in the attic.”
Crawford’s expression sharpened. “What did you see, Savannah?”
She looked away. “Just… I don’t know. Things. Weird stuff. Writings. Disturbing stuff. Look, there was no evidence of anything, it just freaked me out a little, so I left. For a while.”
“What freaked you out?” he pressed. “What was so weird about what you saw?”
She clenched her jaw. He already knew. She could tell. He just wanted to hear her say it.
“Didn’t you read my statement?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.
“I want to hear it from you,” he said, voice calm, patient.
She exhaled sharply.
“There was a bunch of weird shit about Hannibal Lecter.”
A sickness coiled in her stomach just thinking about it.
“Letters. Articles. Photos.”
“He was a fan,” Crawford said.
Savannah let out a humorless laugh.
“He was in love with him.”
Crawford’s eyes stayed on her. “What makes you say that?”
“The stuff he wrote,” she said, exasperated. “They were love letters to that fucking monster.”
She caught herself getting agitated and inhaled slowly, trying to breathe through it.
“You realize we can’t verify any of this, right?” Crawford said. “He burned the house down. Everything with it. You’re the only source we have of whatever was inside his mind.”
Savannah scoffed, leaning back in her chair.
“Then you’re out of luck, Agent.” Her voice was bitter, tired. “I told you everything I know. I didn’t know what he was doing. I just thought he was odd. But I’m odd too, so.” She shrugged. “He never left any evidence where I could see it. I didn’t know.”
Crawford studied her, then leaned forward.
“You weren’t raised by him, correct? You moved in with him when you were sixteen.”
She nodded.
“My mom died. Cancer,” she added, fidgeting slightly.
His expression flickered—something unreadable, gone in an instant.
“That’s when he found me,” she muttered. “I had no one else, so…”
She trailed off.
“We’re trying to figure out how he’s choosing the families,” Crawford said after a beat. “But our best profiler is on the run too.”
Will Graham.
“You’re sharing a room with his daughter. Mia.”
“But I don’t know anything either. She doesn’t talk about him.”
Crawford nodded, staring at her, then the ceiling, deep in thought. She could see it—the quiet frustration, the desperation carefully masked behind his composure.
“We’ll keep in touch,” he finally said, rising from his chair.
And then he was gone.
Savannah sat there for a long moment, her body shaking on the inside. Slowly, she dropped her head into her hands.
He wasn’t caught.
He was still out there.
“What happened?” Mia asked the second Savannah walked back into the room.
She sat on the bed, rubbing her arms, still feeling the chill of that interrogation room.
“Another family,” she said quietly.
Mia stiffened. “I thought they caught him.”
“Yeah,” Savannah breathed. “Me too.”
Mia sighed, rubbing her temples.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Savannah let out a weak, bitter laugh. “Are you? Are we?”
Mia didn’t answer.
From her bed, Amara just watched them, silent.
•
Mia was walking through the woods with her father. The morning light filtered through the trees, dappling their path with gold. The dogs trotted ahead, sniffing the ground, tails wagging. She felt his presence beside her, steady and warm. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She smiled up at him, and he smiled back. Something shifts. His smile widened unnaturally, and blood was pouring from between his teeth, dripping down his chin, staining his collar.
Mia woke up with a sharp inhale, heart pounding. Her father’s scent clung to her like a ghost.
After breakfast, the three of them—Mia, Savannah, and Amara—wandered through the garden. The sun was warm but distant, filtering weakly through the trees that lined the perimeter. The air smelled of damp grass and earth, the sharp scent of freshly turned soil from the garden beds. Their shoes crunched lightly over the gravel path as they walked without urgency, as if they had nowhere else to be. Because they didn’t.
“You know about this stuff, right?” Savannah asked suddenly, turning to Mia.
Mia glanced at her. “What stuff?”
“Like law, crimes, and stuff.”
Mia shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
“So what’s gonna happen to us?” Savannah pressed. “How long will they keep us? What’s the procedure?”
Mia sighed, tilting her face up to the sky, letting the sun warm her eyelids for a moment as she thought. Then she exhaled and answered.
“We’re under material witness hold. The prosecution probably claims that we’re under ‘protective custody’ while they assess whether we’re victims, accomplices, or withholding information.”
Savannah crossed her arms. “So… we’re not officially arrested?”
“No, which means we don’t have the right to a speedy trial.” Mia kept her voice even, but there was something cold in her tone. “And since we’re not in prison, we can’t demand immediate release like a normal prisoner would.” She took a slow breath. “And… the FBI and prosecution are probably filing for extensions on our psychiatric evaluations, because of ‘new developments’ in the case.”
“Great. So that means we’re stuck here indefinitely?” Savannah asked, exasperation creeping into her voice.
“Not necessarily,” Amara said lightly.
Mia turned to her. “No, not necessarily for you.” She leaned in slightly, her eyes locking onto Amara’s. “You’re here until your father’s trial. You’re here because they already know you knew. They’re just trying to prove it.”
Amara didn’t blink. Her expression remained eerily calm. “I’m here because Dr. Chilton wants to write a book on my father.”
Mia smirked slightly. “Amara, you’re done, you know that, right?”
Amara smiled too, but it wasn’t real. Her posture was too composed, her breathing too measured. She was holding something back.
“It’s only a matter of time until they prove you were complicit,” Mia continued, watching her closely. “You’re just lucky you were underage for most of it, but…”
“My father said I would be fine,” Amara interrupted, voice smooth, unaffected. “So.” A small pause. “I will be fine.”
Savannah stared at her. “How can you be so calm about this? You’re in, like… the worst situation out of all of us.”
“She’s not calm,” Mia said, still watching Amara.
Amara finally turned her head, arching a brow. “Ohh, the profiler’s daughter is profiling,” she teased.
Mia smiled. “Yes, divert the conversation, Amara.”
Amara looked away, still smiling, but it wasn’t amusement. Mia knew the game. She recognized it in herself too.
“Anyway,” Mia said, shifting gears, “how did you get here? I heard your dad burned down your house.” She turned to Savannah.
Savannah hesitated for half a second. “Um, yeah.”
“It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it,” Mia said.
“No, it’s okay. Might as well.” Savannah exhaled, rubbing her arms as if warding off a chill. “Police found me at my grandmother’s house when they were looking for my father. He’d already been gone by then.”
Mia nodded. “Right. I read your statement.”
Savannah frowned slightly. “You did?” Then her expression shifted, as if remembering something. “Oh, right. I keep forgetting who your dad is.”
Mia hesitated before speaking. “My dad was asked to lead your dad’s case.”
Savannah’s brows shot up. “Really?!”
“Yeah. Before… before everything happened.” Mia’s voice faltered slightly, like stepping over broken glass. She didn’t say more.
Savannah absorbed that. “But he refused?”
Mia nodded. “Kept informed, but… he was trying to get out, you know.”
“That job was a burden to your father, wasn’t it?” Amara asked, her tone soft but knowing.
Mia looked at her for a moment, then glanced away. She didn’t answer.
Can we hear more about Savannah please?
Yes! The chapter I posted now has some of her povs :) you’ll be hearing a lot from her soon.
