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.
there are a lot of asks about amara & mia's relationships with their fathers but can i ask would you want to share anything about the dolarhydes? i've never imagined francis in a parental role but the idea is very intriguing
Of course! Savannah was raised by her mother, the result of a fleeting, uncertain night between two people too young and too unsure of themselves to make anything more of it. Francis had been awkward, as had she, and though they had shared a kind of intimacy, it was never built to last. When she became pregnant, she didn’t tell him. She preferred solitude. And so she had Savannah alone, raising her in quiet isolation, with no family, few friends, and a life shaped by her own self-sufficiency.
She died when Savannah was sixteen, taken by cancer, but not before ensuring her daughter would have a place to go. She left her with Francis’ name. When the state tracked him down, Savannah had no choice but to go to him, she had no one else, no inheritance, nothing to tether her to the life she had before.
At first, they simply coexisted. Both quiet, both deeply introverted, they gave each other space, never intruding, never demanding more than the other was willing to give. But in time, comfort grew between them. Francis tried, really tried, to make her feel at home. She had always taken the bus before, but now, he drove her wherever she needed to go. He asked her what she liked to eat and made it for her. He ensured she was comfortable, that she had what she needed, that she felt safe. And she did. He was strange, but so was she. He respected her boundaries, and in time, she learned to respect his. She never opened the attic door. Never stepped inside his bedroom. Never went through his things. The complete opposite of Mia.
For a while, everything seemed fine. She noticed his moods…how sometimes he became more withdrawn, more tense, but he never let it spill over in front of her. Until one night.
She had fallen asleep on the couch. He came home late. She was barely awake when she felt him at her feet, sobbing. Confused, she asked what had happened. He told her he was fighting it for her, that he wanted to be strong, but he was afraid, afraid he wouldn’t be able to control it.
Immediately, she jolted upright, staggering back. It? Her mind went somewhere dark, somewhere she didn’t want it to go. She thought he meant her. That he meant something sexual.
And then he started walking toward her, still crying, howling, telling her the Dragon wanted her. Telling her to run.
She tried. She got to the door. But he was already there. He wasn’t Francis anymore. He was possessed. He grabbed her, held her too tight, and she screamed, but just as suddenly as it began, he broke. The thing inside him fractured, and he fell apart, collapsing at her feet. He spent the night sobbing in her lap, begging for forgiveness, telling her he could feel it, this creature crawling through his mind, twisting inside him.
She told him she could feel it too.
She didn’t understand why. She couldn’t explain it. But the way he touched her, the way he made her feel important awoke something in her that she didn’t want to run from. For the first time, she saw him not as a stranger, not as a distant, unknowable figure, but as her father. And she wanted more of that.
So she stayed. She tried to help him. And for a time, she thought she was succeeding. When he met Reba, she thought he was getting better. But then everything went downhill. And when it did, she saw the attic. And she ran.
Dolarhyde, in canon, is a reflection of Will, a man with immense capacity for love and care but no proper vessel for it. And when he finally finds one, when he finally feels it, it destroys him. Because the love they feel is too much. Too unbearable. Too all-consuming. And neither of them ever learned how to survive it.
There is something almost mystical about naming our inner experiences. To take something abstract…an emotion, a longing, an undefined ache, and shape it into words is an act of manifestation, a process of making the intangible tangible. Language does not simply describe; it brings forth. And when someone else finds the words we could not, it is as if they have unlocked something inside us, a door we didn’t know was there.
This phenomenon is more than poetic, it is deeply psychological. Studies in affect labeling have shown that putting emotions into words regulates our nervous system, reducing emotional distress and increasing cognitive clarity. Naming what we feel gives us a sense of control, a way to structure and process the chaos of our inner world. This is why music, poetry, and literature resonate so profoundly; they articulate what we struggle to express, creating an immediate, visceral connection between us and the artist. When a songwriter captures our exact feeling in a lyric, or when a poet gives language to an experience we thought was inexpressible, it is as if we have been seen, understood, and, in a way, completed.
This idea also has a spiritual dimension. In many traditions, to name something is to invoke it into being. Words are acts of creation; they give form to what was previously formless. In this sense, language is not just a tool for communication but a means of birth, of taking something from the depths of our psyche and bringing it into the external world.
Nowhere is this more evident than in the way Hannibal and Will relate to one another. Their connection is forged, in part, through language. From the moment they meet, Hannibal begins naming Will’s unspoken truths. “No forts in the bone arena of your skull for the things you love,” he says, and Will looks shaken, almost shocked. It is the first of many moments where Hannibal puts words to what Will has always felt but never articulated. Each time this happens, we see Will’s expression shift, sometimes in realization, sometimes in relief, as if something long submerged has finally surfaced.
Because if you can name it, you can see it. And if you can see it, you can control it.
See? See?
Studies and Articles:
Affect Labeling: One, Two, Three, Four, Five
