offspringofmadness

[offspringofmadness]

What was Will's reaction to Mia's boyfriend if she had any?

He’d never even heard her speak of anyone before, no half-whispered phone calls, no glances in the mirror that might have meant something more. As far as he knew, Mia’s world was his and his alone, a small and quiet kingdom of two.

Then there was Michael, who appeared out of nowhere like a ghost Will couldn’t banish. It happened when hen Will was sick with encephalitis, and Mia had been at the hospital constantly, holding his hand through it. It was there, in those sterile white halls, that she met Michael, a doctor with a gentle voice and the kind of smile that meant to put people at ease.

Will didn’t know any of this, not until the whole thing had already unraveled. Six months it had been, he discovered later, six months she’d managed to keep hidden from him. He only found out when Michael drove to their house one night, looking for answers Mia hadn’t given him after asking for a break.

Will was furious, of course. Confused and more than betrayed. The way Michael spoke, careful, soft, understanding, only made it worse. Will felt something tight and hot behind his ribs, and he had to leave the house altogether to keep from saying or doing something he might regret.

Michael, for his part, understood immediately. He understood why she’d never brought him home, why she’d kept that part of her life separate.

[offspringofmadness]

Curious to know what rotten meat Will does when he wants to reprimand Mia 👀

When she was little, he didn’t, he couldn’t. She was so quiet, so gentle, that there never seemed to be a need. He’d watch her, the sort of gaze that saw everything and missed nothing, and she would melt under that, no need for words or punishments.

But things changed as she grew. She became feistier, testing the edges of their strange little world, and that’s when the looks started. Will had a way of glancing at her that could still her in her tracks, that flicker of disapproval in his eyes enough to set her heart to trembling.

When looks no longer held her in place, he turned to his voice. A low tone that cut through the room like a knife. He never shouted, not really, but the weight of that voice was enough to bend the air around them.

If that, too, failed, he would reach for her arm, fingers digging in just enough to remind her who he was.

The final recourse, the one that left the air in the house brittle and cold, was the denial of affection. That was how he truly punished her, by turning away, by withholding the warmth she’d grown to crave. He would lock her in her bedroom, yes, but it was the absence of his touch, the absence of those murmured words at night, that cut the deepest.

[offspringofmadness]

milk what were the most challenging moments Will had as a single dad?

Well, there were those first few months after Mia was born that were pure hell, no other way to put it. Newborns are fragile things, all skin and milk and feverish crying, and Mia seemed to catch every little cold that drifted through the winter air. Will was terrified. He lived in a constant state of watchfulness, ears tuned to her breathing even in the rare moments she slept. He swore he could hear the catch in her breath from across the room.

Then there was the matter of taking her to work. He never wanted to leave her with anyone else, couldn’t bring himself to trust anyone with her tiny, drowsy weight. Mia, for her part, refused to go to anyone else anyway. So he’d carry her, bundled in soft layers, to whatever job he had lined up (he had to take a leave from the field work ofc so he was fixing up things at that time), working with one hand and cradling her with the other, always half-aware of the warmth of her head on his chest.

The worst, though, was when he would fall sick himself, those fevers that turned his body to lead, the bone-deep aches that would have laid him out if he’d had the luxury. But he didn’t. He still had to cook for her, bathe her, change her and soothe her to sleep. He did it all because he couldn’t bear the thought of her needing something and him not being there to give it.

She was a good kid, though, always was. So quiet, so strangely attuned to the hush of things. When he was sick, she wouldn’t ask for anything. As she grew, she learned to reach the cabinets on her own. She’d pour herself a bowl of cereal and eat it without complaint, never asking for more than he could give. It was something he held on to, that quiet understanding of hers, that gentleness. It’s what got him through those nights when the fever burned and the world outside was nothing but wind and ice.

[offspringofmadness]

Was there a song Will played or sang for Mia as a little kid? <3 -🥠

Will used to sing Unforgettable by Nat King Cole to Mia when she was little and couldn’t sleep. There was this one night, winter scratching at the windows like an old cat, and Mia fussing in his arms, her eyes too bright for sleep. He was tired, so very tired, but he walked the narrow rooms with her clutched to his chest, the lamplight low and wavering in the corners, his voice soft and a little hoarse from the cold that was creeping into his bones.

He had to be up early...work waited, indifferent to his sleepless nights and the small weight of her in his arms. But he kept moving, kept singing in a voice that was more breath than melody. His head felt hot, and he knew he was getting sick, the fever a slow ache behind his eyes, but he never let her see that. He only brushed his lips against her soft hair, murmured nonsense in a low hush, and tried to let his warmth fill the cold that lay in every corner of the house.

The floorboards creaked under his slow steps, and the hush of the snow outside seemed to fold around them, wrapping them in a cocoon of winter stillness. He would pause every so often, pressing her closer, feeling the soft weight of her against his chest, and then start moving again, the song still on his lips. There was something beautiful in that, his exhaustion, his tenderness, the quiet vow he kept weaving with every note, every step in that cold, quiet house.

[offspringofmadness]

What's Mia's favorite dish Will makes? —🥝

Probably his sardines stir fry, or his herb and lemon baked branzino! Occasionally, when he's in a particularly good mood he'll make her salmon crudo with brown butter, citrus and soy (Hannibal gave him this recipe).

[offspringofmadness]

Is Harry (potter) also the same archetype as Will? And Sam Winchester too?

Yes, great observation. Harry even pulls Voldemort to fall off a cliff with him haha! But yes, it's the male struggling with his darkness type!

[offspringofmadness]

what about birthday cakes?? 🎂

Hannibal; Will (he tried!! it's a cake mix but he did buy the extra sprinkles!!)

[offspringofmadness]

Dads serving dinner 🥘

Dinner with daddy Will and pasta; fancy meat with daddy Hannibal

[offspringofmadness]

Dads, you gotta fix her hair for school!

Damn this was hard.

Will is absolutely unskilled at hairdo's, he might try to braid it, but that's it. Hannibal would go for classical styles, certainly with lots of velvet bows, and he's the type to do his daughter's hair even when she's much older.

[offspringofmadness]

how's my bedroom as a kid??

Will (simple, cozy, neutral); Hannibal (tending more for the goth)

[offspringofmadness]

I wanna play too: what did daddies gave me for christmas? 🎀

Daddy Will knows you like to read esoteric books and knows you love writing so a beautiful book and beautiful notebooks.

Daddy H also gifts you with fancy writing tools and this ring because he's morbid.

[offspringofmadness]

Dad, I'm craving sugar, will you make me something?

Hannibal; Will

[offspringofmadness]

I love the way ur mind works omg I could just read your interpretations/analysations for hours

haha aw thanks, you could probably spend hours indeed, there's a lot of yapping on my blog 😅

[offspringofmadness]

Milk, any tips on how to interpret dreams properly?

Dreams should never be interpreted by using general symbolism, such as "snakes mean you will be betrayed". Dreams speak in the language of your personal universe, so every symbol has a personal meaning. To understand what it is, you must ask yourself what that symbol made you feel in the dream. Then ask yourself how the dream emotions, and reactions might mirror in your awakened state and reality.

If we use Will as an example, and make up a dream that offers more than the ones on the show, we could have him dreaming of a stag, drowning in a river. He is desperately trying to save it, then he sees the black antlers hovering over the water, and suddenly the river becomes blood red.

The stag (animal) is Will's companion. He feels a sense of guidance whenever that stag shows up. It also dies in Mizumono. So the stag is most likely Will's guardian in his psyche, in his personal dictionary. It drowning might indicate Will's sense of loss of control and safety. That safety being threatened by the Stagman, who is Will's daimon, always showing up as a being he wants to dominate, but is also afraid of and intrigued by. That's usually our daemon.

The river of course is Will's safe place, it almost indicates that his sense of control and safety is fading away and being tainted by "blood", which Will equates to violence but also to erotic impulse.

In his awakened life this mirrors his feelings towards his impulses and externalized in Hannibal and other killers/people he thinks are bad.

By desperately trying to save the stag he reveals that the loss of control is terrifying to him, and that he isn't ready for it.

[offspringofmadness]

Gonna be needing you to elaborate on the dad Will headcanon 👀

Dead dove. Do not eat.

"Oh, fragile thing that lies between my fingers, is it in your capability to reach beyond cracked skin and touch my defiled heart? And bear witness to its flawed but relentless will to cut through all of these thorns and set us both free?

Fragile thing, forged from what forged me, don’t let love keep you from discerning caring hands when they’re wrapped around your neck.

Sharing blood won’t keep monsters from spilling it.

I named her Mia because it translates to ‘mine’.”

She was mine before she had a name. She was mine because I chose to have her born. She was mine. My light, my angel, my baby. I was hers because I wasn’t anybody else’s.

Unclaimed and hollowed, my heart grew claws when I held her in my arms.

Before he died my father saw that I was capable of making something good. He departed many years from witnessing the desecrations, and took his last breath as she slept soundly in my arms. Too little to notice his absence.

I was dada in her purest stage; dad in the mundane but daddy in my personal corner of heavenly hell. Da-ddy, dragged in the first syllables, daring and mischievous, with a crooked grin at the end.

Like a spell, like a drug, only a few, rare and special servants of the devil get access to.

“Daddy?”

“Yes,” I utter with practiced restraint, though I cannot control the acceleration in my chest.

“Tie me?” she asked and I spun instinctively. The dress. Tie the dress.

Coffee brewed in that small kitchen as I stood there with twitching hands. The dress was some shade of green. As thin as the leash around my neck, as soft as her hair under water.

“This is… Certainly a nice piece of fabric,” I snark as shaky hands tie a knot on the back of her neck.

She doesn’t say anything but I can see a smile at the corners of her glossy lips.

My hands find the shape of her neck, gently teasing what cannot be spoken. She shivers, and I own them. These shivers.

“I’ll be home at eleven,” she turned around and pressed her lips on the corner of my mouth, absentmindedly rubbing her face on my stubble, like an animal.

Don't go. A part of me wanted to plea. Leave, run and never come back, another, wiser part wanted to shout. Instead, I forced a smile and because I was more beast than man, I grabbed her by the waist, pulling her closer, holding her steady as she staggered on high heels, and brought my face to her neck. Like an animal.

She had drenched herself with perfume, not as lovely as it usually was, her scent, as it was the loveliest at dawn, right before the house would catch on fire, before the light was engulfed outside and flames were ignited on the inside.

I called my psychiatrist after she left."

mia belongs to @milkfordragons

[offspringofmadness]

My dream is a book that explains psychology using Hannibal, your essays helped that dream a lot thanks! 🤍

I actually have been writing this for two years (there are five parts, this is just a bit of it). Still studying about publishing, because I don't know much about it. So strangely enough you are getting this exact dream.

[offspringofmadness]

How to write a daddy Hannigram fic that doesn't romanticize incest and these "possessive daddy" dynamics this fandom trues to pass as just them being protective?

Well, there is a persistent cultural narrative that celebrates the image of the "possessive father", the one who declares his daughter "off-limits," who polices her relationships, and who wears his jealousy like a badge of honor. On the surface, this is often framed as protective love.

At the heart of the issue lies a subtle yet pervasive form of narcissism, an emotional logic in which the child is treated less as an independent subject and more as an extension of the father's identity. The language used often gives it away: my daughter, my little girl. Of course, the word "my" in family contexts is common, even natural but in these possessive dynamics, it becomes charged with something more than relational belonging. It becomes ownership.

And this ownership raises important questions. If the impulse to protect stems purely from care, why is it so often limited to one’s own child? Why does it carry jealousy, rivalry, and suspicion rather than a broader sense of responsibility for the wellbeing of all children, or even for the daughter’s own unfolding autonomy? The selectivity of this protectiveness, reserved for my daughter rather than a daughter, suggests it’s not simply about safety, but about territory.

This leads us to consider the structures that normalize such thinking. The nuclear family, especially in its modern form, isolates and intensifies relationships in a way that can easily blur boundaries. The father becomes not just a guardian, but a symbolic gatekeeper of the daughter's identity and sexuality, often unconsciously enacting values passed down through patriarchal norms. In these dynamics, the daughter may become a mirror, reflecting back the father's ideal self-image or compensating for unmet emotional needs, including those he may not be able to acknowledge.

What is often overlooked is that this possessiveness isn’t simply about authority or protection but about affirmation. The daughter becomes proof of the father’s worth: her beauty, behavior, or desirability reflecting on his success, his masculinity, his legacy. In this way, the relationship becomes entangled with self-image, and the daughter's independence can be experienced as a threat, not a triumph.

None of this needs to involve overt harm or abuse to be psychologically impactful. The emotional climate itself, where love is entangled with control, where care masks rivalry, can quietly shape how a girl comes to understand love, loyalty, and even her own body.

This is not a call to vilify paternal love, but rather to question the forms it takes, and to ask: what kind of love fosters growth, and what kind clings out of fear or ego? If we are to care deeply about our children, shouldn’t that care extend beyond the boundaries of family and reflect a wider ethic of respect and protection, one that affirms the child as a being in her own right, not a projection or possession?

Only by asking these questions can we begin to unravel the deeper emotional architectures of patriarchy, those that begin not in policy or law, but in the intimate language of “mine.”

Writing a “daddy” dynamic in Hannigram, or any fictional relationship that draws from power imbalance, kink-coded language, or emotional possessiveness, doesn’t require moral policing, but it does invite a level of creative self-awareness. The point isn’t whether such stories should or shouldn’t be written (they absolutely can be); it’s about how they’re written, and what the writer chooses to emphasize or critique within the dynamic.

First, it’s important to clarify: fiction is not reality, and exploring kink, taboo, or dark emotional content in fictional form is not inherently wrong. Fiction allows us to project, play, and probe the shadowy corners of human psychology without consequences to real people. But when a writer says, I don’t want to romanticize this (like anon) they’re not condemning the kink, they’re making a personal aesthetic and narrative choice. They’re choosing depth over comfort, insight over indulgence which is not superior nor inferior in fictional context.

The "daddy" trope, especially in the context of Hannibal and Will, is particularly loaded. The emotional incest is present. When filtered through the “daddy” kink lens, that becomes intensified, and potentially eroticized.

And again, that’s not a problem in itself. What is a problem, or rather, a shallowness, is when these dynamics are treated as simply cute or quirky, when the jealous, domineering behavior is aestheticized without question, when the language of ownership is deployed without recognizing the psychological baggage it carries.

A stronger, more compelling story emerges when the writer is honest about the darkness of the dynamic. The moment one admits, this is not healthy, this is not innocent, the writing becomes sharper. There's tension. There's room for contradiction, for characters to both want and resist, to find comfort in something that might also destroy them. That makes for better storytelling, not because it preaches, but because it refuses to look away.

In fandom, there’s often a knee-jerk defensiveness when someone points out that a “daddy” character is functionally just a jealous, possessive father figure. People rush to protect the kink from judgment, as if acknowledging its implications is the same as condemning it. But it's not. In fact, the refusal to acknowledge the emotional incest woven into these dynamics, especially when it’s played as sweet or wholesome, is what flattens the kink and makes it less interesting.

If you're writing a Hannigram fic with a daddy dynamic, and you don't want to romanticize it, start with this: admit to yourself that it's abusive. That it’s about control. That it's deeply psychological, often regressive, sometimes degrading. Let that discomfort shape the story. Let the characters push against it. Let them resent it. Let them revel in it. Let it be perverse. Let it be complicated.

Because the truth is, a kink-aware, psychologically honest fic is not just more ethical. It avoids cliché. It dives into the contradictions instead of hiding behind irony or cuteness. And in the world of Hannibal, where the line between love and consumption is already blurred, why wouldn’t you want to write from that place of unsettling clarity?