#parental!slasher

This slays so hard ur honor! Very happy to be writing abt these gay ppl bc this show heavily influenced who I am as a person and a writer lmao

Notes: SFW! Parental!Hannigram, Genre-typical mentions of violence, cannibalism, and murder. 

Pass the Salt

Your dad’s friend is… strange.

He’s just so- how can you put this in a way that doesn’t sound cruel- twitchy. Half the time you see Will Graham, Hannibal has a hand on his arm to steady him. You think that’s what your dad’s doing, anyway, but you honestly can’t be sure. You’d all sat down for dinner not twenty minutes ago and you’d already caught three instances of not-so-subtle flirting that have made you feel vaguely sick.

My god, I’m right here, part of you wants to scream, but you were raised with better manners than that so you settle for pointedly clearing your throat when they stare into each other's eyes for far too long.

You truly don’t know what to make of this Will Graham, but clearly your father likes him enough to invite him over, so you have to trust his judgement. You don’t think that Hannibal, for all his flaws, would allow someone into your home who could actually harm you, but there’s always a small what-if. What if Will Graham says the wrong thing? What if he hints too strongly that he knows what you are? 

Your father is willing to flaunt cannibalism- he takes pleasure in being smart enough to hide behind reasonable doubt as he feeds prime cuts of long pig to the FBI. He delights in tricky words and spun half-truths, especially when the person he’s speaking to knows exactly what he is. Will Graham knows what he is. He must, but he’s here at the table looking at your father with something in his eyes you dare not give a name to.

Yes, your father allows Will to see him, but he will not allow rudeness toward his progeny.

Will Graham has been forgiven for many missteps, but if he errs in regards to you, your father will kill him. 

But is he stronger than he looks? Faster? Would he use you to escape? Would your father hesitate? You don’t know, and you hate not knowing.

You’re snapped from your spiraling thoughts by your father asking something cryptic about God and becoming ones true self. He has the kind of inscrutable smile on his face that you’ve come to recognize as challenging.

He’s goading WIll Graham, you realize with a vaguely sick feeling. Challenging him. How the twitchy man reacts will determine if he leaves the table on his own two feet or on a platter. 

You hold your breath and hope. Please, you think, don’t stain my new jacket.

“I think it’s our right to pick up where God leaves off. To create and become ourselves outside His purview is mankind’s greatest sin and its greatest freedom,” he answers, his blue eyes meeting yours for just long enough to let you know he knows. He knows, and he accepts it.

Your father is looking at you with another sphinx-like smile, his maroon eyes twinkling, though you notice his hand tighten almost-imperceptably around his knife.

He’s waiting for you, you realize, to either accept or reject Will Graham and his knowledge. Like a Caesar watching gladiators battle in the colosseum, the twitchy man’s life is in your hands. If you give a thumbs down, your father will finish him. He will be unhappy, but he’ll do it, and then he’ll eat Will Graham’s heart and pretend not to cry as he does.

“I agree,” you say instead, because as strange as he is, Will makes your father happy and he accepts who you are- both for your identity, and your family’s unconventional diet. 

Your father’s hand eases around the knife handle, and he takes the next bite of his food with something close to relish. You catch Will letting out a slow, relieved breath out of the corner of your eye, and you pretend not to notice the way your father’s hand lands heavily on his knee. 

God, these gay people, you sigh inwardly before quickly finishing your plate and excusing yourself. You’re happy your dad’s happy, but you do not want to be around for whatever dessert is going to be.

Absolutely! I don’t tend to write fem!readers but for my beautiful MTF sisters out there I will happily provide!! Love you gals!

Notes: totally SFW! MTF!reader, brief hunting/butchering mentions (lester), cannibalism (thomas), overcoming toxic masculinity (Bo)

Slashers with a MTF child!

Vincent Sinclair:

The hair care routine he creates for you goes hard, your honor!

Helps you style it in more feminine ways as you start to grow it out, for sure. He’s that dad on YouTube looking up ‘how to do my daughter’s hair’ videos

You both do hair masks together with opera playing in the background, and it’s so relaxing! He’ll even let you braid his hair if you want practice doing styles yourself.

Everything he knows about femininity he learned from his mom, so he’ll get out her old perfume and hair stuff and give it to you. He feels like now that he has a daughter, he can honor his mother in ways that don’t involve wax

You come downstairs one day wearing Trudy’s old curlers in your hair and his heart twists in his chest when you ask him to help take them out. I did it, mama, he thinks, I have a legacy and she’s wonderful

Lester Sinclair:

Okay cool! … does that mean you don’t wanna go hunting with him anymore? :(

Once you assure him that you still want to, and that your gender doesn’t affect that, he’s perfectly happy. Gets you a pink camo “Dad’s Little Deer-stalker” shirt because he’s corny

Teaches you to fend for yourself so you don’t have to rely on any gross stinky boys (his words), but still insists on doing any butchering himself because it’s his job as your dad to provide for you!

He’s only really ever been around men for most of his life, so he doesn’t really know what to do now that he has a daughter, but he tries his very best!

“That’s my girl!” He whoops when you take down a buck for the first time

Bo Sinclair:

Dare I say girl dad? I’m saying it! You’re his little princess fr! One of those ‘my hands look like this so hers can look like this’ type dads

Takes anything he thinks you might like off of any victims that come through Ambrose- perfume, nail polish, makeup, clothes, even a curling iron! 

You want to practice painting nails or doing eyeshadow? He’ll be your practice dummy (even though he’ll complain the whole time, he loves you and wants to make you happy)

I think he’d be willing to put aside a lot of his macho shit for you, tbh! Before you came out, he wanted you to be a strong ‘man’, but when he understands that you’re a girl, he realizes he can’t keep doing that to you and risk making you hate yourself as much as he hates himself. Actively works to be a better man for his daughter.

“What’d’ya think, princess? Does your Dad suit sparkles?” He asks, fluttering his eyelashes exaggeratedly because he knows it’ll make you laugh

Tiffany Valentine:

Did someone say girl’s day out? She’s ecstatic! She already has a trans kid, so one more is literally nothing to her

She’ll help you shop for clothes and do your eyeliner because her daughter is gonna look awesome if she has any say in it! Whatever style you like, it's a full wardrobe makeover

You get mani pedis and gossip about boys/girls/whoever before going bra shopping because ‘every young lady needs a proper first bra’. She squares up with anyone who give you weird looks, total mama-bear style

You guys end up overloaded with bags (did you actually pay for everything, though? Uhhh plead the fifth)

“C’mon, baby, we should stop at Ulta before we leave,” she urges with a big smile, already prancing toward the store

Thomas Hewitt:

Immediately teaching you self-defense! He won’t let his daughter go into the big bad world without being able to defend herself!

Sooo protective of you, almost to a degree that’s stifling. He so much as catches a whiff of someone giving you trouble about your gender? Guess what’s for dinner that night!

You want to date someone? Good luck bringing them home, because he has a chainsaw, a cleaver, and a shotgun :)

One of those ‘my daughter can’t date anyone until she’s thirty’ type dads, and if he catches anyone sniffing around you, he acts quickly and without mercy

He may relent if you give him puppy eyes, though, because he’s a big softie who can’t deny his little girl anything!

Bubba Sawyer:

baby you’re popping that E together

Absofruitly! Ya boi has a higher voice himself even after T (#tenor) so this is deeply relatable, and after my mold moment I deserve a treat!!

Notes: Totally SFW! More Runaway!FTM!Reader :) Platonic/Parental!Rusty, voice dysphoria, yes the title is a johnny cash song leaf me alone

Daddy Sang Bass

You’d been staying with Rusty for nearly a month now and everything has been going, surprisingly, fine. You have a nagging feeling that something’s up, because he doesn’t let you turn on the TV or go outside without him around, but other than that it’s okay. You attend GED courses online, you decorate his spare room with little bits and bobs you find until it feels like your room, and Rusty cuts your hair and gives you his old hand-me-downs. 

Something you’ve caught yourself noticing, though, is how different you two are. He’s a huge dude, and you’re average. He’s rough-around-the-edges, and you were raised in a good christian household where you weren’t even allowed to swear. His voice is low and grumbly, and yours is… well, not. 

Squeaky, your mind supplies unhelpfully, feminine. You try to shake that thought away, put it clings to the folds of your brain like a particularly stubborn earwig. You take a deep, steadying breath, and you sadly resign yourself to it just being one of those days where your brain has decided to be an asshole.

At dinner, you’re still on edge. Rusty takes notice when you push your stouffer’s lasagna around the paper plate for the fourth time in five minutes, barely touching it.

“Okay, that’s enough. What’s eatin’ at you?” He asks gruffly, having finished his slice in record time. There’s a bit of sauce left on the corner of his mouth, and normally that would make you smile, but you’re not in the mood right now.

“I dunno,” you shrug, wincing faintly at the sound of your own voice. Rusty frowns, unsatisfied with that answer.

“Bullshit,” he snorts, crossing his arms stubbornly and staring you down. Neither of you talk for a long couple of minutes, the only sound is the tick tick tick of the wall clock. When it becomes very clear that you’re not gonna escape the table without talking about this, you sigh and push away your plate.

“Just.. I sound weird,” you finally admit with a frustrated huff. “... Girly.” The word tastes like ash on your tongue, and your nose wrinkles in discomfort when you finally give voice to the little nagging voice in your head. 

“Kid, you sound fine,” Rusty frowns, not understanding what the big deal is. “Just sounds like your balls haven’t dropped yet.” You open your mouth to say something snarky about not having balls that could drop in the first place, but he gently cuffs you on the back of the head in an undeniably fond way before you can get a word out. “You’re overthinkin’ it. No one cares. You’re a guy, that’s all anyone needs to know.”

“Right… yeah,” you sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. Logically, you know that. Of course, you know that, but knowing it and feeling it are two different things. You can’t help but feel vaguely defeated by the whole thing. Dysphoria just sucks so bad. It sucks that even after escaping your parents, you’re still unable to escape the form that doesn’t fit you. It sucks that it creeps up on you when you’re having an otherwise good day. And it sucks that so many people don’t understand that it’s not something easy to get over. Seeing the look on your face, he sighs, finally getting serious.

“Look, if it’s bugging you that much, we’ll figure something out,” he says, his voice gruff but determined. “I can’t exactly… I can’t get you shots right now, with everythin’ going on, but we’ll find something,” he nods, and there's a finality to it- like he’s going to do his damndest to make you feel more comfortable in yourself in whatever small ways he can. That small gesture of support- clumsy but so earnest- has your eyes starting to sting, and you quickly blink any wetness away.

“Really?” You ask, wincing at how small you sound, how unsure.

“Hell yeah, son,” he agrees, “You can.. I don’t know.. Repeat after me or somethin’. Learn that way.” 

And so you do. You spend the rest of dinner trying to mimic phrases in Rusty’s voice and laughing when it comes out sounding like a bear cub trying to roar. He says ridiculous stuff to get you to laugh, and eventually you stop thinking about your voice, focusing on trying to get his drawl right. He makes sure you finish your dinner, and wipes away the bit of sauce that stains the corner of your mouth with his rough thumb. Like father, like son. By the end of the night, your voice sounds a bit huskier from attempting to copy his smoker’s rasp, and he’s smiling bigger than he has in a long time.

When the cops stop sniffing around I’ll get him those hormones, he thinks to himself when he finally sends you off to bed with a pat on your head. He turns on the TV and flips to the news, where a picture of your face is plastered on a missing bulletin. Should probably deal with those so-called parents of yours first, though. No need for them to keep looking for you.