I’m in a lot of fandoms. Past and present and probably way more in the future. That’s not my realization though. My realization is that I’ve never before missed a fandom as much as I do with Hannibal. I’m a relatively new fannibal. I finished the series about a two to three months ago, but I do feel as if I’m pretty connected with the show. I find it fascinatingly complex, and I just miss it. I miss being able to follow the story of two men that share yet repel each other’s minds. However, I’ve never missed a show like this. I miss all my other fandoms whenever they go on hiatus or something, but it’s different than with Hannibal. I just genuinely miss and ache for more of my murder husbands. It’s amazing. It’s as if this show is a physical person in which my heart yearns for. It’s so strange. Look at what you’ve done to me, Hannibal fandom. I’m a longing and sad mess now.
“In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it’s impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves.”
⠀ ‘I never understood
what made your lips on my neck
such an intimate affair
until your teeth grazed my pulse
and I realized
you could tear open my throat
and make me
bleed out in your arms’
Hannibal loves the feeling of Will’s nails scratching deep into his back, arousing pinpricks of hot pain scraping across and crawling beneath his skin. The red scores running down his pale skin, tiny beads of blood welling up so artistically along the seams. And as they heal they itch, and he can feel them beneath his clothes, beneath his shirt and waistcoat, even beneath his carefully created exterior.
In the same fashion, Will loves Hannibal’s marks, however increasingly violent they become. Sometimes Hannibal gets carried away and then his kisses turn to bites and blood and bruises, his touches turn to hands painfully gripping and fingers wrapped tight around Will’s throat. But Will revels in it all. He feels them ache under his skin, impressed within it, into his bones and his entire being. At first, he was embarrassed by the obvious marks, or more accurately, embarrassed by his enjoyment of them. Yet even when his students raise their eyebrows and co-workers don looks of concern, asking him loaded questions using euphemisms for abuse, he gets a thrill from a strategically open button, from showing off his marks of possession.