Fascination Street

He’s hot

he's visually dissonant for the sake of the Cool Factor

he does his lil dancey dance at random intervals

he's cracking 30 jokes per minute

hes a self esteem nightmare while still being the loudest mf in the room

he hisses like a cat and bares his claws when hes angry

he just wants the fighting to stop

An understanding passes between both of you that you have hidden depths. Instead of killing him, you bring him breakfast, and make him dinner, and serve him drinks. Instead of being able to toy with his mind without a care, you think of him and your chest clenches, and your gut swoops, and his face and voice and his rude little barbs invade your mind like glittering parasites that you can’t remove. These feelings are alien, and they’re also yours. You know, deep down, why you’re letting him live, why you stare after him, why you toe the line of risking it all for him. But you don’t want to face it. It’s terrifying, this horizon of who you are and can be that looms before you with no choice of your own.

Framing him presents a convenient opportunity for ridding yourself of this thing he brings on in you, this total lack of control, this fever-dream surrender that breaches the walls of your mind and the tics and tells of your body so effortlessly— but you miss him. You don’t miss anyone, and the one person you do is more of an imago that never was able to grow into her own real person. But the you you’ve helplessly become certainly does. You’ve become an addict. You cannot let him rot when his presence gave your monochrome world color, you can’t quit the drug you’ve always shunned. This is all a devil’s bargain, certainly, but you’ve already damned yourself, and all that’s left to do is plunge further. Oh and by the way. The infuriating man in question looks like this:

Hannibal (2013-2015)