#i am terrified of conflict BUT!! i stopped to think instead of acting impulsively and realized

[finecutvoidsalt]

just solved an interpersonal dilemma via open and honest communication when my first instinct was avoidance and deception, i am growing as a person!!!!!

[storiesforallfandoms]

are you going to hurt me? ~ hannibal lecter;hannibal

word count: 2259

request?: no

description: after she finds that one of the fbi’s most trustworthy psychiatrists is actually the murderer they’re looking for, she decides to confront him about it

pairing: hannibal lector x female!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of murder, violence, implied smut

masterlist

From the minute he entered his office, Hannibal knew he wasn’t alone. He carried on to his desk, waiting for her to step out of the shadows, as he was almost certain he knew who was there as well.

“You’re the murderer they’re looking for.”

Hannibal turned and was unsurprised to see the FBI’s newest intern, (Y/N), standing at the railing of the floor overlooking his office. She was still in her work clothes - dress pants, a white blouse tucked into her pants, a pair of black dress shoes. She tried too hard to impress her superiors, especially Jack Crawford, but Hannibal could tell she was an intelligent woman that didn’t need to dress so well to impress them.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he responded, simply.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she said. “The murderer, the one taking their organs, it’s not someone trying to illegally sell organs on the black market. It’s you.”

Hannibal chuckled, amused by her discovery. “Funny that it took an intern to figure that out, not one of the professionals.”

She seemed shocked that he was admitting to it, like she didn’t want him to be a murderer. “You’re...you’re admitting to it?”

“Well, there’s no reason to lie now since you’ve figured it out.”

(Y/N) felt uneasy now. She was starting to see the error of her ways. Why would she just come and confront Hannibal like this by herself? If he hadn’t confessed, she was basically risking her job on the FBI by accusing him of murder, but now that he had confessed, she was locked in a room with a murderer, and no one knew she was there.

Hannibal approached the ladder that led to the floor. (Y/N) took a step away from the railing, thinking he was about to come up after her. He stopped, noticing her hesitation.

“Humor me,” he told her, “tell me how you figured it out.”

“I heard you and Will talking,” she responded. “You were telling him about the black market and people stealing organs for it. Up until then, he hadn’t even considered that to be an option. He just thought that the murders were that of the Chesapeake Ripper, or a copycat. Or both. Then, when we were talking about it today, he started talking about black market organ selling. He was convinced that that’s what the Ripper, or the copycat Ripper, was doing. He was trying to convince us into looking into the black market to find a suspect, and everyone believed him.”

“Everyone but you.”

She nodded. “I’ve been in toxic relationships, I know what manipulation sounds like. You were manipulating him to get him off your scent, and it worked.”

She was perceptive, he was impressed. But now that she knew, a million solutions to his problem were running through Hannibal’s head. She had come alone, he could kill her right now and no one would even know she had been there. Of course, he’d have to wash down his office to rid it of any fingerprints that she may have left. But could he get away with killing another FBI intern? He had gotten lucky with Miriam Lass, maybe he wouldn’t have been so lucky with (Y/N).

He was also shocked to find that he didn’t want to kill her. Hannibal had grown fond of (Y/N) over the short few months he had known her. They had grown such a close bond that he often invited (Y/N) over for dinners, and he found himself excited when he would enter Jack’s office, or follow them to arrest a killer, and (Y/N) would be with them. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to kill (Y/N) like he had everyone else.

She began to descend the ladder, an action that her mind was screaming at her not to do, but her heart was telling her she could trust Hannibal. He wasn’t going to hurt her, not now anyways.

“I have to know,” she started, “are you...are you the Chesapeake Ripper?”

Hannibal nodded. “I am.”

“So...you killed all those people? Even the newest victims, the ones missing their organs?”

“I did.”

“There was never a copycat. It was always you.”

Hannibal nodded to confirm again.

(Y/N)’s entire body was shaking. She was standing inches from a murderer. Of course, being an intern with the FBI, this wasn’t her first time coming face to face with a murderer. But this was different, for one, she actually knew this murderer. It wasn’t some unknown face in the crowd, it was someone she considered a friend. And two, she wasn’t protected this time. No one knew she was there. He could’ve killed her and disposed of her body and no one would even think to question Dr. Hannibal Lecter for the murder.

“What happens now, (Y/N)?” Hannibal asked, approaching her again. She fought the urge to back away from him. She had to seem brave in this moment, not weak and afraid.

“I didn’t come here to turn you in,” she admitted. “I came to get the confirmation, to find out if I was right about my suspicions.”

“And now that you have?”

“I’m impressed,” she admitted. “You’ve been so close with the FBI, with Will, close enough that your cover could’ve been blown at any moment, but you’re so confident that you weren’t going to be caught.”

“Not confident enough, so it would seem.”

They were inches away from each other now, but (Y/N) suddenly didn’t feel scared of him. She wasn’t sure if he was going to hurt her or not, but it was as if she didn’t really care anymore.

“What happens now, Dr. Lecter?” she asked him, looking up into his brown eyes.

Instead of a response, Hannibal acted on impulse and wrapped his hands around her throat. The action took (Y/N) by surprise as he began to lift her off of her feet, squeezing her throat between his large hands. The air escaped from (Y/N)’s lungs quickly and she felt herself becoming lightheaded. In a moment of panic, she began to swing her legs, managing to make connection with Hannibal’s stomach. He doubled over in pain, dropping her to the floor.

(Y/N) landed with a thud and began to breathe heavily. She had mere moments before Hannibal would regain himself, and she knew she had to use that time wisely. While still gasping for air, she got to her feet and raced for the door. Just before reaching for the knob, she felt an arm being wrapped around her throat and her airways closing again. Hannibal began to drag her back into his office as she flailed her arms and legs, trying desperately to get out of his grip.

She managed to start clawing at his arm, digging her nails so deep into his arm that she managed to pierce the skin under his shirt. Hannibal exclaimed in pain, but only loosened his grip on (Y/N) slightly. It was enough for her to wriggle free. She turned to face him and swung a punch, managing to connect with his face.

Before she could make another get away, Hannibal grabbed her and shoved her back until her back collided with his desk. He shoved her so she was leaning back onto his desk and grabbed a nearby knife that he always kept for cases like this. He held the knife to her throat, the cold blade just lightly touching her skin. (Y/N) knew she should’ve been terrified, but she couldn’t bring herself to be properly scared. Instead, she looked into Hannibal’s eyes yet again, waiting to feel the blade pierce her skin.

“Are you going to kill me, Dr. Lecter?” she asked, her voice just barley a whisper.

Their faces were inches from one another and they were both panting from the fight. Hannibal had planned to press that blade to her throat and to kill her right then and there, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Above all else, he couldn’t imagine not seeing her anymore, to live with her death on his conscious, and that was a feeling that he had never had before.

Instead, he dropped the knife onto his desk and kissed (Y/N) in one swift movement. (Y/N) was caught by surprise, but it didn’t take her long to melt into the kiss. Hannibal took hold of her shoulders and pulled her so that she was sitting up on the desk instead. He placed himself between her legs, wrapping his arms around her so he could hold her as close to him as he possibly could.

(Y/N) moved her hands to start unbuttoning his blazer and his shirt, while Hannibal wasted no time in ripping her shirt open, her buttons flying off and scattering over his floor. His hands slipped under her shirt and ran over her bare skin, causing her to shiver at his touch. She pressed herself as close to him as she could as she put a hand on the back of his neck to deepen the kiss.

~~~~~~

Some time later, they were tangled together on the couch in Hannibal’s office. (Y/N) had her head resting on his chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat beginning to slow back to normal. She was mindlessly tracing circles on his chest with her hand, still trying to grasp what had just happened.

“You’ll have to burn this couch now,” she joked.

“I may,” Hannibal chuckled. “Or I may leave it as it is. A constant reminder of what happened on this couch, even when a patient comes and sits on it.”

(Y/N) moved her head to look at him. “That’s dirty, I like it.”

Hannibal smiled and kissed the top of her head.

“So, what happens now?” she asked him. “With me knowing your secret, and now us having slept together.”

“I trust you knowing my secret, I don’t think you are going to tell anyone, especially not Will or Jack,” he responded. “As for us sleeping together, it does cause a conflict of interest if anyone within the FBI finds out, especially Jack. We may not be allowed to work so closely together anymore as it could be argued that we’re being bias towards the other if they know we’re together.”

Hannibal’s choice of words intrigued (Y/N). She sat up slightly so that she could really look at him. “Together?”

“Maybe I’m being a little too ambitious with my phrasing,” Hannibal said.

“I’m just shocked that you’re so willing to decide we’re together after sleeping together once,” she admitted. “Most guys aren’t like that, not the ones I’ve been with anyways. They use you for sex then they’re out of your life for good.”

Hannibal at up as well to cup (Y/N)’s face with one hand. She looked into his eyes yet again. (Y/N) could get used to having those eyes looking at her with so much affection, it made her feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“I’m not like most guys,” he responded. (Y/N) tried not to chuckle at this, as it was very apparent that Hannibal was not like most people at all. “I don’t believe in having sex with someone without having some sort of affection for them.”

“Neither do I,” (Y/N) agreed. “Does that mean you have feelings for me, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal smiled. “I believe you should start calling me by my name if we’re to be intimate like this again.”

(Y/N) smiled so wide her cheeks were hurting. She couldn’t help herself as she leaned forward and began to kiss Hannibal again, lightly pushing him back on the couch so that she could straddle him again. They were so lost in one another that they almost didn’t hear the sound of Hannibal’s phone ringing, but when it continued with persistence, they realized it couldn’t be ignored.

Hannibal shifted (Y/N) so that he could carefully place her on the couch before reaching for his phone, which was in the pocket of his discarded pants on the floor.

“Hello?” There was a brief pause as whoever was on the other end spoke. (Y/N) sat up and began to kiss Hannibal’s exposed shoulders, moving slowly to his neck, in an attempt to tease him. It worked, as Hannibal moved his head to give (Y/N) more access to his neck, and she could see he was holding back a groan. “Yes, I am free. You can come over as soon as you can. See you then.”

(Y/N) pouted as Hannibal stood.

“Will is on his way here for an emergency session,” he explained. “I don’t believe it would be good for him to walk in on the two of us like this.”

(Y/N) sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. I should get going.”

Hannibal offered her his blazer. "I can replace the shirt that I ruined.”

She gratefully took it and pulled it on over her exposed body. It didn’t hide everything as much as a shirt would, but she was going straight home so it wasn’t like she had to worry too much.

As Hannibal ushered her out of his office, he grabbed her arm to stop her before she left completely. (Y/N) giggled as he pulled her to him, giving her one last kiss.

“I will see you again soon,” he promised her.

She smiled and responded, “I’ll be waiting.”

i was originally going to call this imagine “are you going to kill me?” but figured tumblr wouldn’t appreciate that

[searchingforenadi]

one step forward, two steps back

got slapped in the face by finals but we’re back again!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

the brief summary: Your customers won’t stop bleeding in your shop. You realize this might be a problem. (second person!OC, TYL).

xxii.

You gnaw at your pen, glaring at the figures in your notebook. 

Thanks to the rise in profits coming from a rather generous and possibly illegal source of customers, you’ve saved up enough to buy the electric mixer you’ve dreamed of. 

At the same time, your mom had sent you a link to a taiyaki maker last night, and now you are very conflicted. 

You can easily cover the cost of the taiyaki pan, plus the shipping, and have a lot leftover. In fact, it wouldn’t take much to recover the difference - you’d be ready to purchase that expensive, fancy mixer in no time at all.

But you’ve already waited so long for that mixer… !

A tan, scarred hand enters your line of sight, resting casually on top of your notebook. 

You blink, before raising your eyes. 

“Hey,” Yamamoto says, an easy grin on his lips. “I called for you a few times, but you looked pretty busy.”

The best way to respond, you think, is to act as if nothing has happened at all.

“Sorry,” you say, with a smile, and viciously stamp down on the mortification that you are slipping in your customer service. “The usual?”

“That’d be great,” Yamamoto says, laughter in his dark eyes. “What’s got you so distracted today?”

You consider your words as you cut a slice of tiramisu. How can you explain that your lust for taiyaki is so great, it’s hindering your ability to make your job easier?

“I’m stuck between getting two things,” you finally say, slipping the cake into a box. “I need one thing, but I really want the other. But I can’t get both at the same time.”

Yamamoto hums, exchanging some cash for the box of cake.

“You should just get what you need first,” he tells you seriously.

Your face drops instantly. 

Yamamoto covers his mouth with a fist. “Pffft!” 

Then, as if unable to hold it in anymore, he bursts into laughter. 

At this point, months after first meeting him, you are fairly certain Yamamoto will not stab you out of nowhere. 

Still, just in case (because you can still see the sword), you bravely endure the laughter.

“I’m, ha, I’m sorry,” Yamamoto finally says, once he’s recovered enough. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“That’s okay,” you say, rather gracefully. “It happens to the best of us.”

Yamamoto laughs again, his free hand resting by his sides.

“I guess it does,” he says, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes, and adds, “But actually, if I were you, I’d get what I want.”

You eye him carefully. When it’s clear there will be no more outbursts of laughter, you diplomatically say, “I’ll take your advice into consideration.”

Yamamoto chuckles. “That’s fair.”

“Do what makes you happy,” he then says, a thoughtful smile on his face. “That’s what my dad taught me when I was younger.”

You don’t know if a taiyaki pan will make you happy, but you imagine it certainly wouldn’t make you sad.

“That makes sense,” you say, your smile relaxing. “Thanks.”

“Anytime!” Yamamoto says, waving a hand and exiting the shop.

You look down at the long string of numbers on your notebook.

“Do what makes me happy,” you mutter quietly.

xxiii.

You’re wiping down a table when the door swings open.

“One moment!��� you call, stacking the leftover plates and turning to the register. It’s Gokudera, hands shoved into his pockets, tie hanging loosely around his neck. 

“Hi,” you say with a smile, walking around the counter and putting the plates down. “It’s good to see you again.”

Gokudera grunts, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. He slides over several bills.

“Two coffees,” he says, voice nearly cracking as if it hasn’t been used in days.

Instinct nearly has you getting started on the order, but you stop yourself just in time.

Instead, you look him up and down. No visible injuries, you note, but that’s what you thought last time and look what happened then.

Not blind to your casual inspection, Gokudera shifts slightly back, eyes narrowing. “What?”

You offer a smile. Mentioning your lack of faith in a possible gang member’s ability to stand up straight seems like a bad idea.

In a few minutes, you return back to the register and, before you pass over the drinks, you peer over the counter. 

You’re relieved to find that Gokudera’s legs, at least, are free of any knives.

You straighten and hand over the coffee to Gokudera, who seems like he’s visibly holding back several words.

“I’ll see you later,” you say pleasantly, swallowing down the ‘with your body in one piece, please,’ that follows. 

Gokudera clicks his tongue. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, as if he knows what you’re thinking, which you hope isn’t the case because that might mean you’re the one getting shanked next. 

Gokudera eyes you for a moment longer. Then, as if the past few minutes had never happened, he exits the shop, his slouched silhouette casting shadows through the windows.

You let out a puff of air. Running a hand through your hair, you dump your dishes in the sink and get started on preparing for rush hour.

xxiv.

You cough into the crook of your elbow, nose twitching from the excess flour in the air. An old headband your dad once gave you when you were twelve, when he found a piece of your hair in his birthday cake, rests on your forehead. 

“ - and then I punched him right in the jaw,” your dad says through the phone, his face uncomfortably close to the camera. “Just like how he deserved it.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, used to his old stories. Now, however, you’re far too aware of how much your dad might not have been exaggerating. “Did he get back up?”

You dad scoffs. “Of course not.”

You believe him, if only because your dad is built like a brick wall and somehow managed to not pass on any of genes onto you. 

There’s a rustle of fabric and some distant voice calling in the back. 

“And then I - what? Huh? Oh yeah, sure.”

“Your mom’s asking for you,” your dad then says, the camera wobbling in front of his face. Sternly, he asks, “But you’re hanging in alright?”

You smile. 

“Yeah, I am,” you say, even if it’s not completely true. You imagine that telling your dad about the possible gang in your area would only encourage him. “I’ll call you again later, okay, Dad?”

He grunts, but a wordless answer is still an answer. The phone switches to your mom, her eyes wrinkling at you.

“Would you look at that,” your mom says, in English. “You actually got started on Grandma’s recipe?”

You glance down at your hands, the mochi sticking to your fingers. Small clumps covered in flour line your wooden board. 

“It’s an ongoing process,” you try to say, switching to English just as easily. “I don’t have the right tools.”

“I can look around for those,” she says. “Your grandma might have extra.”

“That might help,” you say, although even with the right tools, you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to make mochi authentically. 

“She asks about you, you know,” your mom continues, almost distractedly. There’s some weird sort of rustle in the background. 

You pause.

“That’s nice,” you finally say, rolling another clump of mochi into a ball. From what you’ve heard, your grandma is a woman who has no patience for indecision - a terrifying thought, considering who you are, but you’ve never been able to find out for yourself. 

It suddenly occurs to you that your mom probably talks with your grandma more often than you realize.

Their conversations are likely all in Japanese, which makes sense, because your grandma can’t speak one bit of English. You once tried speaking to her when you were thirteen and was only able to stutter out a hesitant hello.

“I’ll let you know what she says,” your mom continues, a sharp click letting you know she’s taking a picture of you, through your dad’s phone, using her own phone. 

“Thanks,” you say, only to raise your head when someone knocks on your door. You check the time - it’s the early evening and you’re not expecting any visitors. “One second.”

(You’ve never actually had any visitors, really.)

You open the door, hesitantly, and peek out the door. There’s no one there, but at your doorstep, in a plain cardboard box, is - 

A noise escapes your throat.

You grab the box and shut the door behind you, before walking quickly to your dinner table. Snatching a pair of scissors, you rip open the box and, very gently, pull out a metal pan covered in plastic wrapping.

“Is that what I think it is?” your mom’s muffled voice rings through. 

You mumble out a response, unwrapping the taiyaki pan and holding it reverently in the air. 

“I’ve reached the pinnacle of my career,” you whisper, mostly to yourself. “Nothing can get better than this.”

“Oh, please,” your mom says. You can hear her rolling her eyes. “Just don’t go overboard with it, okay?”

“I would never,” you tell her assuredly. After all, you’re an adult with great impulse control -

xxv.

You swallow down your fourth taiyaki for the night and, almost guiltily, look down at your batter. 

It’s not the best you’ve ever had. Making taiyaki from scratch is, surprise surprise, not as straightforward as you would’ve hoped. 

Even worse, frying the batter is a whole other skill you’ll have to work on. It’s completely different from crepes and you were a fool think that they’d be the same.

The bigger problem, you think, is that you’re starting to get sick of using nutella as a filling. It’s not a bad substitute for red bean paste, but what you want - what you need is anko. 

It’s what you’re used to, what you used to eat with your mom after school on the way back home. It’s what you remember. 

But where the hell are you going to find anko, here, in the middle of Italy?

You grumble under your breath and clean up the taiyaki pan, packing away the leftover batter for tomorrow. 

The next day, early in the morning, you head over to the nearest grocery store. You’re not surprised to find that they, in fact, do not have anko. 

You try the next store, then the next, then even the local farmer’s market. 

It takes everything within you to push down the urge to scream. 

What will it take, you think, already calculating the costs of having a box of anko shipped over from overseas. 

It’ll get in the way of finally buying that electric mixer, but you’re not done chasing your childhood memories just yet.

xxv.

You spend the next few days furiously going over your options. Tragically enough, they’re rather limited.

You’re in the middle of looking up the cost of having azuki beans delivered to your doorstep - you’ll make the anko yourself if it gets down to it - when shadows dart across your floor. 

You glance to the side, tearing away from your notebook, and find Lambo, hovering right outside your front door. 

He seems - agitated. Or annoyed, even. By his side, with a stern face, stands Tsuna, arms folded and eyes narrowed. 

Very politely, you turn away from the apparent scolding and back to your numbers. You assume they’ll come in eventually if they want. 

You tap your fingers on the countertop. The thought of having to make your own anko is nerve wracking. You’d have to boil the beans, mash them up, add in sugar - the margin for error is as wide as the ocean. 

You start adding up the shipping fees anyways. As it turns out, your lust for taiyaki goes farther than you had originally anticipated. 

The door abruptly opens, sending a gust of wind through the air. You look up to see Lambo bursting into the store with gritted teeth. 

You stare at him, his shoulders set and tense, before slowly closing your notebook. 

Tsuna follows close by, handling the door much more gently, an apologetic grimace already on his face.

“Hi,” you say politely. At this point, you’re very familiar with Lambo’s tastes, so you also add, “We have raspberry cheesecake today.”

For a moment, Lambo’s eyes flash brightly - his hair, you notice, is more mangled than usual. You can almost see static running through the strands.

Then, you blink, and that moment is gone. Lambo’s shoulders relax slightly and he rests his hands behind his head.

“Cheesecake would be great,” he says, pointedly not looking in Tsuna’s direction. 

“Uh-huh,” you say, already pulling the cake from the display. Your eyes slide over to Tsuna, who offers a half-hearted smile. 

Yikes, you think, not envious of Tsuna’s position. You imagine his hands are quite full trying to handle someone like Lambo. 

You add in another slice without another word, packing them away into a cardboard box. 

“And for you?” you ask Tsuna. You pass the box over to Lambo, who accepts it with careful hands, a pleased smile on his face. 

Tsuna hesitates, visibly, and that’s when you remember the conversation that had started the previous fiasco.

You’ve survived this long because you’re a quick learner. So, you pull out your stash of dango and hand it over. 

“Consider it an apology for last time,” you tell him, when he tries to protest your sudden gift. You’re a business owner and that means you’re familiar with the concept of investment. 

“You really don’t have to,” Tsuna tries to say, awkwardly holding onto your tupperware. 

“It’s for my own conscience,” you answer. 

You’re determined to snag more well-paying regulars, so, with a smile, you add on, “One day, I’ll have something here you’ll definitely want to eat.”

Tsuna tightens his grip on the tupperware. He looks down at the packed dango, almost resignedly, before smiling warmly.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he tells you, handing over some cash for Lambo’s cake.

You turn to Lambo, who’s eyebrows have risen so high, they reach his hairline. “I’ll have some more for you tomorrow if you want.”

Lambo drags his eyes away from Tsuna to look at you.

“That would be great!” he says, a suspicious hint of something coloring his voice. You barely manage to stop the urge to squint at him. 

You’re giving Tsuna his change when your elbow accidently grazes your notebook. 

Like a lightbulb turning on in the dusty attic of your mind, you remember that your current customer is very Japanese. Maybe even delicately Japanese. Which means - 

You just might be able to find locally-sourced anko after all. 

Your mouth opens and closes. How are you going to ask? Would someone like Tsuna even know? Asking about ingredients is a pretty harmless subject, right?

Tsuna pauses. 

“Something the matter?” he asks mildly, hazel eyes studying you more carefully than before. 

Your hunger for proper taiyaki gives you the motivation you need.

“I’ve been looking for anko,” you say quickly, before your nerves get to you. “Do you know where I could get some?”

“Anko, huh?” Tsuna asks, saying the single word easily, like a native, like your mom. For a split-second, you envy his ease in the culture you’ve never chased.

He hums thoughtfully, shifting the tupperware to his side. 

“I’m not the one who usually grabs the groceries,” he thinks aloud, bringing a hand to his face. “I know we get a lot of Japanese products in the open market to the east.”

You blink, mind already scrambling to figure out where that might be. 

“Here,” Tsuna says, reaching inside his suit jacket and pulling out a pen. He gestures to your notebook. “Can I?”

“Uh, sure,” you say, flipping past your hastily written numbers and to a new page. 

WIth one hand still carrying your dango, Tsuna quickly sketches out the main roads and circles a spot to the east. He jots down more information on the side.

“They’re open Saturday mornings,” he tells you, pocketing his pen. “There’s a section there dedicated to selling East Asian products.”

You lift up your notebook and bring it closer to your face. You’ve never visited that side of the town before - you never had to. 

It’s a long walk from your apartment but this is more than what you could’ve hoped for. 

(You can almost taste the taiyaki from your childhood.)

“Thank you,” you say, lips curving into a smile and warmth filling your throat. “This is really helpful.”

“Uh,” Tsuna starts to say, before clearing his throat once. He smiles. “No problem. Anytime.”

They leave soon after. Tsuna takes long strides to the door and Lambo, suspiciously quiet, is a little too slow to hide the gleeful grin plastered on his face. The pair turn to the right toward your windows.

You smile when Tsuna ruffles Lambo’s hair. They seem to converse a moment longer before Tsuna lays out a hand. 

It’s nice, you think, watching as Lambo sighs before reaching into his pockets and pulling out a - 

Your smile remains frozen in place. 

There’s a flash of metal and Tsuna tucks the object away into his own suit. It’s done in one smooth action, as if it had never happened in the first place. 

They disappear into the streets not a moment later.

You’re just seeing things, you think to yourself, as another part of your mind screams bloody murder, because you’re pretty sure you just saw -  

Kids carry random things all the time, you then try to reason. It’s a trick of the light. You’re just seeing things. 

“I’m just seeing things,” you say, your voice cracking in the dead silence in your store. 

It’s easier to think that you’re losing your mind rather than the alternative, which is that your teenage regular has somehow gotten his hands on a bloody gun - 

The door opens to another customer. 

You give your customary greeting and, after politely asking for a moment, slink back into the kitchens. 

Snatching the nearest towel, you smash it against your face and let out a muffled scream. 

Then, as if nothing had happened, you toss the towel to the side and walk back to the front.

-o-o-o-o-o-

tsuna: lambo, what do u have there?

lambo: a gun! :D

tsuna: nO!

the title for today’s chapter comes from the success of having no blood (yay!) but instead, MC has to deal with teenagers handling illegal weapons (nay...).

‘anko’ is a very real filling that’s used in countless asian desserts. it means ‘red bean paste’ and made from azuki beans - it’s sweet and comes in different textures. 

‘taiyaki’ is a fried waffle dish shaped like a fish, and can have different fillings inside (ice cream, chocolate, anko). it’s made from a special pan to hold the mold together - it’s one of my favorite dishes and i have indeed done some unsavory things to get my hands on one hot off the press. 

we have all our main characters showing up today! you might even consider this a filler chapter, but in actuality we’re just building up to the next ‘main’ part. i hope everyone is staying safe and healthy!

[teacherintransition]

“You go ahead, I’m just going to sit here awhile.”

Old man cliches are common, but many have more wisdom and significance than you might imagine.

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together; Youth is full of pleasure, age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. Youth is full sport, age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee.

William Shakespeare

Ah, the bard and his many truths; from the outside it seems clear what ol’ Bill is saying, but truth to tell this conflict between youth and age are almost always found within the same person. I can hear it now, “settle down pops” at the mere suggestion of a fire still burning in the heart or spirit of anyone over 50. Anyone who has known me the last ten years knows I have a motto, a creed, a riail den saol (rule of life) as the old Irish called it. What is this standard that I hold inviolate? ... NO OLD MAN TALK! This includes the following: so and so is in the hospital again; talk of medications; I just can’t do (activity of choosing) anymore or like I used to; the obituary page; arthritis and aches and pains in general; bragging about how little you are “in the know” about current technology; and the all time dis-favorite, “kids today!” To a slight degree I can tolerate “remember when” and intelligent discussions of music; but old man talk in general is VERBOTEN! Funeral attendance is limited to only the closest of family or the tragic loss of a student or former student, other than that, the next funeral I attend will be my own ... and then maybe.

“Geez, what’s the problem old man?”... is a common response I get for sticking to this creed. Why such a willful response? Let me make some things clear: I’m not afraid of dying, in fact since I’ve adopted a universalist, Buddhist view of things, I fear death less than I ever had. I’m not in denial of the physical limitations I experience nor am I fearful of breaking like glass. My heart for experience and adventure are greater than ever and I resent anyone or any set of thoughts placing me into any predetermined box that makes my choices for me. My worldview, rather than contracting into a close minded conservative set of unflinching principles, has become more progressive and assertive in views than I ever have held in my life. If I were 21, I’d be a radical member of a punk rock band. But, I’m not and won’t.... and I will not engage in old man talk.

An explanation is in order, in my mind and spirit and soul I am 25.... no no, I’m 32. I had it all together at 32. I was six feet 205 pounds, ran two miles four times a week and worked out regularly....I had surpassed youthful impulsiveness and was pretty sharp and, if I don’t say so myself... pretty damn attractive. Wait a minute, this is skirting closely to “remember when,” to the point, there are too many distractions that will rob us of a youthful, positive view of each day if we aren’t careful. I guess I’m sounding careful, like an old man? I know what I am: I’m 54, I retired at an early age, I live in a precarious, uncertain world, I’m excited about what I can do each day.... and to the very best of my ability, I live in the moment at hand. It took me 50 years to attain this wisdom and I ain’t giving it up for anything. The earlier Shakespeare quote is spot on and I’m going to hold onto the youthful passions over the aged restrictions with all my strength. I don’t fool myself or pretend to be something I’m not, a little Just for Men not withstanding, I’m a pretty “with it” middle aged cool ole’ guy.

As mentioned, this world we share is in a precarious state, it can easily rob you of hope and joy. It always had that ability even before 2020. To illustrate the point, I clearly remember people who were with me in my 20’s and 30’s who were already living the life of a obstinate 75 year old. That is a terrifying prospect that a person would reach a elderly mindset so young and live it over and over. In a world that advertises cliche constantly that is one that won’t sell with me. Cliches become cliches because there is some truth in them, even about those of us advancing in age. If you scratch just beneath the surface of these time worn sayings, you just might see a little spry thinking with aged wisdom. The things old guys say like the title, “you go ahead, I’m just going to sit here awhile,” probably garners the response, “the old dude can’t keep up.” Foolish mortal, I, with my youthful desire to live fully each moment, am simply take the time to admire the beautiful vista that you overlook to go shopping... again! “ I’m going to stop at just three whiskies,” to which one might reply, “can’t hang like you used to huh?” The wise response is, “no I wish to savor the taste and the feel of this fine whisky and not wear it later with the hangover that’s sure to follow sport drinking.” Ah , it’s sad that youth is wasted on the young.

I suppose true pearls of wisdom that really enrich life and don’t reduce it to a blur can only come after making the missteps of being young. I wish that many years ago I had realized that we only have now...that’s all we’ve ever had. Often we acted as if we would live forever, which is an amazing feeling, but it doesn’t compare with the intensity of pain when realizing you’ve wasted time. We spent so much time consumed with the worry of tomorrow instead of realizing there is only today. I’m not advocating being irresponsible at all just seeing the magic as it happens. Don’t let this uncertain world rob you of magic; don’t let the worries of what could happen rob you of magic; don’t let an ache or pain rob you of magic; despite your age let yourself live like a child in the sun. Old man talk, in my view, makes getting older feel like being weighed down with a millstone. I want my advancing years to echo again the words of the bard:

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.

-William Shakespeare-

http://labibliotecacoffee.com/

[fapangel]

I am being asked by family members; as a Greek-American, do you condone such attacks against Turkish-Americans or Turkish immigrants in general?

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT, and anyone contemplating such had better fucking hope me or mine aren’t in earshot when they try it, because it will end poorly for them. 

This isn’t an academic question for me as I have family still living in Dearborn - the largest Arab-American community in America, and not terribly far from Greektown in Detroit. Arabs of all creeds and colors living in America typically live here because they ran the fuck away from the brutality and oppression in their home country - which I’m sympathetic to, as Greece isn’t the greatest place on earth, either. I’m of Greek ancestry, but I’m an American by birth, and there’s many things about Greece itself I’m no fan of - how they invented democracy and then forgot how to use it (remember the seven-year military dictatorship in fairly recent history?), antisemitism so virulent it has its own fucking Wikipedia page, backwards and dated views on women, no right to freely keep and bear arms, etc. America embodies the ideals of my ancestors better than Greece does; and even if it didn’t, I’m freer to pursue and nurture them here than in the homeland. 

The Turks living here either came here for those same reasons, or were fathered and raised by people who did, just as I was. They are my neighbors and my countrymen, and a greater safeguard against their own kinsmen who might try to import poisonous ideas from their homeland than I could be, as they’re not only familiar with it, but fled here specifically to escape it, and are thus especially on-guard against it. 

This isn’t limited to America - Greece is in a very ancient part of the world over which armies have won conquest many, many times, so there’s Turks in Greece, as well. There’s also Greeks in Turkey still, despite past population exchanges following the bitter wars between the nations. Hell, there’s even a slavic-speaking minority in Greece. I don’t have to appeal to the American ideology of men of all faiths, creeds and colors loyal to an idea over an ethnicity or religion to make an argument that Greeks and Turks can live in peace - they already do, within Greece itself!

Of all this world’s evils, one of the greatest ones is that innocent people, by the thousands and the millions, must pay the price for the crimes of governments they did not choose. Iran and North Korea are especially tragic examples. But even in those nightmarish dictatorships, true change can only come when the people rise up and liberate themselves - and even then it will be ugly (as Greece’s civil wars following the defeat of Ottoman Turkey, and more recently the Arab Spring has demonstrated.) Others can help (again, as they did in Greece and the Arab Spring) but whether a peaceful and free society emerges from the ashes, or simply another strongman flying another flag, relies entirely upon the people themselves. Others can give them the opportunity (as France once did for America,) but ultimately, only the people themselves can take responsibility. If this is true even for innocents crushed under the heel of brutal dictatorships, it is especially true for nations with denuded-but-functioning democracies, like Turkey. 

The young Turkish men that are going to die in the Syrian fighting is a tragedy, and doubly so because they’re doing it to kill young Kurdish men who needn’t have died either, in a conflict that needn’t have happened. I don’t want any of them to die. But I am also powerless to change the circumstances that has brought this latest tragedy about. Only the Turkish people can change Turkey, as only Americans can change America (and Americans aren’t without a ledger to balance ourselves.) Of all the excellent reasons to hate Turkey as a polity, I hate Turkey most for obligating soldiers of other nations to kill their young men. 

It was not always such for Greeks - I have heard stories of Turkish barbarity and deliberate, sadistic cruelty that would make your fucking hair stand on end and walk right off your skull. And for a people still under constant bellicose threat from what’s essentially the same polity, its inevitable that that hate is going to smolder on. And yet, even true Greeks (citizens of Greece itself, unlike me,) have begun to bridge that gap in recent decades. As well they should, for our ancestors were not just warriors and avengers, but philosophers and poets as well, and pursuing peace on earth and more perfect relations between the disparate peoples of Man is also our heritage to carry forth into the future. The Greek patriots who slew Ottoman Turk soldiers with fury in their blood and black hate in their hearts didn’t do such things so their children’s children’s children could live in the same long shadows that they suffered, but so they might enjoy a happier future. I’ve thought about this issue a lot recently; first for Kant-O-Celle quest, pertaining Americans and Japanese, and then as I watched America start to rip itself in two, right down the seam. There’s people in this country today who absolutely revel in hate, who enjoy and promulgate it, and take obvious and sadistic delight in inflicting cruelty on people who dare dissent from their dogma. It’s been on my mind a lot for the past three years. 

And despite the doubts that always crowd close in my darker moments, I can’t shake the feeling that sooner or later, the hating has to stop. We humans are cursed creatures; naked apes living in our own piles of shit that nonetheless have beautiful minds that can dream of perfection our imperfect souls and quarreling tribes can never attain. But that was our choice, when Adam and Eve ate the apple, and why God cast them from the Garden of Eden; because to realize the spark of divinity within ourselves, to rise to the level of our Holy Father and create things, we have to suffer and toil - because like the Garden, it would not be ours if we didn’t craft it with our own hands. It would be a cradle, not our utopia, not an expression from, of our own souls. All humanity has in this world is that mission, that potential to improve. To carry the torch five more steps, or even one; that is to have succeed. 

To hate and hate and hate forever advances nothing and brings us nowhere. It is to take the torch from the bloody hands of our forefathers and fling it on their funeral pyre to dance around like savages, instead of preserving and improving what they paid such a dear price for. It is to elevate our base impulses to the fore; the instincts of survival, leading to an existence where we exist only to keep existing - without a point. Our survival instincts are powerful and bone-deep; we needn’t guard them, as only the insane (or the indoctrinated-into-insanity) can over-ride them. It’s the higher impulses that demand our conscious care; only we can give our existence in this cosmos meaning. It’s a terrifying thing to take responsibility for, and I don’t feel I’m very courageous in that affair myself, but I’m loathe to actively run from it, for that way lies nothing but soul-death. 

And that’s why, if I should hear a some calling for help with their foot trapped under a track with a train coming on, my first act wouldn’t be to check if he was Greek or Turk, black or white, man or woman, Christian or Muslim. I would simply act. 

I think my forefathers would approve. 

[morsmordrehasbeensaved]

CONGRATULATIONS ASH, YOU HAVE BEEN ACCEPTED AS SIRIUS BLACK WITH THE FACECLAIM OF LUKE PASQUALINO!

We were really excited when you told us you were willing to reapply, Ash, and you truly blew us out of the water with your newly written biography! You nailed Sirius’ personality in our minds and we loved how he met James on the train which matches’ Kay’s biography as well - and the background on his family was just perfection. We are super excited to have you around and can’t wait to write and plot with you!

Check out our acceptance checklist right here on what to do next!

♔ Out Of Character Info ♔

Name/Alias: Ash

Age/Birthday: 14; October 17

Pronouns: she/her

Timezone and Activity: EST: 70% active; I am not available at school during the weekdays, but I am mostly here when I’m not at school

Triggers: REMOVED.

Anything Else: REMOVED.

♔ In Character Info ♔

Full Name: Sirius Black (Nickname: Padfoot)

Birthday: November 3rd

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality/Romantic Orientation: Bi

Extracurriculars: Dueling Club

Personality Traits:

postive: loyal, flirty, brave

negative: arrogant, rebellious, impulsive

Additional Info: Thank you for allowing me to reapply. I’m really interested in this roleplay group and I think it would be a wonderful thing to be apart of. I really appreciate the second chance and have worked to improve my application. Once again, I do not have any other Harry Potter content. I hope that doesn’t affect your decisions.

Biography:

Sirius Black was born into a pureblood family, who owned a luxurious home where Sirius resided during his childhood. The home was called the House of Black, the family name going all the way back to around the middle ages. Naturally, Sirius’ parents were quite proud of him when he was first born, aiming to create the perfect model child out of him. They wanted him to share the family’s views pertaining to blood purity and soon, Voldemort’s evil reign. However, Sirius quickly began to reject these ideals, even as a child. With a multitude of family members trying shove opinion after opinion into his head, it was challenging to find his own thoughts. Sirius started to believe he was meant to be evil, no matter what he thought about it. His family was like that, so why shouldn’t he? Why should he go against his parents instead of just trying to make them happy? It was all too overwhelming for him, to be stuck in a house full of others who were trying to tell him what to be. Due to these staggering feelings, he didn’t interact with the people in his house unless he had to, which allowed him more alone time for himself. During this time, Sirius was able to read and see what the outside world thought (though reading is definitely not one of his favorite activities) and began to make his own opinions. He found solace in the fact that he wasn’t alone in his ideas of equality, ideas that contrasted the ones of the rest of the Black family so greatly. He believes that no wizard is less than another. The amount of magical blood they have doesn’t matter to Sirius. As he began to express these thoughts, (slowly at first, as if he was testing the waters) his family painted him as the odd one out. His parents especially began to be extremely unsupportive of their rebellious child. They saw him as an outcast to the rest of the family. Sirius began to enter even more conflicts with his relatives. Sometimes the fights would last for hours. Eleven years of living in his complicated home took a huge toll on him, but that didn’t stop his pure excitement when he stepped on the train on September 1st, ready to make a new life at Hogwarts and hopefully not be ridiculed for everything he expressed. . Sometimes the fights would last for hours. Eleven years of living in his complicated home took a huge toll on him, but that didn’t stop his pure excitement when he stepped on the train on September 1st, ready to make a new life and Hogwarts and hopefully not be ridiculed for everything he expressed.

Almost immediately after he set off to his new life, Sirius met James Potter on the train. A boy who walked into Sirius’ cabin that seemed almost too confident and cool for his age. They immediately befriended each other, bonding over shared interests like chocolate frog cards and spells they practiced at home. They clicked extremely well, nearly conjoined at the hip from that moment on. Having his first friend brought Sirius great joy. After all those years with nobody in his corner, he finally had somebody he could trust. The train ride went by quite quickly and the boys arrived at Hogwarts along with everyone else. Sirius was almost sure the Sorting Hat would place him in Slytherin, due to him being the heir of the House of Black and all. However, to his surprise, he was sorted into the Gryffindor house instead. The hat spent a long while deciding and sensed Sirius’ desire to be different from his family. His need to not be like the people who inflicted pain onto him all throughout his childhood. This played into him being chosen for Gryffindor, adding to the fact that he posses a lot of traits that belong to the Lion House, including, of course, bravery.

After his sorting, Sirius sat down next to James, who had a wide grin spread across his face. Sitting across for them were two other boys who had just been placed in Gryffindor as well. Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. They began to speak to each other, discussing what it was like to get their letters and the train ride there. The other two were a lot quieter and less rowdy than James and Sirius, but the four of them still seemed to find a newfound friendship. They could all tell right away that this bond would last for years to come. Having friends that accepted him was one of Sirius’ greatest wishes at home, and he’d achieved it so effortlessly. Being apart of this group of people allowed him to learn more about different kinds of family and people, and let his loud and open personality shine in a way that it wasn’t able to when he was at home. Although, the boys sure did get into a lot of mischief, but Sirius liked it that way.

In their second year, the group began to notice Remus and how reserved he was. They realized how strange he was acting and that he was missing a multitude of classes. This concerned the three others, so they decided to investigate, eventually uncovering the truth that Remus was a werewolf. While shocked, Sirius didn’t see Remus differently for it. Remus was his good friend and he was all too familiar with being the odd one out when it came to his family. James, Sirius, and Peter wanted to look out for Remus and make him feel less alone. They also needed to cover for him during school, since he’d already missed so many classes at suspicious times. Considering all of this, the three decided to become animagi. They went through a long, grueling process to do so. Being second years, their magic just wasn’t advanced enough to complete the spell correctly. The process took three exhausting years to complete, but it was definitely worth it. The boys were very proud of how everything turned out and Remus was so glad that he wasn’t alone. Sirius’ animagi is a black dog, which is why his nickname is Padfoot. The four called themselves the Marauders and each got a nickname. [“Moony (Remus), Wormtail (Peter), Prongs (James).”] The transformation into animagi was a pivotal moment of their friendship and brought them even closer than before.

Sirius’ school years were full of fun and misbehavior. His times at Hogwarts were the best times of his life. Even with constant punishments and detentions due to their mischievous actions. Out of all the Marauders, Sirius and James were the most popular. They built up a reputation, a popular person on their bad side being Severus Snape. It was mostly James who butted heads with him, as they both liked Lily Evans, but Sirius always had his friend’s back.

Currently, he is in his seventh year at school. With it being the last year and all, Sirius desperately wants to make it count. He finally got out of his home, where his relationship with his family members has grown more and more toxic. Moving in with James and his family was a huge relief. Sirius finally doesn’t have to worry about being ridiculed for everything he does. The Potters accept him as a part of the family right away. Sirius is extremely grateful for this. He always wanted a family that supports him, but all his life he never had that. Now, he finally has it. Even though Hogwarts was an amazing relief from the people that caused him this pain, it didn’t liberate him fully. Sirius always still had to go home for Christmas and summer break, which were the worst parts of the year for him. Having a place and the Potter household means the world to Sirius. It also allows Sirius and James to spend even more time together. James is one of the most important people in his life, along with Remus and Peter. He doesn’t mind that his family blackens out his name and considers him a traitor. He’s found where he really belongs.

After moving in, seventh year begins. This year is a really important time in Sirius’ life. It’s his last year at Hogwarts and evil seems to be on the rise. With Death Eaters and supporters of Grindelwald on the rise of attack, Sirius is prepared to fight back. He’s also growing in maturity. Though he is still the wild, flirty Gryffindor that he’s been all these years, he also realizes how important this year and the rest of his life is. He’s thinking about the future now and is ready to grow and change. As well as this, during the summer between sixth and seventh year, Sirius has realized his daunting crush on Remus. Terrified of losing his friendship with Remus (another person who is very valuable to him), he overcompensates and pines by flirting with nearly every girl. (Except Lily, of course). He believes this is the best way to cover up his feelings and since he has never told anyone, it works quite well. Despite this, the Marauders continue to be inseparable and are prepared to fight alongside each other.  Sirius is ready to begin this new chapter in his life and to see what this school year has in store for him.

[eugenialapteva]

Ode to Softboy

I hear you K. I GET that you’ve put a lid on yourself, all this time; that you’ve denied, however inadvertently, some of your personal needs; confused some of your own wants and desires with those of mine. I hear you explain, time and again how every choice you make, every decision you’re obliged to take —“the struggle of living!”— is trapped in this fearsome prison of judgment. More importantly, I get that you FEEL deafened by the sweet sounding but muddling voice of the beloved self that resounds inside you, and that is me. 

“It’s not your fault, L”, I repeat to myself in the silent room of my empty flat. I know that now. The silence carries a breath of sadness and relief, like a bearer of truth that gently alleviates the absence of your familiar sobs of self deprecation.

“But perhaps I am too demanding?”, I ponder further in the dark. 

I do, after all, wish that you love and affirm whatever I say; eat healthy food instead of shitty burgers; surprise me with pretty flowers. I ask that you hang up the shelves in a straight line; glue together my broken tile with utmost care; schedule your work trip for Sunday instead of Saturday; make an effort with your mum and dad and stop sulking in the corner; keep those beautiful pecks of yours deliciously pumped. 

It’s hard being a person, isn’t it?

Even harder having to live up to that ideal —K the mighty— on whom we all depend for answers. Being a person is not easy, being an image seems impossible. But ah, not so fast. Look again and something else begins to appear: might the impossible image be the easier route after all? Hide behind the ideal and don’t be spurned; remain the helpless child for longer, ensnared in the nest of ego and self-protective relations with others. 

Yes K: consciousness is responsibility. 

“After being – doing and being done to. But first, being”, writes D.W. Winnicott. 

To carry around a defensive body armour on an empty stomach must be exhausting. Even for a Russian soldier. This incorrigible confusion between self and other; inner and outer; fantasy and reality: that is the deadliest source of all your violence. 

The controlling, oppressive power that you exert on Her is veiled in an appearance of absolute and ethical love. To hell with that. I want real, naked love. 

— 

Everything I do is for “her” —her, her, her— the One; Most High; Being; the Word. “I’ve lived and lost myself for her”. 

Poor, sweet K. 

But there’s more, the echoes of a shell of self in disguise: 

“I think I like those black Adidas trainers. I wonder if she would like them too? Do I like them or does she? Who am I pleasing? Who am I? Losing myself in the other.” 

Whatsapp received. Confirmed. VISA card accepted. Great. I AM those Adidas black trainers. She will carry the weight of my decisions, this precarious being of mine: a ticking bomb. 

Can’t bare to make a mistake, to be a disappointment. Let’s find a solution. Yes: I’ll think and act as if I’ve failed before I start mending the tile, hanging up the shelf, booking the ticket, or (not) buying the flowers. I’ll preempt that feeling of failure, avert the attention away from the task and avoid responsibility for the potential outcome. Situation controlled. 

I envy her. Her difference. Do I resent her for it? Of course not! How ludicrous. Let’s suppress in her, as well as myself, this childish jealousy which I neither have the courage nor strength to confront. Let it fester inside: tick tock, tick tock… 

“What’s your opinion on Putin’s alliance with Assad?”, she asks me one evening. I see her eyes reaching out for my total, flawless, educated, insightful, PERFECT engagement. (Her: “Really K?”) 

I shut down. 

She’s disappointed, silenced, upset, confused, diminished. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I can’t stop now; got to keep the familiar, fragile ego in tact. Situation controlled. 

I’ll do the work of being disappointed with myself – it’s safer that way; it’s the only way. My mother and father didn’t often tell me I was wrong or right, good or bad. I don’t know what it feels like to be a disappointment and/or a reward who SURVIVES, LOVES AND IS LOVED in conflict.

What a fucking mess. 

— 

Gillian Rose: “The child who is able to explore that border [between fantasy and actuality] will feel safe in experiencing violent, inner, emotional conflict, and will acquire compassion for other people. The child who is locked away from aggressive experiment and play [with the parent] will be left terrified and paralyzed by its emotions, unable to release or face them, for they may destroy the world and himself and herself. The censor aggravates the syndrome he seeks to alleviate; he seeks to rub out in others the border which has been effaced inside himself.” 

This is one of my favourite passages. 

— 

I won’t tread gently around the sharp edges of your glass coffin K

I need more 

        much more: less than perfect 

a person 

who desires 

and loves the woman I am: strong, caring, beautiful, educated, confident, compassionate, truthful, sensitive, good; impatient, impulsive, unsure, hysterical, demanding, nasty, selfish, secretive, boring, repetitive, bad, and 

willing 

willing 

“Do you hear me, K?” 

willing

to collide, give up, take in, surrender to the infinite work of two beyond twoness 

∞ 

Published in Odiseo Vol. 11, 2018