#tempest teapot

[dracoqueen22]

The Care and Feeding of Vhampirs - Tempest Edition

Nym is acting very weird.

Er. Weirder than usual.

Tempest squints and stares at the arcanist as he hovers over Easton, offering him first a bowl of the stew Rathi whipped up, then a handful of jerky, followed by a bag of roasted nuts. Easton turns it all down and goes back to his book – it’s an old thing, all cracked spine, and crinkly pages. Tempest thinks he got it from Tarsus’ sanctum, but she can’t be sure.

Anyway. Easton’s not the one being weird. Nym is. He’s not foisting food off on anyone else, and he sighs like a Mam much aggrieved when Easton won’t take the food. Nym shuffles off and sits next to Dakota, close enough that he can keep an eye on Easton without it being obvious that’s what he’s doing. He starts eating the stuff Easton turned down.

Weird.

Tempest scoops a big spoonful of the stew into her mouth, and slurps up dripping juices. It’s delicious. Meaty. Mostly meat. Rathi doesn’t bother with vegetables much though Dakota dumped a bowlful of tubers and roots into the pot when she wasn’t looking. Silly Dakota. He’s always trying to get them to eat healthier things. Healthful things? Not-delicious things that’s for sure.

Tempest pushed the one root she found to the side of the bowl, and will tip it back into the pot when she goes back for thirds. Waste not, want not. Dakota can eat all of those.

Besides, Easton’s the one who needs to eat more healthful. He’s skin and bones, and Tempest swears he never puts any weight on. Like his body actively rejects food. Horrible. Maybe that’s why Nym keeps trying to shove food at him.

Everyone else knows Easton will eat what he wants to eat and when he wants to eat it, usually out of sight somewhere, but Nym is pretty new. He hasn’t learned their eating habits. Maybe he’s worried.

Wait.

Tempest pauses mid-chew. What if Easton’s sick and Nym’s the only one who knows? What if there’s something seriously wrong with him? She doesn’t know what it could be, but maybe food fixes it. If Easton’s not interested in the stew, or jerky, or nuts, maybe he wants something else.

Tempest chugs the rest of her own stew and digs around in her bag to see if she has something that might tempt his appetite. This old cinnamon roll? It’s a bit stale, but it’ll be soft on the inside and the sweet icing should make up for that. Oh, she’s got a few pieces of bacon leftover from their big breakfast before they left Delilly.

Everyone likes bacon.

Tempest wipes the back of her hand over her mouth and grabs both the cinnamon roll and the bacon. She skips around the campfire and plops down next to Easton, curling her tail around her body. He doesn’t even look at her, but his eyebrows twitch, which means he knows she’s there.

“I’ve got bacon,” she declares, holding it up to him. “And a cinnamon roll.”

“Congratulations?” he says, but it sounds more like a question. The furrow in his brow gets deeper. He’s very, very focused on his book.

It occurs to Tempest that Easton might just be sad. Sinoun up and vanished on them a week ago, and Easton acted like he had no idea it was going to happen. He and Sinoun are very close, too, so maybe Easton just misses Sinoun. It’s hard to eat when you’re longing for someone.

“You can have them,” Tempest says, laying the sticky roll on Easton’s knee and holding it in place so it doesn’t topple off. “You should eat.”

Easton closes the book and looks at her. The dark circles under his eyes tells her he’s not sleeping much. Even less than he usually does. He’s super-pale, too. But food ought to fix that.

“I appreciate the offer,” he says, and plucks the roll with two fingers before placing it back in her palm. “But you should keep it.”

“Bacon then?” Tempest suggests, holding it up. She casts a big smile. “Come on. You gotta eat something. For me?”

Easton sighs. He takes the bacon and nibbles one end of it, raising his eyebrows as if to say, “There. You happy?”

She, in fact, is.

Tempest takes a huge bite of the sticky roll – it’s a bit stale, but still as sweet as the day it was made. She’ll keep an eye on Easton, too. Help Nym out. If bacon’s enough to tempt him, she’ll make sure he gets more helpings of meat. Sinoun might be gone, but everyone else is still here. Sometimes, people just need to be reminded they’re not alone.

Easton’s a bit like Dakota honestly. Big boys that can’t take care of themselves. Good thing Tempest is around to help.

“Thanks,” Easton says after he’s finished the bacon and wiped his fingers clean. “You didn’t—I don’t—” He stops and his nostrils flare as he breathes out hard.

Tempest pats him on the knee. “I’ll bring you more tomorrow,” she promises, and realizes her fingers are sticky. Just like the spot on his trousers where she set the sticky bun. Oops.

Easton opens his book and hunches over it, pretending like he hadn’t heard her, but the muttered ‘thanks’ she picks up on the wind is enough of a prize.

Tempest grins and bounces to her feet, sauntering off to reclaim her bowl and another helping of stew. Minus the vegetables of course.

***

a/n: Thank you for reading! Please let me know if you enjoyed. I plan on releasing more of this series and I'd love to know if it's something readers would be interested in. :D

#draco writes original fic #tethers universe #fantasy novella #tempest teapot #easton | riordan shaye #still unnamed party #they'll figure it out #sfw text #nanowrimo 2023

[edaworks]

Me: has to sacrifice the day off I originally took to watch the new Fallout series; decides to check fandom interactions about it anyway even though I know I’ll be sticking my face in a blender

The Fandom:

Joshua Nolan, Graham Wagner, Geneva Robertson-Dworet and The Devs (esp. Joshua Sawyer and Emil Pagliaro), watching the fandom lose its mind over a cliffhanger and meta content that was, tbh, probably specifically designed 1) to ENSURE a chaotic reaction 2) to get the show trending on social media and which 3) could probably be explained about 38 different ways without retconning canon by a reasonably creative writer:

#fallout #fallout tv show #canon #there is not a single argument I’ve seen for the show being a canon-wrecking tragedy that I - not a show writer - can’t dismantle #perhaps one will materialize but folks I haven’t seen one yet #JFC guys just wait for the second season this is an enormous tempest in a teapot #and see what happens #otherwise you may find you’re just falling for some masterfully engineered social marketing strategies

[the-official-account]

Me: haha spar is kinda awful! I love learning how he reacts under pressure I wonder how else he's an ass

Anya in tempest and the teapot:

Me:

#see reblogs #i had to break up this post #tempest and the teapot #three of hearts #three of hearts pod #lush chats #anya wittlesby #agent meriam felspar

[daily-rayless]

Tempest, straight out of the teapot.

#tempest in a teapot #tea #teapot #fairy #angel #magical being of some designation #2010

[lith-myathar]

Man that whole "as a child your genuine expression of joy was labelled as 'too much,' 'too loud,' 'a problem' and as a result of this you trained yourself not to express joy without keeping it 'under control'" really do be hitting tonite

#i was talking in therapy this week about how ive basically lived my entire life squashed into what ither people #wanted and expected me to be to the point that i could not tell how much i was holding in all the time #it was so much a part of me i could not imagine different #god no wonder ive always been so chaotic #tempest in a teapot #masking on top of just ridiculous fucked up family expectations

[obserbolisk]

Thank fuck that AO3 drama is finally over. My dash can know piece once again.

#tempest in a goddamn teapot #even if she was elected nothing would have happened

[thebongomediaempire]

#fake book cover #charles bongo garrett #a bongo book #it might be 5G #tempest in a teapot #may be linked to everything #bongo books #the bongo books

[dailyshirbert]

Gilbert Blythe wasn’t used to putting himself out to make a girl look at him meeting with failure. She SHOULD look at him, that redhaired Shirley girl with the little pointed chin and the big eyes that weren’t like the eyes of any other girl in Avonlea school.    Gilbert reached across the aisle, picked up the end of Anne’s long red braid, held it out at arm’s length and said in a piercing whisper:    “Carrot! Carrots!”

Chapter XV. {A Tempest in the School Teapot} Anne of Green Gables

AKAGE NO AN |  赤毛のアン (1979) dir. Isao Takahata ANNE OF GREEN GABLES (1985) dir. Kevin Sullivan ANNE WITH AN E (2017 - 2019) | s01 ep03 ‘But What Is So Headstrong as Youth?’

#anne of green gables #perioddramaedit #periodedit #periodgif #aoggedit #shirbertedit #awaeedit #annewithaneedit #akagenoanedit #userbennet #userseeleybooth #catalinabaylors #userdraconis #userpavlova #userperioddrama #tusergabriela #akage no anne #akage no an #aogg #aogg 1985 #awae #s1 #anne x gilbert #shirbert #anne shirley #anne shirley cuthbert #gilbert blythe #gif #*

[delicrieux]

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 & 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐞 | endless oneshots (winter edition)

pairing—regulus black x reader genre—angstyyy summary—a moment shared in the living room word count—3.4k

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

the wall distracts you. the great family tree of the noble house of black. on their velvet sofa you find yourself quite small faced with the vastness of the room – in front, the magnificent tapestry of a lineage woven into time and into objects, like a permanent impact; in back, the frost covered windows, and further still, the late afternoon glow of the sun burning the whole of london. you imagine, briefly, yourself painted in. your small portrait and your name. you long for it in moments; you know no other wish. the shape of you has been made for this only.

how tedious. how meticulously exact the needlework must be to look appealing. how with your wand you can only return the inner lapel of regulus’ coat to its pristine condition and begin again. each time, the frustration threatens to spill through bitten lips. an uncaring loop thrusts through skin and hits bone. you give up, almost, with the silver thread coiled around your fingers like a hair. r. a. b. shouldn’t be too hard, should it? three letters only, sown by hand, a small, meaningless claim to a coat he already owns. as if he can’t recognize his things, how silly. by the seventh poke you wonder if this odyssey has any significance to it. why grapple to capture a tempest in a teapot? you could easily weave it into existence with magic.

it would still be a kind gesture, a thoughtful one. an affectionate one, even, if regulus cared to look – see the tired hands, the waxen expression, the lapel grasped so tightly. the look you’d give for a second because you couldn’t bear to be more honest than that. i did it for you, please wear it and think of me.

but no, it must be done by hand, else the magic won’t work. something about labor, the repetitive loop and pull that sows in more than letters. fixes more than thread. such a potent protection, only from what you can’t say. in a blood-warm waters of a dream, you puzzled over a crystalline cave in search of something precious, only you couldn’t recall what. in april of next year, regulus will die there, and you’ll never know. but he’ll wear the coat with his initials woven by your hand, and that will be enough.

you don’t look up when he enters, but you recognize the footsteps. regulus is never direct, at least, not with you. he’ll circle the tapestry and then circle the windows and circle the coffee table and then he’ll have nothing left to admire so he’ll admire you. sit beside, throw a glance at your pious work and draw, with his eyes, the shape of your profile. think, perhaps, of a branch of the family tree from his portrait to something that doesn’t yet exist, or the rose-bush pattern of the couch and how one branch connects his shoulder with yours.

“what are you doing?”

“making sure you don’t lose your things,” what a non-response, as if he’s known to misplace objects or articles of clothing. regulus can be careless, but never to warrant worry over useless matters such as this. he has many coats, and can purchase just as many if not more, and if petty, he can pilfer from sirius and row because the silence had grown too loud, “don’t make fun of me, it has to be hand-stitched or the enchantments will fade."

"i was never going to," he says, a faint twitch of amusement about the mouth. regulus always likes that you take his jokes seriously or his comments too light. that, from anyone else, you'd hardly even register. it makes him special, perhaps. as though only he is worth the recognition, or you desire him to have it, "...is this my birthday gift?"

"birthday, don't make me laugh," you mumble, biting the inside of your cheek, "would hardly be appropriate. it's a christmas gift."

"christmas." is the offhanded response. a statement, an assessment, but without judgement. only regulus can wield that so cooly. can live in between worlds that should not overlap. androgyne in tone and disposition, and the sound of it, your name, sweet as any chocolate. you glance up and smile wryly, "oh."

"oh indeed," you utter, and the final, hesitant thread is plunged to the fabric. his initials gleam as freshly cut silver. you offer him the needlework, "there." pride fits in your mouth like a candy well liked, sweetens the tone into something likely mocking, "not bad, is it, regulus? or perhaps you think hand-stitching is out of fashion and outdated, a lost art of our aristocratic roots."

regulus doesn't respond. his touch is a cautious one. fingers slide gently across the intricate curve of his initials and trail it upward to the collar and you pretend not to notice. regulus must always inspect things like an artist inspects his pieces. with a certain amount of scorn and longing.

"if it's for christmas," regulus says quietly, still running his fingers along the letters, "do i need to return a gift to you?"

you stop yourself short of giving the response that is right at the tip of your tongue. the verbiage is odd. instead, "return?"

"yes. to match, or rather, one that compliments. does such a custom matter much?"

"ah, well," it does, of course it does. such gifts are not for two sides. they're something sacred for one side only. he's not nimble with his fingers nor patient enough to wield a needle. he'd quit before the first draw of blood on cloth from his useless hands. he could magic it, but that would feel like a lie. what is this offer, or is it a suggestion? an implication? more daring than the look he gives you, certainly. no, he couldn't possibly imply something so domestic. regulus is not the type. so it can only be you reading too much. a stanza where there should be none, "you'd ruin my coat."

"naturally," regulus doesn't smile, not even to go along with his deadpanned tone, as though he could think of no better possibility, but you know better, or at least you tell yourself this. you do; how his head tips slightly towards you, the steady gaze, and the quirk of his brow, it's a rare breed of expression he dons only to you, when he can't bring himself to a more chaste form. you could spend hours sorting every fraction of difference, so keen they are to the point that you swear they must exist. you wouldn't be surprised if someone else says they see nothing,"... a handmade gift for a handmade gift. just for you."

"for me," is all you can muster in response, perhaps hoping you'd hear it clearer, and less vague and silly, in your mouth than his. he has given you presents. lovely, but impersonal. his brother shows more interest even if he has none for you. sirius hears but regulus listens and then willfully picks things everyone would like to receive. the ideal gifts, never with heart or consideration, yet you wear them proudly to hide your bitterness, because such attention is not unwanted, and neither is this. regulus is not incapable of more but his more is reduced to a subtle nothing, like a glance at the tapestry and a thought.

"...the needle's sharp." is the offhand observation, "you're bleeding."

regulus's concern is odd and undefined; you're not the most affectionate of friends. the fondness shared, the gentle jibes, are for you, really, because how else can you convince yourself you're happy. or to soothe the aching of that pesky hope, the wish and want of the moon reflected upon water. your gaze is steady. your hand is steady, "see how much i care?" and you hold up your middle finger with a smile, "i bleed for you."

he does look at it. his lips quirk into a ghost of a smile. "do you." he says, and returns to you, the trace of a frown on his face as though he's grown distressed with such a gesture, and like an adult will scold their pet for bad behavior, says, "really, that's quite silly. no, worse. don't do such unnecessary things to your pretty hands."

pretty, he says, and how easy would it be to mock him or put him in his place with a joke and a teasing word or two. is he making fun of you again? it's only an insult when delivered to the point. and it would feel worse when he isn't, when he's just offering a compliment in a strange sort of way.

"doesn't hurt that much." you say with a confidence unshaken, and the wounds are so meager they're not even worth healing. they'll dry and close before he can lift his wand for episkey or conjure a bandage. but they'll remain, for a day or two, as proof of your diligence. the methodical elegance that comes from creating a handmade gift. you'll look at your hands and know they have worked to protect him.

it hurts a bit more when he reaches for them. if you really did want to press, he'd insist or, with a haughty glare, defy you and prove the strength of his own silly pride, but he only asks, and then, does so with such tenderness you would think he held glass and not your injured hands, the result of a restless task meant for his comfort. your fingers stings the slightest against the brush of his fingertips, calloused and slightly cold, "...you've always been a fool."

"only when it matters," you say softly.

when he says your name, he lingers on the last syllable, with the tilt of his head and the curious narrow of his eyes. to pick apart and discern. to wonder. only briefly, like all his attentions, does the hand linger. the expression you want is not one he'd be willing to show so clearly, not even in the warmth of the dying light.

"stop saying ridiculous things." regulus says after a pause. he won't, however, release your hands. they remain there in his grip, unmoving and together.

"learn to take a joke," you answer.

he leans forward. "make it funny and perhaps i will."

"funny," you can't say a thing to that, yet you've thought up many. later, when he is asleep and his pale face is illuminated by the moonlit night, you'll recite all the things you could not.

"got nothing else to say?" a quirk of the lip. joined hands, fingers intertwined, though not so securely. loose enough that if the mood strikes or a strange sentiment overcomes him, he'd break them apart and away.

"oh, plenty," you can't keep your face straight, and so your smile is quick to return, "i’ve only taken pity on you. did you miss the sound of my voice already?"

"very presumptuous, aren't we," he glances aside, "and really, so outlandish. the nerve. you have the nerve."

"i suppose i do." you squeeze his hand lightly, "nerve. candor. the quality that earns a great admirer."

"or the ire of all who know you best," he tilts his head to the side, glances quickly at you, and with a surprising amount of assertiveness, curls his fingers tighter around yours, "i appreciate that you'd like to share your charisma but some people don't consider charm to be a particularly laudable virtue."

"that's such a bad lie that i might as well be told you don't think i'm charming at all, not in the slightest. and oh, there we are, what a pout. you're entirely predictable."

"and you entertain me, still."

"you're the one that holds my hands hostage," you note wryly, wiggling your fingers slightly.

regulus doesn't have a quick response for that. at most he offers the roll of his eyes. doesn't let go, simply presses. let's a drop of your blood stain his skin. when he speaks again, he's grown thoughtful, "...hostage, yes?"

"...oh, do stop that," a pause. the silence lingers, "no, that's quite unfair."

"do you think so or not?"

your pulse throbs loud enough to deafen you. it is a foolish question and the answer is a clear enough indication of what you think. what motive could he have? to delight at the humiliation of your confession or to watch you tangled in a lie you clearly don't believe? the truth is so obvious it's untactful to inquire about its validity.

he sounds so serious as his thumb brushes along the dips and hills of your knuckles, "well? your answer? or is a minute not enough to think of something witty?"

at this, you frown, "regulus." and it comes quiet, like a warning.

"thought it came naturally to you. such creativity."

he has grown to be cruel sometimes. most times, rather, when it suits him to be. a petty, petulant thing not yet ready to leave its comfortable shell and grow beyond, "you must be eager for me to release you," he adds. a bitter afterthought.

"are you done?" you ask.

"what shall you do with your hands once they’re free?" he wonders, "sow something for sirius? he’d be wrecked if he didn’t receive a gift like mine."

"regulus." you repeat with a frown, "don't."

"why not?" he blinks.

"a gift doesn't mean anything if it's a gift for the masses."

"well, it'll be custom, i imagine," he says, "with his initials this time."

"regulus," a third time you've said it, a sharp tongue to cut, "stop it. you're being mean."

his eyes are cast downward, expression impassive. "if this is what it takes to get you to respond, then perhaps i am."

this isn't the game. the one where he'll pretend not to care so as to observe how you'll react. it is the type where you'll act cold enough he'll hesitate. then he'll carelessly expose himself so the hurt can be delivered with ease. an offense so great you'll seek the sweet relief of exile.

"i made it for you," you utter, barely a whisper, "no one else."

"is that so."

"if you don't want it, i won't force you to keep it."

"no, i like it," his expression has remained the same, if not with a certain lack of conviction, a flat tone you want to interpret as some half lie, but you don't. instead you nod. a half-hearted turn of your head before meeting his eyes.

"a bit possessive, don't you think? getting so cross over a made up problem?" you inquire.

"made up, huh?" you like the inflections of his voice, and even in his reluctance he maintains them, the gentle flow, the steadfast determination to the subject.

"mhm."

"thought it was logical to assume. you're friends."

"i have a different gift planned for him."

"different?" he clarifies.

"quite," you say, all sorts of bitter, "a broom cleaning kit."

that, at least, seems to somewhat appease him. and regulus settles, ever so slightly, his brow a faint twitch. the motion you always want to trace with your fingers, and map along until you memorize every curve and line and plane of his face.

he adjusts your hands again, idly thumbing over the slope and curve. he is thoughtful again, contemplative and somber and nothing more. a lingering fear clings to the curve of his mouth, "do you ever wish you could disappear?"

the question has no context, and it strikes you as the type that never did, with a subtle heaviness he is familiar with the implications of. it is only in a selfish way that the fear occurs. his isolation, perhaps. or he must assume that all others can share a similar loneliness, though only in different quantities.

"do you?" you ask instead.

"perhaps. sometimes. maybe not." he does, you think, look as though he often considers running away to somewhere no one else is aware of him. or if he's not wanted there, then elsewhere. somewhere remote and a touch fantastical. a desperate escape from family tradition, from being the second born son. a desire, or rather, absconding from responsibility. to be far and forgotten; to live a life you believe would bring you some semblance of peace and happiness, though not enough for the longing to subside and never enough for him to admit to it. no, regulus would first die than admit it out loud.

admit the envy he has for his brother. admit to wonder if anyone would look for him if he was to disappear.

you would. even if the rest wouldn't, you would. and if they did, how angry it'd make them if you refused to quit searching. it strikes you suddenly and without remorse, as if you've been pushed into a pile of snow. it's him you were searching for in your dream.

"no, then?" his voice shakes you away. your expression had frozen over, had it? how rare it is, to see worry worn so openly in the shape of those brows.

"sometimes," you answer honestly, though you're never quite sure where that might be. a growing, restless worry expands in the pit of your stomach. as though your nightmare is not so far from becoming reality. that one day, you'll search for him to the edge of the earth only to never find him again, "you aren't thinking of leaving, are you?"

he's taken aback by your expression. "of course not," he reassures, and he seems as though he means it, "i'm only indulging hypotheticals."

"alright."

"are you okay?"

"sure. yes. yes, absolutely."

regulus peers at you closely, scrutinizing, the gesture intense and pointed in its nature. and he returns to tracing the veins on your skin, a practiced art. a light tickle that has you shivering, not that you'd want to move away. never from him.

you hear him, soft and hushed. perhaps it is more suited to the intimacy of the moment and not that he's become ashamed. a faint, lovely mumbling that you would like to indulge forever if possible, "i'm really not going anywhere." he brings your hand to his lips after a moment of hesitation, like he needs the courage, the comfort. an earnest reassurance in a form of a small kiss as if it were his own insecurities at play, "here's okay. here's more than enough."

you nod. whisper, when you realize how close the two of you have become, "yes, stay here."

"...you as well."

"i will."

"wouldn't want to run around looking for someone who's meant to stay within my sights, anyways."

and it is you that laughs a little too hard to seem genuine, "as though you'd do such a thing."

he answers with a confidence unshaken yet poorly disguised by the restraint shown, "i don't plan on ever losing sight of you."

your eyes meet and hold, but neither will ever confess to be the one who glanced away first. for different reasons, perhaps, and no less of a humiliation. no less difficult to accept. the sight of him is too difficult to bear; the hair framing his face and the gentle hue of pink that grows steadily redder the longer he holds your gaze. he drops your hand first, and you resist the urge to run your fingertips down the sharp of his jaw and feel the softness of his skin or tug his bottom lip and hear the shuddering intake of air. to feel what can't be expressed, at least, not so simply.

you can't blame regulus for not wanting to admit it. he's shaped by his surroundings, has grown up in a family that doesn't permit affections. he doesn't know the structure of i'm sorry or thank you or i love you. but if only for a second, surely, he can try to imitate. you treasure each of his clumsy syllables and failed tries because he has never attempted anything of this sort for anyone else. the success doesn't matter, because he is earnest, at least to the degree of his own understanding and limit, and it's easier to say what's painful in silence.

or, maybe, nothing's difficult when the sun's nearly gone. when the window pane burns pink and white, and when the stars appear through the haze of fog and snow, and you think of the future, with him, but as the heirs of two prominent houses together, and it feels like a fairy tale that way, not quite real. so long as you imagine it with a dreamy detachment, you can convince yourself it doesn't matter further than a wish that will never come true.

because you've never learned to say i'm sorry or thank you or i love you, either.

thank u for reading <3

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #regulus x reader #harry potter x reader #harry potter #hp #hogwarts #imagine #imagines #reader #reader insert #xreader #harry potter x you #harry potter x y/n #regulus black imagine #the marauders #the marauders x reader #ITS TIMOTHEE CHALAMET !

[anystalker707]

Anything? Anything.

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x [gender neutral] Reader Words: ~ 1 200 Summary: It was a simple request for Sanji that turned into an absolute teasing mess. Tags: Very boyfriend content / Sanji using lipstick / Lots of affection

A/N: idc if this shit is out of character, im dumb. pls enjoy.

MASTERLIST

Sanji had developed such a devotion for you that it was even weird for the others not to see him simping for every woman that crossed his way, but it was also comforting seeing him receive back all the dedication and love he expressed. Though, it was annoying how he wouldn’t shut up about you sometimes; every single thing managed to remind him of you, and send him into a spiral of chaos. In fights, it would be rather good that someone brought your name up—he would do whatever he could not to leave you alone at the end of the day—, Zoro could already see their enemy dead whenever they happened to mention you.

With all of this taken on account, it was no new Sanji would do absolutely anything for his lover. His boundaries weren’t exactly clear, that way. A lot of conversation was needed to solve this and reassure him that you wouldn’t leave just because he told you that he wasn’t okay with something, and thankfully evolved into the harmony you had today.

Nonetheless, it was still a little difficult to offer new things to Sanji without always knowing clearly if he would accept it because he really wanted it or because he just wanted to make you happy. He could notice something bothered you every single time, on the other hand, of course; Sanji read you like a book. It was the main reason you were sort of avoiding him today—avoiding handling his sad worried face trying to figure out what was wrong with you, even more when it was a stupid situation. Like today.

The idea was very fucking good, though it was maybe just a little awkward, in your mind. You weren’t ready to have your little mental imagines killed down so easily. Why did he have to be so hot, anyways?

Sanji suddenly showed up on the deck, looking around until his eyes softened at your sight, and waltzed over with his hands clasped together. A kiss was pressed to your cheek once he was close enough. “(Y/n), baby, what’s wrong? Are you falling sick? Are you hungry? Do you need a hug? I’ve barely seen the light of my life today!” He took a seat next to you on the stairs.

“Sorry, San!! No, no, there’s nothing wrong at all!” You shook your head frantically, pulling him for a tight hug he immediately melted in—he didn’t deserve to feel bad because of a stupidity of yours, a tempest in a teapot. “I’ve just... been thinking.”

There was a short moment of silence before he sat up properly to look at you, taking both of your hands in his. “About what? Did I do anything to hurt you, mon amour?”

“I— No, of course not, you never did!” You brought your hands up to give his knuckles a little kiss. “Sanji, y’know you can always refuse to do stuff and let me know how you feel about anything, right?” The little pout you received in response had you raising an eyebrow inquiringly.

“Yes, my love!” Sanji squeezed your hands. “I know you’re very understanding of everything! I couldn’t be luckier!” Reacting to his pampering was a rollercoaster—sometimes you’d feel your ego burst, sometimes feel like you didn’t deserve it, but you’d never give it up, no matter what.

Your eyes flickered over his form for a long moment, watching Sanji throw his nose in the air with a grin, an expression that was exchanged for a curious one at how you let go of one of his hands so you could reach into your pocket. “Would you try it on?” In your hand, there was a tube of... of what? Sanji furrowed his eyebrows before he reached for it curiously, uncapping it. Oh. Dark red lipstick—it almost sent his cheeks burning in the same tone. “You can always say no—”

“Of course I would, mon amour! Anything for you!” Sanji had that stupid smile on his face as he put his cig aside and rolled the lipstick until just enough pointed out, and looked at himself through the small mirror on the top of the cap.

Well, shit. Was he just being impulsive or did he really mean it? “Sanji, you don’t need to...” Your words faded at the sight of the blond just putting on the lipstick. He smacked his lips together before turning to you with a smirk. That really was... something. It wasn’t a sight you were used to, of course, so it would take you a while of observing so you could finally decipher whether you liked it or not. “It is... Um, you look...”

Sanji chuckled lowly, letting his strands fall more over his face. “Well, my love, I’m not quite wearing it for the looks, no! It’s for a much more honorable reason!”

“And that would be...?”

His lips met your cheek before you could even finish. He didn’t even stop there, continuing to press kisses to your face until his lips crashed against yours, a desperate kiss that demanded more from you. You could taste the sweet lipstick on the kiss.

“Sanji...” You sat there dumbfounded while he ran the lipstick over his lips again. What the hell was that? Not that it was bad, no—it hard your heart skipping beats and your mind all fuzzy.

Sanji pressed kisses all over your jaw, trailing down to your neck, and even daring to stain the collar of your shirt. “Hm? What, mon chéri? Cat got your tongue?” His lips ticked against your skin, but all you could do in response was to spill out some incoherent words breathlessly, barely able to even hold onto his shoulders for support, looking at the sky, though staring at the nothing. He pulled away just enough to meet your eyes and blinked with an innocent air that would trick anyone who didn’t know him any better, and also those smeared lips—you wouldn’t be surprised if he just straight up killed you at some point. You were just collapsed back, with edges of the higher steps of the stairs digging into you back, and his arms wrapped around your torso, and you didn’t even fucking know when that happened.

A chuckle came from Sanji before he could continue what he was doing, his lips pressing butterfly kisses up and down your neck before they started getting longer, lingering over your skin with sucks and nibbles. It felt as if he couldn’t be close enough to you, as if he’d never get enough of you. His mouth reached a particular spot that compelled your hands to wrap around the fabric of his shirt tightly whilst you fought against the sound that threatened to escape your throat, pressing your eyes shut.

“Where is he...” A voice said, a voice that didn’t belong to you nor to Sanji, but it wouldn’t be a problem, right? They— “What the fuck are you two doing?! Don’t you even have enough decency to get a bedroom?!! You’re even letting the goddamn food burn!!!” Zoro stood there, having you jumping and pulling away from each other the moment he started fucking shouting.

Not like you could get your thoughts straight properly to react in time, hence you sort of sat there, blushing at how you were caught, but also at how you kept replaying the recent events in your mind in an attempt to process everything.

“Mon Dieu, the food!” Sanji gasped, immediately pushing himself up to his feet. “I’m sorry, mon amour! I’ll be back later!”

“Look at your state!” Zoro continued shouting. “What do you think you’re doing to let food burn just because you want some kisses, you ero-cook?!”

.𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟.

#one piece #sanji vinsmoke #sanji #x reader #x male reader #x female reader #gender neutral #fan fic #fan fiction #oneshot #imagine #monkey d luffy #roronoa zoro #tony tony chopper #chopper #sanji x reader

[transgamerthoughts]

a night at poe's masquerade

Last night I made a quick tweet about how I think Persona games (particular from Persona 3 onwards) tend to be fundamentally conservative games. In worlds filled with magic powers, shadow selves, and literal gods there's an understanding that many of the most villainous people you can know are folks in positions of social/political power who weaponize their status in order to prey on those beneath them. This is a particular focus of Persona 5 but it extends even back to back to a game like Persona 2 and characters like Tatsuzou Sudou. Although these games acknowledge the social structures that lead to particularly vicious kinds of abuse, there is tendency for our protagonist to then fold themselves into those power structures. In games that focus less on real-life political allegory, there's still pattern of protagonists eventually accepting the societal roles that they're initial chafing against. It's a very common occurrence in the series. clockwork!

Persona 4 is the chief culprit here. Yukiko struggles with the idea that her presumed inheritance of the Amagi Inn is an imposition on her life but makes peace with that fact and eventually prepares herself for that role. Chie confronts Adachi, shocked that anyone who chose to be a police officer would do so for selfish reasons or betray the ideal image she holds of that job. Though confronted with the ways in which the system enabled Adachi's murders, she ultimately decided that she wants to become a police officer. Just as some examples. there's more. it's a fraught game in many ways

(I'm not gonna talk about Naoto. That's a minefield. as a trans critic people ask what I think about Naoto quite often. my answer is I like Naoto quite a bit and while I appreciate the queer read I don't need her story to be actually about transness. my tongue in cheek deep position here is that I think she's the damn coolest thing in the Dancing All Night opening movie. absolute fire!)

Persona fans are totally reasonable human beings. by which I mean that they might be the most electric and fuckin' absurd fandom I've ever encountered. While some people agreed with my read of the series, many others swarmed in. Which is fine enough. That's just what happens when you're visible on Twitter. I don't really have an interest in outlining the series in gross detail although, contrary to many accusations, I have played all the mainline games. One thing that can never be hurled my way is a suggestion that I don't play videos games. This criticism doesn't arise out of nowhere though I admit I didn't exactly expect it to become a trending topic floating in the "For You" tab. I was tweeting before bed.

Lesson learned! this fandom is wild! So it goes!

I've been thinking about people's responses and I want to venture into fraught territory to talk about a particularly bad habit I see from many fans. Which I think can be extended to things like ongoing debates about localization as much as they can apply to this little tempest in a teapot. Which is that I've grown somewhat concerned with he ways in which RPG fans (intentionally or not) exoticize Japan as a means to defend their favorite games from critique. It's kinda bad!

and I'm gonna risk a ramble exploring the topic… and I wonder how tumblr in 2024 will compare in reaction to hellscape of twitter

Something you often encounter in these discussions is an implication (sometimes a direct suggestion) that it is impossible to really engage with Japanese media as a westerner. That there's too many layers of nuance and too many centuries of ingrained tradition for anyone who has not engaged in lengthy study on the topic to penetrate. Often, this is framed as a desire to simply put things in cultural contexts. respect it and give due seriousness! Which is fine. I absolutely think if you wanna talk about something like the portrayal of the Japanese justice system in Judgement, it probably helps to… y'know… know details about the Japanese justice system. If you want to talk about how a game approaches gender, an understanding of certain social mores is important. No one debates this; it's important to understand art as arising from specific material conditions and places.

This is not really the approach people take however. Instead there is an insistence that the cultural difference between Japan and western nations is essentially insurmountable. Which has some bad implications. I think people are well meaning when they're like "hey, you gotta watch this YouTuber talk about Shintoism and JRPG boss fights for over an hour" but it comes at the cost of painting the culture as something of a puzzle to solve. and make no mistake: I'm glad anyone is doing the work but there's a bit of strangeness at play when folks are like "well you're American" and then tell me to watch criticism also made by Americans. especially since I do have a educational background that includes the study of world religions. i've studied plenty of this! and it's not impossible for me to have grasped.

the world is beautiful and nuanced and specific and full of vibrancies. but these things are not so singular that we can't connect with them or come to know them. and those nuances and specifics and vibrances don't create a protective ward around works. if anything, they're invitations to explore something new. if I walk away from Persona with a position that you don't agree with I promise that it's not something that's happened in haste. It used to be my job to think about games. and I've thought about Persona a lot! it's not inaccesible.

When we start to paint a culture as being particularly foreign we inherently exoticize it. We drape a degree of mystery over it which implies there is no universal connections found in art. Of course the concept of "police" is different in Japan to some extent as is the expectations that go into inheriting a family business. yes, the social nuances of a classroom differ. But Japan is not so alien to the western critic that we can't look at popular fiction and spot patterns. I certain don't need a 17 anime consumer to write me an essay on honne and tatemae or whatever in order to understand what's going on in the Midnight Channel. It's an easily observable truth that Persona often identifies issues within Japan society while also (particularly in Persona 5's case) concluding that these problems are not a consequence of specific power structures but rather moral failings of certain bad individuals. That's the text. Even when it wants to suggest otherwise.

Here's a little snippet from Persona 5. On face value, it seems to contradict what I'm saying. "Harper, how can you say that it only cares about individuals when it outright says that society itself needs to be addressed!?" DO YOU EVEN PLAY THESE GAMES YOU BITCH?! The answer is that the game does not have a model or idea of what it means to change society except vaguely to inspire people to more individual action. be nicer. stand up for yourself, speak your truth, do things for your own reasons. which has a radical element to it in the context to be sure but we've spent a huge portion of the game seeing how the abuse of power, particularly power placed in certain positions and social strata

a change of mindset is good but… is that sufficient? I'm not entirely convinced. not if this game want to truly deliver on everything it has explored. (side note, a lot of folks were like "why are you focusing on p5 so much here?" and the answer is that it's recent, representative of the series' values from the last decade or so, and because I'm a tired adult in their 30s who has stuff to do and isn't obligated to make a 300 tweet long thread breaking down multiple scripts. if you want me to do that labor, you better pay me for my time. otherwise I don't care to appease fan who have no plans of truly entertaining what I'd do anyway. no breakdown I do could please them)

but you fight Yaldabaoth Harper! You kill the collective gestalt representative of the status quo!. okay sure but the metaphorical battle falters as the game ultimately imagines many of our heroes (for instance Makoto, who also decides to become a cop even after her sister leaves the profession to become a defense attorney) are content to slide into the power structures as they exist. they've simply become "good apples" in the same basket that held the bad ones What does it matter if you kill the metaphor when you don't carry through elsewhere? It's not simply some vague human desire to be exploited that created the various monstrous villains we face throughout the game. There's real material circumstances, systems and long-held powers that gave them the carte blanche that enabled their abuses! Be they financial, political, or even sexual.

We might layer nuances on top of this of course. Notions of reticence to change or valuing of tradition, attitudes towards elders. But when we do so it's important be careful. When fans imply impenetrabilities in the works by virtue of cultural difference, there's a risk of veering into a kind of Orientalism. One which mystifies the culture and turns it into a kind of "other." Distant, strange. This sometimes comes paired with a kind of infantilization of creators but that's a different though similarly fraught topic that I think is particularly best left in the hands of the creators themselves. I'm not the person to talk about that!

Nevertheless, a frustrating part of the response to my tweet today has been a rush to say "This work functions that makes it necessarily elide your ability to critique it."

I'll be an ass and generalize. It's mostly people with Persona avatars making this suggest. That Persona, as a Japanese work, is imbued with an ineffable quality that magically allows it to side-step what's ultimately a pretty timid conclusion. Many of these folks are younger players, self-identified as such in profiles, who clearly have a deep connection to the series. It means something to them. But I'd rather they simply say "hey, I found this thing particularly moving at an important moment in my life" rather than conjure an impassable ocean between myself (or really anyone) and the work in the event they find flaws.

Otherwise, you just get this:

Stories are not merely about what happens on the journey. The destination does matter. It means something when the king grabs his shining sword and fights off the orc invaders or whatever. A value system is suggested Similarly, it does means something when Chie becomes a cop. (This is just a shorthand example mind you! But you hopefully get the idea!)

I don't think games or any work of art need us to defend them. The trap of fandom is that you often turn to any possible means to justify what you love. For Persona, a series which does have the decency to explore cultural issues, that same cultural specificity is often weaponize by fans (largely western fans even!) to deflect certain problems. This process inadvertently portrays that culture as a mystery, a shrouded thing that we cannot ever criticize. It's one thing to dig into some of those contextual specifics but it's another all-together to imply these specifics provide a mean to abrogate certain analyses. and I think navigating the line between due deference and something deeper and stranger seems to be something many of the fans reacting to me... have not managed. I had a peer talk to me about this situation and their feeling was that the animated members of the fandom that were coming at me, many of whom are self-identified as young and western, were kinda treating Japan like it was a land of elves. which it's not! it is a place on Earth and yes we need to take strides to understand and respect certain specificities... but we can't mystify an entire people. especially if the purpose is to turn those people and their culture into a shield. a means to justify and validate the specialness you see in a franchise.

I call Persona conservative because it cannot imagine a world in any other shape that what we have right now. God dies but nothing actually changes. I don't think it's enough to say "well, they defeated the god! and they needed the collective strength of society to do it! people did change because without that change of heart, the heroes wouldn't have the magical juice to fight the Kabbalah monster!" to toss Makoto's words back at the series: victory against a single god is meaningless if the true enemy is society.

If you can't show me what that grand spiritual change means for society, then I think you've kinda failed. you've certainly failed if the conclusion is that the world after that change is functionally the same and it doesn't really matter to me if "they talk about this in Strikers or whatever" because you can't offload your thematic snarls to side games. if the main stories you tell can't resolve this tension, that's a problem. these are often very beautiful games. they certainly have amazing structure and systems. but I don't think it's controversial to say they often hedge their bets at the end. and there's no impenetrable cultural wall surrounding the games that leaves the criticism off the table.

that's just What Happens. and it's fine for us to acknowledge flaws in even in things that contain beauty or meant something to us

really. it's fine.

#persona #casual game crit #fandom

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Re: your post about what W/C/KP should do, going forward, regarding this overblown media tempest in a teapot:

opheliablair said: “Please print this out and mail it to KP 😂”

this anon says: Agreed! And include your resume, a job application request, and a link to your Linked In acct (if you’re so inclined :) )

************

Well, William does like to poach his employees from the civil service, right? So I’ve got that going for me. Plus I’m female. And I’d be a diversity hire for disability. Suck it, Scobie!

Honestly, it’s the dream. It’s never gonna happen, but boy. Just imagine. 

Thanks so much for the kind words, anon and @opheliablair!

#submission

[relina-ruj]

snippets of pg  8 of ’Tempest and a Teapot’ - a bingjiu fancomic 

TransSJ AU

sadly i can’t post more here because everything is getting taken down even with censorship hahahah

More pages 

#svsss #bingjiu #shen jiu #luo binghe #comic #my art #fanart

[the-official-account]

I just remembered a new chapter of Anya's story is out (despite, yes, first seeing an hour ago) and I'm nearly finished up with my work now and :D! What a treat

#the tempest and the teapot? i forget things but ill go and look soon as im done #edil chats

[jeannereames]

How do you anticipate Alexandros’s and Hephaistion’s respective ways of dealing with each other in their “moments” to change over the course of your series? I think you pretty clearly established in your books that Hephaistion has to learn to carefully navigate Alexandros’s outbursts and spontaneous tendencies.

On the flip side, I wonder how Alexandros learns how to deal when Hep is angry or upset. Do you think it being more so along the lines of him expecting Hep to suck it up and deal, basically? Or would he take a different route? I just find the way you portrayed their dynamic in the series very intriguing and nuanced, and I'm curious to see how it might evolve as the characters age.

What an interesting question! And I’m delighted that you thought their interaction properly nuanced. One of my own personal criteria for judging a book is the presence of layered and complex characters, so I struggle to put them on the page in my own work. (Also, sorry for the delay.)

Among the key elements of the first two books is how much the characters change. It covers seven critical years as they turn from boys into young men. Hence the whole “coming-of-age” thing. Ha.

Because they’re teenagers, they’re inclined to drama, especially in the first book where little things can set them off—but it happens early in book II as well. Hephaistion flails and causes a scene just because Alexandros is busy so often and he, Hephaistion, is insecure. His behavior is silly (and Alexandros calls him on it), but the emotions that drive it are very real. That’s always the struggle, when writing teens. They just haven’t lived long enough for much perspective, so everything’s a crisis. Emotions are BIG, driven by wildly pumping hormones and all those extra neurons in the front of the cerebrum. Yet the author must take seriously whatever tempest in a teapot has them riled up, in order to portray it fairly (for them), even while keeping a bit of distance to signal to the reader that yes, it really is overblown.

By the duology’s end, Alexandros has just turned 20 and Hephaistion 22½; they’ve been friends seven years, and lovers for five. By now, they have history. Yet both are emotional people, even if they display it differently. Hephaistion might seem phlegmatic but is far from it. Erigyios is phlegmatic. Hephaistion is a churning volcano under a calm surface. Alexandros, by contrast, wears his heart on his sleeve. So, they’ll continue to kick up dusk occasionally with each other, but increasingly for real reasons, not manufactured ones driven by insecurity.

Take their fracture over the fact Alexandros didn’t tell Hephaistion about Amyntor’s illness. They learn, thereby, that some things can be forgiven only by a choice. Hephaistion’s flouncing over Alexandros “ignoring” him at the beginning of book 2 should be seen in stark contrast to the very real rage he feels when he learns Alexandros concealed his father’s cancer. Yes, Alexandros did so because Amyntor asked, and yes, Alexandros convinced himself it was out of fear for Hephaistion’s safety. But he does finally recognize, and admit to himself, that wasn’t the real reason. He did a truly selfish thing by keeping Hephaistion with him. Hephaistion’s reaction in each instance is meant to bookend the novel. In the first case, he storms back home. In the second, despite his fury, he doesn’t leave Alexandros. And Alexandros accepts Philip’s pardon not just because he knows he’d better, but also because Hephaistion needs to go back. It’s a maturing moment for Alexandros to fully recognize how much he hurt his friend. He can’t fix it. He can only beg for forgiveness. Hephaistion won’t get back those final months with Amyntor. He can only choose to forgive.

So, the sequence is (to my mind) incredibly important to how they’re learning to be Real with each other. And it lays out how they’ll continue to interact going forward.

Alexandros will still screw up sometimes, in part because he’s king and was raised to assume people will subject themselves to him, as well as because his successes convince him the gods are on his side. But it was always Hephaistion’s refusal to kowtow that made him attractive to Alexandros. Ergo, he must make room for that in their relationship. It’s what makes Hephaistion unique.

In book one, after their physical fight over a different dust-up, Alexandros thinks to himself that the fact Hephaistion was willing to hit a prince had earned him the right to hold one. Alexandros must allow for Hephaistion’s autonomy, which means he must apologize (honestly) now and then. It’s what keeps him human, and grounded. And why Hephaistion continues to enjoy such absolute trust. He expects Alexandros to acknowledge when he screws up, and so Alexandros can trust that Hephaistion will always tell him the truth. Because Hephaistion loves him that much.

#asks #Alexander the Great #Hephaistion #Hephaestion #Dancing with the Lion #DwtL #alexander x hephaestion #Alexander x hephaistion #writing complex characters #historical fiction #ancient Greek historical fiction #Classics

[no-where-new-hero]

LANTERN HILL CATCH UP POST AT LAST! Analysis under the cut so the post doesn't destroy everyone's timelines.

CH. 2:

LMM really knows how to put her heroines on the torture rack of family disapproval. We just went through Valancy's under the Stirlings and I know Emily's off by heart, but there's something even more terrible about the way Jane is treated because she's not 29 and therefore somewhat more acquainted with life, nor does she have Emily's soul-armor of imagination. As an object of belittling, she has very little to shield herself when her entire world is her unpleasant family around her. Love this line, I've definitely been there too lol.

Sometimes Jane thought drearily that there must be something the matter with her when there were so many people she didn't like.

CH. 3:

Jane got up and walked out of the summer-house and around the garage, past the lonely dog-house that had never had a dog in it…at least, in Jane's recollection…

Disappointed (Dog)House.

Again Jane felt a thrill of understanding. So this girl was afraid of people, too.

Jane is an unusual socially-centric LMM heroine from what I can tell. Valancy and Emily disappear into blue castles or nature to cope. Anne is intensely sociable, but she wins over everyone: she's never allowed the grimier side of humanity to put fear in her. So the fact that this is what stands against Jane and Jody marks a change: they would like to partake in the freedom of society but mores stand against Jody and Grandmother stands against Jane.

CH. 4:

Ahem. Mother's complete and utter lack of compassion for Jody is where the problems begin to arise, I see. I'm also a bit impressed that Jane is able to see her mother's "weakness" so unerringly at 10. It shows how the circumstances of always living in terror of Grandmother has provoked a trauma response of being too precocious at reading people. Grandmother continues to make my blood boil. This following passage REALLY shows LMM's mastery in making the most of an economical scene:

She stood in the doorway and looked at them. You could feel the silence spreading through the room like a cold, smothering wave. "What does this mean, Victoria...if I am allowed to ask?" "This is...Jody," faltered Jane. "I...I brought her over to give her my doll. She hasn't any." "Indeed? And you have given her the one your Aunt Sylvia gave you?" Jane at once realized that she had done something quite unpardonable. It had never occurred to her that she was not at liberty to give away her own doll.

And Jane DOES have a blue castle! Of course LMM couldn't leave her without a coping mechanism. Calling it a "moon spree" is absolutely delightful and henceforth anytime I fall into daydreams I'm going to call it a moon spree.

CH 5:

All she knew about him was that his name must have been Andrew Stuart, because mother was Mrs Andrew Stuart.

Okay not gonna lie this broke my heart a little. She doesn't even know his name qua his name. It probably had never been directly spoken to her. I have to say I love her audacity (even if unintended) in dropping the bombshell question in the mother of Grandmother's tea party. I can only imagine the tempest in the teapot that followed Jane's departure.

But the most terrible thing about it all was that there was something now that could not be talked over with mother. Jane felt it between them, indefinable but there. The old perfect confidence was gone.

And this stuck under my skin. Of course Jane would avoid the subject like the plague, but what's keeping Robin from providing her daughter with some necessary context? Grandmother's prohibition on mentioning him seemed mostly directed at Jane. I'm sure more about Robin will unfold, but keeping in mind a lot of stuff other people have posted about her, I think her cardinal sin is this kind of selfish immaturity. She has learned to love her daughter, probably because Jane insists on being self-reliant, but because of that she probably can't see what she can do to help Jane's suffering.

CH 6:

Mary did not tell Jane that she firmly believed the old lady had poisoned the dog. You didn't tell children things like that and anyway she couldn't be dead sure of it. All she was sure of was that old Mrs Kennedy had been bitterly jealous of her daughter's love for the dog.

MRS. KENT ENERGY. I feel certain someone else in the book club brought this up, but wow the resemblance is strong with this one. And a way into deciphering Teddy's character based on Robin? Certainly, the selfishness and immaturity doesn't seem a stretch to imagine.

"I expect you to obey me without argument, Victoria. You cannot have your own way all the time. Other people's wishes must be considered occasionally. Please oblige me by making no further fuss over a trifle."

Okay of all Grandmother's travesties, this one takes the cake for me. I want to slap the daylights out of this woman so badly.

CH. 7:

Kenneth Howard has peaked eyebrows...brother under the skin to Barney Snaith. Now, all jokes aside, Jane projecting onto Kenneth Howard kind of hit a personal nerve. And the fact that it's yet another thing that Robin can't talk about...like, WOMAN. Please be normal about men to your 11 year old daughter or neither of you may ever recover. I'm curious how this thread will be taken up again later.

CH. 8:

Something about the fact that Robin can't even tell her own daughter that she did a good job in front of Grandmother, no matter what Grandmother herself thinks, makes me wonder what kind of threat Robin finds herself under. Because Grandmother so determinedly "loves" Robin, she doesn't seem likely to wield sarcasm against her. Yes, she kind of orders her about and turns her into her doll, but that's less active cruelty than what she says to Jane. What is Robin so afraid of that prevents her from supporting her daughter? That Jane will be harmed if she seems too loved, like her dog? Yet if Robin is that aware of what's going on and doing nothing about it--dramatically saying that its too late for them to escape--then Robin is literally as damaging to Jane's well-being as Grandmother is.

#jane of lantern hill #lantern hill book club #lm montgomery #lmm lockdown