october

November 01, 2019


Things I enjoyed in the month of October:

Holly Black's, The Wicked King:

"My sweet villain, my darling god, [...] my dearest punishment."


...
ARE
YOU
FUCKING
KIDDING
ME
?!

How dare you, Holly Black?
How dare you?

I knew you'd trick me.
I felt it coming.
And I know it won't be as simple as it seems.
Because, y'know, fairies and mischief and whatnot.
But you still tricked me.
You tricky trickster woman.
And now my heart is rebelling and it's all. your. fault.
...

I mean it.
THANK YOU.

It's a special brand of perversion to actively enjoy your authors torturing you.
Messing with your characters.
Generally fucking shit up to drive you crazy.
...
And I must be an epic degenerate because I've got it bad.
The more they infuriate me, the happier I am.
Sick? A little twisted? Utterly nonsensical?
Yup. Yup. And holy fucking fairy dust, yup.
It feels so goooood to be infuriated, and cursing your author out, and desperate for more, more, MORE.
Which is why I left reading the second in the trilogy until just over a month before the finale is unleashed into the world.
Y'know, to keep the Cardan-induced eye twitches to an absolute minimum.
...
Didn't work, I've gone the full Louise Belcher:

And I possess no Kuchi Kopi to keep me sane!:

What I do possess is a glut of other stories to distract my brain from this ridiculous, vitriolic, siren song a series.
Other stories to keep me from crawling back to Holly Black's gossamer world of glittered savagery and desperate, gasping revelry.
Other stories to stop this cursed need to be back in the midst of her calculated, briery realm.
A realm that would seduce my mortal bones, spit them out when it was sated, and do it without a single breath of remorse.
This isn't Disney.
This isn't a land of clapping fairies back to life, or helpful animals friends who'll do the dishes for you when your lazy princess ass it too busy making mouth music - yup, mouth music.
No, this kingdom of the Sidhe wants us mere mortals for one reason and one reason only.
To play.
To taunt.
To wound.
They'll feed us golden, poisoned apples to guzzle down the pitiful sight of us dancing until we die.
Abandon us on the shores of their land where the kelpies lie in wait to drown us in water and depravity.
Sacrifice us to a wicked boy king with diaphanous promises, pledged with smiles of mischief and debauchery.
And we'll do it all.
And we'll do it willingly.
Because that's what the Fae do best.
It's what Holly Black does best.
They seduce and we die.
She writes and we devour.


"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."


November 19th?
Come sooner.


Annnnnd it's time for fan art:


A post shared by Rosie (@rosiethorns88) on
(See the paper cut version, here)
rosiethorns88

Debora Guzzo

Rosa Gutiérrez Peña

E. K. Belsher

proporgo

Dark-And-Beautiful-Art

2ghosts

Coralie Jubénot aka. Merwild

 
https://monolime.tumblr.com/post/182554444618/puppet-strings-and-wicked-kings
 
Monolime

 
https://afterblossom.tumblr.com/post/188367863464/fan-art-cover-for-the-folk-of-the-air-series-do
 
Kelly Chong aka. Afterblossom

Caroline De Geeter


Also, this is freaking me out:

Because this could work.
This could be amazing.
But Chalamet might not be pretty enough.
Dick thing to say, but Cardan's a fairy prince for fuck's sake!
He's ethereally beautiful.
His cheekbones could cut Severin's glass coffin open without breaking a glittered sweat.
...
I do fully believe, however, that Chalamet could rock a tail.
Just look at this face:


Bonus IncorrectCruelPrince:

The accuracy...

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Zone Blanche:
(Or Black Spot, if you're going by weird-ass, totally backwards English translations...)

I loved this.
It's so dark and weird and French.
But my favourite part?
This guy right here:

He goes by the name of Nounours, the French for Teddy Bear.
He keeps his pet guinea pig at the police station - she receives all the cuddles.
(see: fluffy lump, above)
He always seems to have a banana.
(I don't where he keeps getting them!)
He's totally smitten with his fireman boyfriend and it's totally fucking adorable.
(I ship them so hard, I could make you vomit just from looking at my face full of heart eyes)
And he's the softest of the softies.
The mallowiest of the alpha-mallows.
The beariest of the teddy bears!
And I love him.
I love him ridiculously.
The crushing I'm experiencing is beyond stupid.
You shouldn't want a pick-up hug from a fictional character this fucking much!
Or should you... ?
I can't tell.
I just know I want to climb him like a tree, and I swear to god, if they kill this beautiful bear man, I am going to turn into a creepy forest god and FUCK. SHIT. UP.
No one messes with our Teddy Bear.

My soft boy...


Ps. The second season ends on a motherfucker of a cliffhanger.
There's no confirmation of a third season.
Proceed with caution.
Unlike this ill-prepared halfwit.

I'm not an idiot.
You're an idiot.

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A feral Anna Kendrick is my favourite kind of Anna Kendrick:
Mr. Right

This movie is batshit.
A full on gleeful psycho-fest with comedy red noses, knife throwing foreplay, and two of my favourite actors getting murdery shit done and falling in love while they do it.
...
Glorioussssss.


A Simple Favour

This movie is also batshit.
Perhaps even more batshit.
Maybe too batshit.
But watching Anna Kendrick and Blake Lively eyebang each other for two hours is worth every nonsensical second.

Just one thing, however.
M'lady Lively?
Give a girl some warning before you pull this shit:

Goddamnit, woman.
God.
Damn.
It.

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Word of the day:

If it relates to mythology, there's a fair chance I'll be into it the word.

 See: Tantalise, Mnemonic, Hadean, Lycanthrope, Laconic, Stygian etc.

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Ana Godis strikes at my puny heart yet again:

This actually soothes a long harboured wound.

Fuck sake, Godis, stop making me fall in love with you.

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Kiersten White's, And I Darken:

Vlad Dracul's heavy brow descended like a storm when the doctor informed him that his wife had given birth to a girl. [...] The nurse held up a squalling, red-faced little monster. He had no names for a girl. Vasilissa would doubtless want something that honored her family, but Vlad hated the Moldavian royals she came from for failing to bring him any political advantage. He had already named his bastard Vlad, after himself. He would name his daughter the same.
"Ladislav," he declared. It was a feminine form of Vlad. Diminutive. Diminished. If Vasilissa wanted a strong name, she would have to bear him a son. "Let us pray she is beautiful so we can get something out of her," he said. The infant screamed louder.

―

Vasilissa's royal breasts were far too important to suck from. The wet nurse waited until Vlad left, then held the babe to her common teats. She was still full of milk from her own child, a boy. As the baby latched on with surprising fierceness, the nurse offered her own prayer. Let her be strong. Let her be sly. She looked over at the princess, fifteen, lovely and delicate as the first spring blossoms. Wilted and broken on the bed.
And let her be ugly.


This... was not what I was expecting.
It was so much better.

Like a fool, I saw the name Vlad Dracul and let my brain decide And I Darken would involve vampires.
...
It does not involve vampires.
And strangely - because vampires - I'm glad it doesn't.
This story needs no bloodsuckers to make it one of the most engrossing tales of betrayal, familial hardships, defiance, politics and love that I've read in a long, long time.
Set during the Ottoman Empire, And I Darken is the imagined account of Vlad Tepes' children, Ladislav (fictional gender swap of historical, Vlad the Impaler - love this, by the way; fucking lovvvveeee this), Lada for short and Radu (historical, Radu the Handsome), her younger brother.
It takes us from their infancy, through parental abandonment, right to a home and family of their own making in the "enemies" camp.
Sold as children as a bargaining chip, feral Lada and gentle Radu battle their way to some form of safety, whilst battling to keep the only piece of home they have left in each other.
An almost impossible task.
Especially when one sibling wields her love like a rusty blade and the other can't help but crave each tarnished cut.
Lada and Radu's relationship is toxic and necessary, and full of endless amounts of love but it's not an easy kind of affection.
There are no play fights or shared secrets.
Only promises of a violent, steadfast, unspoiled kind of love.


Radu went perfectly still, head down, Lada did not have to see his expression to know how he looked. Terrified. "He will be angry. And Mircea will kill me. I am scared to die."
"Everyone dies sometime. And I will not let Mircea kill you. If anyone is going to kill you, it will be me. Understand?"
Radu nodded, snuggling into her shoulder. "Will you protect me?"
"Until the day I kill you." She jabbed a finger into his side, where he was most ticklish, and he squealed with pained laughter.
Lada and Radu's relationship is the backbone of this story.
Whether they are barely speaking, at each other's throats or revelling in a few moments of their particular brand of sibling comfort, their bond stays true.
Not unshakeable but undeniably true.
Amidst political machinations, unbalanced love triangles, assassination attempts, lies, deceptions, betrayals, separations, Lada and Radu don't break.
And it's why this story is so damn compelling.
Because family is interesting.
They way we interact with each other, love each other, would burn the fucking world down for one another is interesting.
If And I Darken was solely about the Dracul children's relationship and abandoned involvement in the Ottoman war completely, it would remain a complex and compelling story.
And most of this can actually be attributed to Lada.
Wonderful, wild, wilful Lada.
I love her so.
She's everything I want and demand in a female protagonist.
Intelligent.
Headstrong.
Vicious.
Emotional.
Crotchety.
Complex.
Imperfect.
And so many other damn adjectives that can do no possible justice to the magnificent creature that is Lada Dracul.
She's not a heroine you should really like, let alone root to burn every foolish excuse for a human who dared to do her wrong to a pile of pitiful ash she wouldn't bother to piss on.
But that is exactly why I love her.
Why I loved her from this very scene, eight pages in:


The nurse ran down the hall and burst into the sitting room to find Lada standing in the middle of the room.
"I kill infidels!" the child snarled, brandishing a small kitchen knife.
"Do you?" Vlad spoke to her in the language of the Saxons, the tongue most spoken in Sighisoara. The nurse's Saxon was crude, and while Vasilissa was fluent in several languages, she never spoke with the children. Lada and Radu spoke only Wallachian.
Lada waved the knife at him in answer to the question she did not understand. Vlad raised an eyebrow. He was wrapped in a fine cloak, an elaborate hat on his head. It had been a year since Lada had seen her father. She did not recognize him.
"Lada!" the nurse whispered. "Come here at once."
Lada stood as tall as her short, stocky legs allowed. "This is my home! I am the Order of the Dragon! I kill infidels!"
One of the three men accompanying Vlad murmured something in Turkish. The nurse felt sweat breaking out on her face, her neck, her back. Would they kill a child for threatening them? Would her father allow it? Or would they simply kill her for being unable to control Lada?
Vlad smiled indulgently at his daughter's display, then bowed his head at the three men. They returned the bow and swept out, acknowledging neither the nurse nor her disobedient charge. "How many infidels have you killed?" Vlad's voice, this time in the melodic romance language tones of Wallachia, was smooth and cold.
"Hundreds." Lada pointed the knife at Radu, who hid his face against the nurse's shoulder. "I killed that one this morning."
"And will you kill me now?"
Lada hesitated, lowering her hand. She stared at her father, recognition seeping across her face like milk dropped in clear water. As quick as a snake, Vlad snatched the knife out of her hand, then grabbed her by the ankle and lifted her into the air.
"And how," he said, her upside-down face level with his, "did you think you could kill someone bigger, stronger, and smarter than you?"
"You cheated!" Lada's eyes burned with a look the nurse had come to dread. That look meant injury, destruction, or fire. Often all three.
"I won. That is all that matters."
With a scream, Lada twisted herself up and bit her father's hand.
"God's wounds!" He dropped her on the floor. She tucked into a ball, rolled out of his reach, then crouched, baring teeth at him. The nurse cringed, waiting for Vlad to fly into a rage and beat Lada. Or beat her for her failure to keep Lada tame and docile.
Instead, he laughed. "My daughter is feral."


Now that is my kind of heroine.
Give me the biters.
The squallers.
The scrappers.
The cuttingly emotional.


Lada spoke with a quiet, clear voice, and the room hushed in surprise. No one expected a girl to speak. She was probably not allowed to. Radu knew Lada would not care either way. "On our wedding night," she said, "I will cut out your tongue and swallow it. Then both tongues that spoke our marriage vows will belong to me, and I will be wed only to myself. You will most likely choke to death on your own blood, which will be unfortunate, but I will be both husband and wife and therefore not a widow to be pitied." [...] Radu knew she had meant every word.

Give me the bruised girls.
The jaggedly soft girls.
The strong girls.


One future―bleak and unknowable, filled with violence and pain and struggle―unfurled before her. Another, with her brother and the man who knew her and still loved her, shone like a beacon.
And so she cut out her heart and offered it as a sacrifice. She would pay whatever price her mother Wallachia demanded.

Give me the girls who want love.
Give me the girls who refuse to be changed for that love.
Give me the girls who make no apologies.
Give me the girls who need no crown to rule.


Her spine was steel. Her heart was armor. Her eyes were fire.


It's been a while since I've read a book like this and enjoyed it quite this much.
I guess you could call it historical Grimdark with YA/NA leanings.
Which is why it reminds me so much of Mark Lawrence's, The Broken Empire trilogy, a series I devoured in one giant, gluttonous gulp.
They start much the same way, with an infant protagonist thrown into a position of violence and familial instability, and we go from there.
Lada of Wallachia is just as feral, if not more, than Jorg of Ancrath.
(The thought of them crossing stories is mildly terrifying and I'd pay good money for it!)
They are both intimidatingly smart.
They both strategise with a confidence well beyond their years.
And they both throw that strategy out the window when they catch even the barest scent of enemy blood.
Two unexpected antiheroes who stole my idiot heart within seconds of meeting them.
And why?
Because they're caustic, unhinged, monsters?
Well, yeah, but more because they're like reading an open wound.
Every action they take, every thought we're privy to, is painful.
They are not easy characters.
And I know Jorg's fate.
I've read it.
It wrecked me.
But Lada's is still a mystery.
And I cannot wait to see what fresh hell she is going to inflict upon me.
I seriously, seriously, cannot wait.


Weird arty coincidence:
Jo Rioux

And a snow globe that made me squeak:

...

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Awkward teenagers?
Genuine sexual confusion?
Weirdly 80s, classic bildungsroman movie vibe?
Gillian Anderson finally getting to show her funny bone?
A gay best friend who isn't a gross cliché but a glorious, flawed, adorable as fuck unicorn of a creature?
And an awesome soundtrack?
...
Excuse me, but where the hell was this shit when I was a monstrous adolescent?
...
Where?!

(Sure, Buffy was useful as a metaphor for growing pains and Skins was a pretty frank account of teenage fuckery but they didn't answer the eternal accursed question of, "is this normal?!")

.............................................


That hair pull.
That calf.
Those bite marks.
...

.............................................

Patricia Brigg's, The Star of David:

"You'll do, my star."


30 pages.
That's how long it took Patricia Briggs to make me smile, and ache, and grimace in disgust because decapitation is never pretty.
30 pages.
That's how long it took her to write a heartfelt, complex and believable family reunion born from devastating trauma.
30 fucking pages.
She's a witch. I swear it.

⭑⭑⭑⭑⭐︎

See here for reviews of the previous shorts in this anthology.

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Charlie Bowater:

She makes blood so pretty.

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Sometimes the idiot-bros just kill me:
I'll fucking cock it.




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Patricia Brigg's, Blood Bound:

I started this series in completely the wrong place.
Anna and Charles were my introduction to Patricia Brigg's world of shifters and I was sold on them almost immediately.
A jagged, thoughtful, tough as a werewolf's paw pad heroine and an alpha-mallow, emotionally compromised, non-dickish hero?
Oh yeah, that's my silver bullet, right there.
I didn't stand a chance.
But.
I'm a stickler for literary order.
If you don't start from the start then what nonsensical game are you playing exactly?
That's just anarchy.
Who wants to be actively confused?
Not this OCD-afflicted worshipper of order, I can tell you that.
So, after falling miserably in love with the aforementioned couple, I plodded my way back to the beginning.
To Mercy.
And... I didn't like it as much.
I didn't connect with her the way I did with Anna.
I missed the jaded humour the Cornick's can't help but exude.
I just wasn't all that interested.
But because I'd accidentally read Alpha and Omega, I knew this was probably merely first in the series jitters.
You know, when a writer hasn't quite nailed their style yet?
Same thing happened with Sarah J. Maas', Throne of Glass series.
I started with her standalone, prequel, spin-off trilogy, A Court of Thorns and Roses and fell so hard I think I'll remain permanently bruised.
But Throne of Glass?
Yeah, I didn't get it and I'm procrastinating over reading the next book - not a good sign.
But this happens sometimes, and I don't regret starting in the wrong places because they've given me stories and couples to keep in my grudgingly soppy heart forever.
I did, however, feel more urgency to read the second in the Mercy Thompson series - possibly because she's not a teenager like Celaena and, well, teenagers, ugh.
I had to get through two more Alpha & Omega novels and a few short stories to get there - woe is me - but I "struggled" through and finally, finally made it back to Mercy.
And guess what?
I love her.
Love, love, love, love, love her.
She's a snarky, cranky, softer than pudding coyote queen and I can't believe I ever doubted her ability to win me over.
Especially when she's kicking people.
I really like when she kicks people.
(Particularly when it's her love interest(s) - that's weird, right?) 
Anyone who can be told specifically by the alpha of all alphas, not to taunt and poke at the temperamental werewolves and then do it anyway is my kinda girl.
I don't know why.
This kind of behaviour annoys the shit out of me in reality - I'm looking at you, eldest sister - but for some reason it makes me all soft and giddy towards fictional characters.
...
Shrug.
I'm a contrary asshole.
But I'd probably get eaten by a werewolf pretty quickly if they existed, so there's that?

But while I remain un-snarfed, I'm going to bask in the curmudgeonly glory that is Mercy Thompson's short fuse because this series is shaping up to be an immense amount of fun.
Even if Briggs did write a scene 170 pages in that almost made my skin crawl off my body.


Scritch. Scritch―scritch.


No.
Just no.
Outside creepers are the worst.
And I was reading this at around 2am.
...

All creepers aside, Blood Bound is a bloody good read.
Fantastic mystery that kept me guessing until the end.
Brigg's world-building and supernatural lore continues to be fascinating.
The dialogue makes me greedy.
And I just... I had a lot of fun.

But hold up a second, M'lady Briggs.
Are you...
Is this gonna be...
Surely not...
Are you... love-squaring me?
Is that even possible?
Dear god, it might be possible.
...
Let me show you how I feel about that, my dear author:

Mercy and Adam are endgame.
Don't test me, woman.

.............................................

Faolan and Faun:

This is so fucking soft.
And I can't help but think the wolf isn't the abusive one in this relationship.

.............................................

He might be my artist of 2019.
He might be exceptionally special.

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Styx?
Acheron?
Lethe?
Phlegethon?
Cocytus?

I spent a lot of time with the rivers of Hell during uni.
Lethe was always my favourite.
And its adjoining antithetical pool, Mnemosyne.

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Sculpture weirdness:


A post shared by ⠀🦖 Suzan Grynkiv • Сюзанна (@suzan.gryn) on
(Tiny Chef collab!)

Suzan Grynkiv


Sara Duarte




A post shared by Raya Sader Bujana. (@littlerayofsunflower) on
Raya Sader Bujana


Gumbo's Grotto


Jim McKenzie

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Cernunnos?:

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Rebeca Puebla aka. subversivegirl:

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Seasonally appropriate raglans:

From the Dexterous, who knows me far too fucking well.

(Points if you spot the chosen one)

And the Rentals who've known me since I came squalling into the world, so it's no bloody surprise they made sure I owned this.

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Donna June Cooper's, Mostly Magic:

This series is so... I'm going to say a gross word; forgive me... swoony.
I know, I'm sorry.
But it is.
So goddamn swoony.
And not just because of the squishy romance.
(Which is lovely by the way. Authors really need to stop writing just shy of perfect heroes because my expectations are completely shot to hell at this point)
Or the elemental, earthy magic Donna June Cooper's cooked up for the inhabitants of Woodruff Mountain.
No, it actually gains its true swooniness from the way she writes about nature and the environment we're rapidly destroying just by being us.
And before you start thinking this is some sneaky way of forcing fantasy lovers to eat their eco-aware vegetables, it's not.
It's really not.
Well, maybe a little bit.
But it's more an ode to the planet we're privileged to exist on and why we should, and need, to do better by it.
That's not news.
We all know it.
And if we forget, we've got Greta Thunberg to set us right.
...
She makes me need to plant trees.
So many trees.
Cooper has the same effect.
Yes, it's bundled up within an engaging, softer than soft tale of love, self sacrifice and adventure, but it's steadfastly there.
Unavoidably so when this entry in the series concerns Apis Mellifera, honeybees.
The idea that if all the bees were rendered extinct, civilisation as we know it would collapse is somewhat hyperbolic.
We'd still have food but because many of our crops are pollinated by insects the variety of food would be greatly diminished, and what remained would go up in value, which would have a knock on effect to our economy, which impacts our health, housing, etc., and so on, are we all completely screwed?, ad infinitum.
It matters what happens to the honeybee.
It matters how we live.
And Mostly Magic is a gentle reminder of that.
It's not slapping you in the face with our collective planetary inadequacies but simply reminding us we're fucking this up.
Really fucking it up.
But we can do better.
We kind of have to.

This came up in my Twitter feed just after I finished it, and it feels rather apt:

Anddddd... if you don't give a flying fuck about environmental issues, or just not reading about them when you're trying to escape the disaster palace that is our watery ball of chaos, then Mostly Magic stands up as a ridiculously enjoyable Fantasy read with smart, lovable characters, vivid descriptive landscapes, a somatic dose of magic, and a HEA.
...
What more could you ask for?

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Sortastitious Comic:
...
I've played by these rules since the I knew what monsters were.

...
Still do...

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Joxter:

I swear to whatever deity the Moomins worship - probably food-based - I will most likely break my face with doofy smiles when Gaëlle Avril finishes her comic because dear lord, she makes the softest things.

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She's trying to kill me with cuteness.
...
It's working.

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Meow:


Oh boy! I knew it!! The Chef is making his famous Bumpkin Fie Milling, his delishoosh Aple Gely, and his incredibly useful Numeg Budr. I’m not gonna lie cheffers the whole team is just drooling waiting for him to give these out and if it’s like last year we will be slyly comparing and contrasting how many we each got and of what. Usually he’s very good at giving equal amounts away to all. 😓 Madam keeps asking if he’s done with the Bumpkin Fie Milling cuz it’s his favorite and Bozi is patiently waiting for her Numeg Budr lot and Bashem’s already attempted to take his jars early which The Chef would not allow. . . . Any of you cheffers canning or jarring delishoosh food this fall!? . . Also thank you to @savanimationz for looking after The Chef for half the day yesterday while the team was out doing busienssy things. You did a great job making sure the cameras were working and Chef was taken care of! . . . . #thetinychefshow #fall #halloween #mallobean
A post shared by Tiny Chef (@thetinychefshow) on

Speaking of killing me with cuteness.

And look!
He dressed up as Fezzik for Halloween:

...

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Panpanpan:

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I am complete trash for this already.

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Sound seasonal desktop advice from Abigail Larson:

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