november

December 01, 2020

Things I enjoyed in the month of November:

Kristen Ashley's, Broken Dove:

Pure hedonism.
That's what this is.

Growly alpha-mallows? ✓
Overexcitable heroines? ✓
Fantastical beasts? ✓
Excessive running around? ✓
Old-timey smut? ✓
HEA? ✓

A veritable feast of happy-make-feel-goods.
And yeah, the writing style starts to grate after a while - paragraphs are apparently an alien concept.
(Although, I think that's the way I write as well? So... I apologise for writing in verbose bullet points instead of full coherent sentences. Not that it'll stop me continuing to ramble in quick-fire word vomit. It's just the way my brain operates)
I spend a fair amount of time wanting to throat punch the heroine into prolonged muteness.
(Just because you have a mouth, doesn't mean you have to voice every thought that promenades across your brain. Christ almighty)
And there's always this moment, in every book of the series, where the hero acts like a gaslighting prick and I want to scream bloody murder into the feminist abyss.
(It makes me incandescent. And the grovelling is never enough in my opinion. Thus making me even angrier because this was written by a woman. 4 years ago. ... *rage shaking*)
Which really does the beg the question: Why the fuck am I reading this nonsense?
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I know, I know: You're the worst, have some self respect, there's better fluff out there, yada yada.
I do know all these things and I'm already reading the better fluff.
But I'm in this thing now.
The first book sucked me in, the second made it worse, and by that time I was so hooked on all the infuriating schmaltz it didn't even matter that I kinda hated the third offering, because I was, as I mentioned, in this thing.
And I can't get out.
I don't think I even want to get out.
Because the fluff.
Oh, sweet holy hellfire of fluff.
It's my weakness. I lap it up like popping candy. And enjoy every brain-wilting second.
I'll take losing a few milligrams of grey matter if I can keep the blessed fluff.
...
I don't know what that says about me, but it's okay, ignorance is bliss.

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The pinky touch...

If season 3 does not go well for these hormone-addled monsters, I am going to be severely pissed.
The angry letters written in my head will be the thing of legend.
Legend, I tell you.
There will be verbose swearing, an unacceptable amount of adjectives, and it'll be venomous as fuck.
Y'know, how my inner monologue usually sounds.
...
Bonus Ghibli:

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I didn't think it was possible to out-BeyoncƩ BeyoncƩ.

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Look at Celia Edell's hippo Challa:

LOOK AT IT.

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Re-watching Please Like Me before Amazon cruelly snatched it away:

This show is my happy place.
It's soft. It's awkward. It's adorably weird. It makes me belly laugh.
Why, Amazon? Why hast thou forsaken me?

...
Being dramatic about tv since awkwardly luging into the world.

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I've seen so much adorable fanart for Tenet since it was released - yet to see the actual movie, though - but this?
For some reason this is my favourite.

Cute boys.
Such cute boys.

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Watching Ibi play:

I wish I'd taken lessons.
I can play but it's mediocre.
Messy.
A octave is more of a full 8-key slam than anything else.
My timing is perpetually wrong.
My left hand never really wants to work concurrently with the right.
But it's fun.
And I want to play this.
It feels like my hands could do it.
But isn't that always the way?

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A new Abhorsen book:

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Why does no one tell me anything?!

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This is landscape porn.

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Forensic and Flowers' dust jacket for Naomi Novik's, A Deadly Education:

I just really like it.
The moon! The stars! The All-Seeing Eye!
What's not to like?
...
Dust jackets may be a major pain the ass while you're reading but damn they're pretty.


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...

This was... awesome.
So fucking unnerving.
I'm not sure I breathed for the whole 90 minutes.
Even seeing the monster didn't ruin it.
But I gotta say, if this apocalypse happened for real, I'd be fucked.
I sneeze all the time.
I don't even know why.
Allergic to life, maybe?
Oh, and balancing isn't exactly my forte.
Perpetually tripping over invisible cats is more my style.
...
Behold, a sequel!

Let's go bug huntin'.

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Never have I felt so close to an illustration.
Right down to the healthy blush.

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The drama and colour palette in these is incredible.
Having gone to art school and looking at art every single day, it still blows my mind what someone can do with a few colours and a few lines.
It's so simple and so not.

And then there's this:

Beauteous.

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Seanan McGuire's, A Local Habitation:

The humans aren't stupid, no matter what the purebloods say; they're just blind, and sometimes, that's worse. They put their fear in stories and songs, where they won't forget it. "Up the airy mountains and down the rushy glen, I dare not go a-hunting for fear of little men." We've given them plenty of reasons to fear us. Even if they've mostly forgotten―even if they only remember that we were beautiful and not why they were afraid―the fear was there before anything else. There were reasons for the burning times; there's a reason the fairy tales survive. And there's a reason the human world don't want to see the old days come again.


In the words of Seanan McGuire's cantankerous Fae:


Oak and ash.


...
Those words have more of an impact in context but bloody hell.
Bloody fucking Fae-dwelling hell.
Rivers of blood.
That's what this story is made up of.
I don't remember a chapter where someone wasn't bleeding all over themselves.
If it wasn't inexplicable puncture marks, it was bullet wounds, axe wounds; and then there's Toby, merrily slashing into herself for the greater good.
Although, I suppose that's to be expected when you're one of the Blood Fae, a Daoine Sidhe, and a relentless fucking martyr.
But Oberon's teeth - I love the way they curse in this series - she makes me furious.
Self-preservation, Sir Daye; live it, learn it, and stop fucking cutting yourself to ribbons!
...
My literary girlfriend is giving me stress lines.
The least she could do is delegate some of the war wounds.
Let my beloved Tybalt, the King of the San Francisco Cait Sidhe, take a few licks.
I'm sure he'd happily oblige, seeing as all he does is parade around like the embodiment of sex, regally lick his claws while everyone else thunders around making a mess, pretending not to moon over our heroine.
Yeah, I see you Mister Fluffy, you're not subtle, y'know?
Getting her drunk ass home safe:


We walked for a few blocks, with me wobbling along on clattering heels and him pacing silently by my side, only correcting my path when it seemed like I was going to fall off the sidewalk altogether. Finally, I said, "I don't understand why you're doing this."
"I'm a cat. We aren't required to make sense."
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't find any logical failings in that statement. It didn't help that my head was starting to spin. I yawned.
"This is too slow," Tybalt said, and, with that simple pronouncement, scooped me off the sidewalk and into his arms. I squawked. Amused, he said, "Oh, don't bother. We both know how this ends, and it'll be more pleasant for both of us if you just don't struggle. I trust you haven't moved?" I nodded. "Good. Now hold your breath; I know a shortcut."
That was code for "I'm going to take you into the Shadows." [...] The Shadow roads are dark and bitterly cold. It's impossible to breathe there; your lungs would freeze. Tybalt seemed to take a perverse delight in hauling me through the[m].
[...]
I took a deep breath, scrunching my eyes tightly shut. Tybalt chucked, and I felt the muscles of his chest and arms bunch as he took two long steps and broke into a run.
[...]
I opened my eyes, squinting through the ice crystals on my lashes. We were at my own front door. To fae eyes, the edges were marked with the glowing red tracery of the wards I'd set before heading out for the night.
"Much simpler," said Tybalt. He walked up to the door, noting, "I can't go any further than this, I'm afraid. Wards."
"Mmm," The cold had made me drowsy, and I was comfortable where I was.


Leaving her hate-flirty letters:


You are truly endearing when you sleep. I attribute this to the exotic nature of seeing you in a state of silence.

―Tybalt


"Allowing" her to keep your jacket; the same jacket you forced her to wear to keep her above-mentioned drunk ass warm:


"Well, as there are no taxis, and you have splendid reasons not to summon a taxi, and you are, in fact, drunk enough to be making comments about the tightness of my trousers, I believe it would be a good idea for me to escort you home."
"I don't need you to."
"That's nice," said Tybalt, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it around my shoulders. "You look cold."
"I'm not cold." That was a lie―it was a nice night, but even the nicest night gets chilly after midnight in San Francisco. I pulled the jacket tight, trying to preserve the illusion of dignity. The leather smelled of Tybalt's magic, all pennyroyal and musk. "I can get home just fine."
"Of course you can," Tybalt agreed, planting a hand on the small of my back and urging me to begin walking.


Taking any opportunity to touch her:


I looked up at him. "I'm assuming you plan on coming with me."
He smiled, very slightly. "As if I'd let you risk life and limb alone?"
"Right," I said. "This way."
It was almost dawn when we reached the basement door. I thought about trying to make it down the stairs and decided not to push it. I might make it. I might also be halfway down when the sun came up, and the idea of breaking my neck because I was dumb enough to play chicken with the dawn didn't appeal. Closing my eyes, I leaned against the wall, and waited. Tybalt put his arm around my shoulders, and I jumped, but didn't look. Dawn always passes. That's one of the few things I like about it.
[...]
Tybalt kept his arm around my shoulders the whole time, steadying me. As dawn passed, I opened my eyes and flashed him a grateful look. He turned away, expression unreadable.


Protect her:


His snarl became suddenly louder, and he all but pounced on Alex, hoisting the other man by the upper arms like he weighed nothing at all. "How dare you!" he roared.
I stared. "What the hell―"
"I didn't hurt her!" Alex shouted, his attention fixed on Tybalt.
"You're not going to have the chance." Tybalt released Alex's left arm, pulling back a hand that was suddenly bright with claws.
And the sun went down.


And sneak in compliments to wrinkle her entire brain:


"I can't see who killed her."
"Then find another way," he said, and set me back on my feet.
I blinked at him. "You think I can?"
He smiled briefly, and reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. "I believe it. This suits you far better than your silly illusions."
"Oh." I kept blinking at him for what felt like an impossibly long time before wrenching my gaze away reaching for my knife.


Yeah, you're not into her at all.
...
Can you tell I had a good time?

I thrive on this part of a newly adopted ship.
The I'm totally into you but I'm going to behave like a tempestuous brat and deny all plausibility of the inevitable future bang-fest we're going to engage in, which will most likely lead to eternal fucking bliss, because its fun and I'm an hormonal idiot part.
It's delightful.
And Toby and Tybalt are doing it beautifully.
Snarking at each other and grinning like idiots whilst the vitriol pours from their mouths.
Acting all domestic with each other without even realising it.
Getting territorial and passing it off as "protection".
Shoving any and all uncouth thoughts about each other deep into a mental well, and then avoiding it at all costs because "feelings" await there.
Along with a bucket of lust.
And the Fae version of cupid they shanked at the first inkling of attraction and promptly shoved into the watery, brick-lined depths.
...
Yeah, these idiots are giving me the heavy squishy feels.
But I have this horrible feeling Seanan McGuire is going to drag this out for books and books.
And books and books and books.
...
I don't do well with this kind of ship-teasing.
I get annoyed if it takes more than three books minimum for a relationship to begin forming.
And there's a potential love triangle in the mix with this one.
My least favourite of the romance tropes - unless it ends in polyamory.
There should be more thrupples in my opinion.
But I don't see it going that away.
Mostly because I don't think Toby really does sharing.
So, I'm stuck between a royal Selkie and a mischievous cat king until they figure this shit out.
...
Well, fuck.
And the anxiety pangs just keep on coming! 

At least the scenery will be pretty while I "suffer".
Not that this entry in the series is exactly overflowing with beauty.
90% of our time is spent in Escher-esque office space hell.
Beige walls, ugly carpets, and computers everywhere.
But with a side of murder.
When you think of the Fae, I imagine visions of shimmering, verdant utopias come to mind.
Not a labyrinth of cubicles with the scent of stale coffee on the air.
The things Fae dreams are made of, this is not.
For A Local Habitation, however, it grounds the story in reality and amps up the horror of it all.
How many classic slasher movies have been set in an isolated building where its occupants are hunted down in seemingly maze-like corridors?


The simplification of the knowe had continued while I slept; Tamed Lightning was in mourning. [...] The more I see of our world, the more convinced I am that everything in Faerie is alive. April was a sentient computer, and one of my pets was a rosebush with feet. Why shouldn't the places where we live be just as awake? In Faerie, the land can hold opinions.


Countless, that's how many.
And for Toby's charges, there's absolutely no difference.
They may be Fae and they may possess powers humans can't conceive of, but they're still being mercilessly picked off one by one.
Their power is meaningless.
Which is the true beauty in this story, that every second you wander these halls with our heroine, you're hunted with her.
I felt hunted.
Luckily I didn't have to bleed the way everyone else did.
...
I'm still not over the arterial spray-fest.
I don't think I ever will be.

Ugh, I have so many feelings and this isn't even my favourite Urban Fantasy series.
I really, really like it but it doesn't instil me with the overwhelming feeling of home that the Kate Daniels series does.
Those are my characters, that's my world, it's my story and I disappear into it so effortlessly it almost feels real.
Toby doesn't do that for me, at least not yet.
But it's frightening how much I care for these characters already.
As in, I'd fictionally die for these motherfuckers.
But I guess that's a relatively normal reaction when your lead character is in constant mortal PERIL.
...
Stressful.
Very fucking stressful.
And I'm only two books in.
...
Y'know what, October Daye might just be the end of me.

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There's a part of my brain that refuses to accept that the cloche/vase pieces are illustrations and not physical things.
And when grey matter refuses, all I can do is comply and drool over Brochu's colour palette.

Bonus paper art magnificence by Ellie Sampson:

In the name of hungry demogorgon's, when is the new series going to drop?!
I'm getting kinda desperate.

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Oh man, this got slammed so hard by the critics.
But me?
I had such a good time.
I watched it Halloween night, lights out, pyjamas on, and half a double chocolate chip muffin already sitting happily in my belly, the other half ready to be demolished when the mood strikes.
And then the 80s homage bloodfest commenced.

Beautiful.
I love this shit.
It might have made no damn sense but when did the classic 80s supernatural slasher movies ever follow script?
Gimme half-baked storylines, killer music, an aesthetic to drool over, and copious amounts of red syrup.

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Katie S. accidentally trolling us with what could be:

I'm not even a Superman fan (aside from the Dean Cain years, of course, and those ten minutes where Henry Cavill was a fisherman... Jesus) but I'd watch the do-gooding shit out of this.

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This is a really interesting take on the phenomenon of spoilers and to an extent I agree.
But as one who hates to be told details of a story prior to reading it, this comment sums it up exactly for me:

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Guppy:

I am this cat. This cat is me.
I make this noise sporadically yet consistently and usually without my knowledge, much to my family's amusement.
...

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I'm with my sister on this one: I am here for the shipping, not the father/son dynamics.
...
But he is so small.
And those baby curls.
That sass-tacular brow.
THE PROPRIETARY WELLY TOUCH.
...
An exception will be made.
This one time.
And then we're straight back to the murder nuzzling:

Like this, for example:

That's the second pinky touch in this post so far.
Coincidence?

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Flowers season 2:

Well, that was devastating.
Beautiful, surreal, elegiacal and devastating.

The only other time I've seen Will Sharpe act was a decade ago in Casualty.
Who'd have thought that adorable, awkward creature had this in him?

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Twenty two.
He's twenty freaking two.
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What am I supposed to do with this, huh?
How am I meant to think about other things, huh?
Especially when comments like these are being made, huh?!:

...

Come on, House Andrews, make my ship canon.

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I can't find the specific gif for when these two broke my heart into a million tiny pieces, so here's them being adorable instead.

Oh, and this because obviously:

And of course, my boys:

There's more.
But I'm not exposing my entire soft underbelly to the internet.
You gotta work for that level of vulernability.

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Diana Sim's OCs, Lisa and Kai:

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It's that Ketnipz time again:

This needs the audio.
Don't listen to this without the audio.
Also, enjoy the recreation of every study session I've ever engaged in.

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All my authors are damn dirty teases and I LOVE IT.

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Gotta love a good old apocalyptic landscape.
The sky's always real pretty to look at while the acid rain burns your flesh off.

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Stupid.
But very pretty.
And I'm all for a version of Hamlet where Ophelia wins.

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Amanda Bouchet's, Heart on Fire:

Wings spring out from my shoulder blades, ripping through my tunic and punching holes in my leather armor. I gasp because it hurts. They grow and unfurl, huge behind me, rising like twin nightmares above my head. With the sun at my back, I see my shadow before me―beautiful and horrifying―and in that moment, I can pick out a single golden thread in my blood, pulsing with ancient power.
The Ichor in my veins snaps to life and tells me my own story. I am what frightens the untrue of heart, burns treachery from them, and demands divine justice. Nike may have contributed to my wings, but she's not the only one. I am daughter of the winged Furies. My veins run with their harsh blood. Throughout time and worlds, the infernal Goddesses have wielded the punishing whip of justice. Truth and vengeance have always been theirs.
Ruthlessness sweeps through me, dark and cold with purpose.
Kingmaker. Truthsayer. Settler of scores.


Uhm...

Seriously, what the fuck just happened?
This isn't a final book in a series.
It doesn't even resemble the previous two.
Why was everybody separated the whole time?
Where was Cat's sharp tongue?
Where was the good-natured ribbing between my heroine and her chosen family?
Why was Griffin a cardboard cutout version of himself?
Why was Cat an emotional disaster? - and not in the delightful, feral spitfire way she usually is.
Why did Amanda Bouchet lead me in so many different directions, only to leave mostly everything unresolved?
Also, what the godly balls was that final showdown? That would never happen. It doesn't fit with the villain's behaviour. Not one tiny bit.
AND WHERE THE FUCK IS KATO?!
...
What the hell, Bouchet?
The final book in a series is when you bring everybody together to fight the good fight.
Not unravel everything so your protagonist can have an epiphany and saunter into a happy ending.
Bloody hell, what was this?!

The only rationalisation I can come to is that Amanda Bouchet plans to write more stories set in this world, with these characters but not necessarily with Cat and Griffin as the protagonists.
...
I checked, I rationalised right, she does:

The only problem? That was almost three years ago.
...

Normally, this wouldn't bug me.
I'd rather authors took their time and gave me a story worthy of the wait.
(And Bouchet's currently writing a female-led space opera that I'm itchy to get my grabby hands on, so she's kinda busy already)
But after that ending?
That whole book?
(Which wasn't bad, by the way, parts of it were fantastic, but it just wasn't the right ending for this series)
I need me some more.
Stat.
Pronto.
Right the fuck now because I reiterate:

WHERE THE FUCK IS KATO?!

...
Oh boy, oh man, this is so not good, this is going to drive me nuts.
And I hate writing a crappy review for a series I adore.
Truly, it pains me.
But this was not the finale I was hoping for.
It doesn't do justice to everything that came before.
To our heroine, our hero, their relationship, their hardships.
I am all for character development; I wanted Cat to grow and trust herself, trust her feelings.
She deserves those things but not at the expense of her essential Cat-ness.
Catalia Fisa is a smart-mouthed hell-beast of a woman and watching her verbally spar with her husband, her brothers and sisters-in-law, and just about everyone who ruffles her inward and now outward feathers is a thing of beauty.
She's quick-tempered, brattish at the best of times, she hits first and hits some more later.
But she's all squish inside, and she'll most certainly throat-punch you for pointing that out.
...
My perfect woman, essentially.
So, of course I want her to be happy and loved and not tortured by guilt every second of her life, but I still want her to be Cat.
Not this bubbling, soft thing Bouchet turned her into.
I want her bubbling, soft, and eternally feral.
Cat's very talented, she can multitask that shit in her sleep.
Thus why I'm mystified by the Cat I was given for our final adventure together.
She barely singed anyone with her forked tongue, nary a temper tantrum in sight, and I'm pissed about it.
She doesn't make sense without her playful vitriol.
If Cat's not giving you the verbal stink-eye whilst loving you more than you'll ever comprehend, then she's not being the heroine I know and love.
Of course, there were moments where my vicious girl would appear.
But they were so rare.
Too rare.
I missed them.
If the gods hadn't arrived to provide bicker-happy entertainment in Cat's snarky stead, I don't think I would have recognised the tone of this series at all:


Lightning abruptly stops leaping from my body, settling roughly back into whatever mostly inaccessible well it resides in.
"She wouldn't be half as belligerent if she'd grown up with me." Selena crosses her arms, apparently wholly unconcerned by her potential impending doom.
Ares scowls. "She wouldn't be half as alive if she'd grown up with you."
"I beg to differ," Selena responds coolly.
"Beg all you want. I'm still right."
"I'm very effective."
"You make rainbows and heal people."
"You make war and kill people."
"I taught her well." Pride gleams in Ares's eyes. "She just brought down a man a head taller thank she is and twice as heavy without even trying."
Selena scoffs. "Her exceptional reflexes are hardly your doing."
"Or yours," Ares says with narrowed eyes.
[...]
"She had to figure things out on her own. Couldn't have you influencing her," Ares responds with a shrug.
"Oh, no." Persephone's sarcastic mock sincerity rivals my own. "Only you can do that."
Ares preens, just to goad her, and Persephone looks like she's about to attack. Ribbons of power race in circles around her dark-blue irises, brightening them from within.
She glares at the other God, her eyes terrifying. "She was impressional when she was with you. Thank the Goddesses she had her sister to teach her compassion."
[...]
"Thank the Gods she had me to teach her how to survive," Ares shoots back.
He taught me to fight. And kill.
[...]
"She has a name," Persephone snaps out impatiently.
"I know," Ares snaps back. "It's Little Monster."
"No, it's Catal―"
"Not important," I interrupt.
 

I would love it if Bouchet did a whole series featuring the gods.
A book for each couple, or an odyssey for a group of them, or an Olympian takedown.
I don't know! Just... something.
Hades and Persephone are right there.
Right bloody there!
And Ares and Aphrodite.
Prometheus and Pyrrha.
Athena and Hephaestus.
Look at all that potential.
Come on, Bouchet, it could be fun.
Tempestuous godly brats fucking shit up, playing with the humans, and pissing each other off?
That's storytelling gold.
And I know you can write good stories. I've read them. Raved about them.
But I don't know what happened with Heart on Fire.
I really don't.
And it's not as if I didn't enjoy myself; I did.
Between the infuriation, that is.
Because Bouchet was sneaky and played on my squishy, idiot heart:


Griffin gives me a gentle shake, urging me to look him in the eyes. [...] "You are the missing part of me, and I am never giving you up."
His truth burns through me. Heat thickens my throat, and tears prick at my eyes. Ever since Little Bean was conceived, I have the most aggravating propensity to cry. "But they changed you for me."
"They gave me a gift that's kept me alive. That got me Sinta and brought me to you." He lightly squeezes my shoulders. "And it's a good thing I'm indestructible where magic is concerned, because when you get excited, you light up the room like a storm."
I bit my lower lip. I want to smile. I still feel like crying.
Griffin sweeps his hands down my arms. His skin is rough, his touch gentle. "Don't doubt us, Cat. Don't doubt me."
I take a shaky breath. "I don't. I just... I'm..." I stop, at a loss.
Griffin lifts his eyebrows. "Inarticulate at the moment?"
Scowling, I thwack him in the chest.
"Overwrought?" he supplies, his mouth quirking up.
I thwack him again.
"Highly emotional?"
Thwack. Thwack.
"Apparently weak, because none of that hurt at all."
I give him the evil eye―a grumpy one.


And my need for small-defeats-tall violence.
Nothing quite as satisfying as a tiny, punch-happy heroine beating the immortal crap out of an Olympian god.
That will never get old, and Cat has a particular talent for it.
And it's not as if the gods don't deserve her wrath for the hell they put her through.


I advance on him, not caring that I'm half his size, not anywhere near as powerful, and not at all immortal. "You dare to pass judgement on my humanity when you have none? You're a cold-hearted monster. [...] You think you're so clever, so above mankind, but you're not even smart enough to understand us lowly humans and our mortal hearts." I glance down at the great, somber valley I've seen the bottom of too many times and then laugh right in the Titan's face. The sound couldn't be more razor-sharp if my teeth were serrated to points. "You need me to find the spark―that buried ember of magic that will get us both out of here and make your dreams come true. But you drown me in pain. You show me everything I don't have to live for. You fling me from agony to loss."
[...]
Even without wings, I suddenly soar. "Listen carefully, you imbecilic, incompetent, worthless fool of a God, because I'm about to give you the secret to dealing with mankind. And you can tell Zeus when you see him next, since he obviously needs the reminder." I step toward Perses again, getting so close I burn from his primeval magic and heat. Currents of lightning snap and spiral a sizzling path through my blood, no longer dormant or hidden from me. I can have my husband. I can have a family. I can have my kingdom. I can have it all, because despite my flaws, I deserve happiness, and I'll do my very best to bring it to others as well.
"A crushed spark never ignites," I tell Perses. "That's not how you fan the flame."
I shoot out my hand and smack the Titan right in the sternum just as a lightning bolt rolls down my arm.


I think that's what you call a mic drop.
And again! So much potential storytelling!
They're in Tartarus for fuck's sake.
TARTARUS!
...
Ugh.
I have to stop now or the exclamation points are going to get completely out of control.

I wish I wasn't so disappointed, I wish this wasn't such a gloomy review, I wish this book had been twice as long so the story could've played out with more depth and cohesion.
If it had been the penultimate book in the series, I know I would have enjoyed it immensely.
I could've looked past the things that irked me so much, even with the bitter taste of wtf plaguing me throughout, because this is a great story.
It's fierce, and funny, and plays out like the classic grecian myths it's based on.
But it's not a final story.
That happy, squishy, sated feeling I get when I've finished a series just wasn't there.
All I had were more questions, more confusion, more wtf's.
But, oh well.
I'll just have to be happy I got to spend a little more time with my squishy-idiot OTP and their squishy-idiot family; that the villains got vanquished, and there's potentially going to be more stories with the above mention squishy-idiots.
...

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


Totally cliched but oh boy, sweet as hell and the music was good.
Oh, and Luke Perry, my since-the-terrible-Kristy-Swanson-Buffy-abomination crush, was in it.
...

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

Vic aka. halorvic:

Adorable sharks (high praise coming from someone with Galeophobia) and introverted snails.
...
Did I go to David Tennant, illustrative heaven?

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


My sister and I when we saw the announcement:
(I've got to watch Yuyushiki, it looks adorably feral)

In that exact order.
...
I can't wait to see my skating boys again.

He so angry.

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