january

February 01, 2021

Things I enjoyed in the month of January:

Patricia Briggs', Frost Burned:

"So," said Adam, holding the back door open for me as the snow smothered the last of the Rabbit's funeral pyre. "Why are you lucky?"
"Because." I leaned into him instead of going inside, pressing him against the doorjamb. [...] "Just because."


Straight out of the gate, I started the year with a disappointing book.
The concluding half of a duology I was keeping on reserve as a reliable make me happy when the world's on fucking fire book.
(I have a totally warranted number of these on standby)
Needless to say, it didn't live up to its job description.
It wasn't terrible, not even a little bit; the world-building was still fascinatingly brutal, and the feral heroine continues to rate high on my list of kicky-punchy cinnamon roll ladies.
It just wasn't a final book.
It was the second in what should have been a trilogy.
And it showed.
And it was absolutely not what I needed to soothe the pernicious anxiety-monster that's hounding me near constantly right now.
So, what do I do when I'm in desperate need of comfort and escape?
I scamper off to hang with Mercy "I'm a coyote, bitch" Athena Thompson Hauptman and her pack of short-fused shifters.
Because unlike the above-mentioned series, I know Mercy's going to show me a good time.
Even if my stress levels take a spirited pummelling because my girl, my smart-mouthed, selfless, shifter girl has a habit of walking into traps both willingly and constantly.
It's almost endearing how her good intentions override her sense most of the time, but not so much that I spend the entire book channeling the spirit of Mal Reynolds to fully display my frustration: 

And adoration.
Because you can't help but love a character who isn't the strongest, the most gifted, or in any shape of form right for the job of sorting supernatural shit out, but who will do it anyway because they can't watch the world burn just so they can stay alive.


Asil ignored Wulfe. "I like you―but I'll say it for him"―he tipped his head toward Adam―"because he can't. You aren't a monster, and if you insist on fighting them with toothpicks because it's the right thing to do, all the magic in the world isn't going to be enough to save you."
I looked him in the eye, ready to defend myself hotly―who did he think he was? And then I looked at Adam, who had quit growling. He was panting with effort [...] How had he known? How far had he run?
My throat was raw, and my eyes were burning. It wasn't because of the remains of the fire.
"I understand. I really do. But I can't―" I swallowed. "I just can't sit and do nothing when you and the other people who are mine are in trouble. It isn't in me." Cautious, yes, I did cautious. I tried my best not to be stupid―and hey, I was still alive, right? " I called and let people know where I was. I brought backup. I can do that. I am careful." I wasn't talking to Asil anymore. "But Adam, good and evil are real― you know that better than anyone. I have to do the right thing. If not, then I am no better than that―" I jerked my chin toward Frost's body. "All that is required for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing."


You see?
Mercy Thompson-Hauptman is Chaotic Good through and through; it's one of her best qualities.
But honestly, I need her to ramp her trap-dar up to eleven.
The woman's giving me mental stress lines.
And I can't even blame her because she's just... good, in the truest sense of the word.
Not perfect, not pious.
Brave but not without fear.
Infuriatingly selfless but far from holier than thou.
She might be a coyote but Mercy is very much a person, and one you definitely want on your side because she'll do whatever it takes to keep not only her people safe but the world at large.


"You'll be the death of me," he told me. "I could wish you less bold, less brave―less driven by right and wrong."
"Too bad for you," I commiserated. "I know it's rough. My husband tried to kill himself to save the pack, you know. And earlier today, he faced down a fae he knew nothing about―and some of the fae are forces of nature."
"My wife was going to fight him," explained Adam. "I had to protect him from that."
I laughed.
"You know what Jesse's mother would have done if the feds came and took the pack while she was my wife?" he asked.
"Filed for divorce," I hypothesized.
It was his turn to laugh. "Point to you. And then she would go to everyone she knew and tell them how awful her life was, how people expected too much of her. Do you know what my second wife did?"
"Got beaten up and ran in circles mostly while you rescued yourself," I told him.
"She cared for the pack that was left," he said. "She got my child to safety. She got word to Bran―who sent help. She stepped between my child and those who would harm her."
I snorted. "Sounds like a paragon."
"She saved my life and gave me strength to save the rest of the pack." He heaved a sigh and pulled back so he could look at me. "And I have this urge to turn you over my knee and bruise your butt so that you do exactly what my first wife did."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "You ever lay a hand on me and you better never go to sleep again."
He laughed, sat down on the carpeted floor more as though he just couldn't stand up anymore than as if he'd actually made the decision to sit, and laughed some more.


That is my kind of heroine.
Hell, that's my kind of person.
Fuck the likes of Superman, give me the Buffy's of the world.

Especially the Buffy's who aren't graced with abilities that guarantee success:


I was going to fight vampires, and my name wasn't Buffy―I was so screwed.


It's not that I want to see my protagonists struggle but I'm an unashamed sucker for an underdog.
Or an undercoyote in this case.
And the equally brave and wonderful people that surround her.
Which is actually why this book isn't my favourite.
It still ranks highly on the enjoyment scale but typically, at a certain point in a series, when my ship is happily sailing, I require them to not be attached at the hip but most definitely together.
And inevitably this is when the author decides to tear them apart and I get a tad... surly, let's go with surly.
What can I say, I'm a simple creature, if my OTP have officially coupled up then there's no way I'm not going to resent reading half a book where their interaction is limited to a few pages.
My shipping heart takes that as an act of literary cruelty.
And again, it's not that I want them inseparable.
That would be mildly nauseating.
I think Adam put it best:


"It is what it is," he'd said. "Some people have to live in their mate's head to feel secure. How did you feel when we were doing that?" He'd grinned at me when I'd tried to apologize. "Don't fuss. I love you just as you are, Mercy. I don't need to swallow you whole, I don't need to be in your head at all times. I just need to know that you're there."
There are a lot of reasons I love Adam.


Me too, Mercy.
Me too.
Rationally, this would mean I'd be okay with a half-a-book separation.
I never said I was rational, though.
Especially when it comes to shipping.
I think I'm genuinely lunatic thirteen-ing it at this point when it comes to literary couples.
Tear them apart, legitimately or not, I will possess zero chill.
Although, the reunion's usually worth the separation anxiety.


The man who stood over me tossed the fae sword aside and dropped down to sit beside me. Gentle hands moved over me, but I couldn't focus, couldn't breathe―hoped too hard that it took longer to regain my ability to pump air into my lungs. As soon as I did, I shifted back to human and squirmed into his lap.
"Adam," I said, clutching him like a ninny while something tight in the middle of my chest softened. Tears slid down my cheeks. It would have been humiliating if he hadn't been clutching me back just as hard.
I wiped my eyes and pulled away to look at him. He was a little worse for wear, his beard at the scratchy stage, and his eyes were . . . It had been bad. However he'd escaped, it had cost him.
He kissed me, and it was a hard, possessive kiss. He pulled back, "So I went hunting you and got here just in time to see you flying out a hole in the third story of an apartment attached to a man's leg."


Almost.
It's almost worth it.
I was cranky without my shifter babies bickering and flirting and generally being adorable.


Adam hadn't called me, he'd called the witch who hadn't even bothered to answer my phone call.
[...]
"Hey," Adam said, quietly into my ear. "I called you first, but your phone was dead. Then I called Elizaveta."
It shouldn't have made me feel better. Elizaveta was more useful; he should have called her first. She could destroy evidence and had minions who could borrow vans. But he'd called me first instead. Impatient with myself for having been so jealous about something so stupid, I looked around for a distraction, and my eyes found the bus again.
"'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,'" I told him, pointing at the front quarter panel. "I wonder if Elizaveta saw that. It doesn't say werewolves, but I expect it is implied."
"'Wives, be subject to your husbands.'" Adam deadpanned without looking at the bus. "'Let your women keep silence in the churches.'"
"Ah, Paul. He has so many useful things to say. 'It is well for a man not to touch a woman,'" I replied sagely, and Adam laughed and kissed me.
I stiffened, irrationally worried that Zee might not have gotten all the silver, but Adam made a sound closer to a purr than a growl. So I relaxed and participated.
"Do they always flirt with biblical quotes?" Asil asked Tad.
In long suffering tones, Tad said, "They can flirt with the periodic table or a restaurant menu. We've learned to live it. Get a room, you guys."
"Quiet, pup," said Adam with mock sternest. He gave my butt a promissory pat as he said, "Respect your elders."


...

Perfect couple are perfect.
Perfect story... ? Mmmmnope.
Involving, exciting and stressful? A world of yessum.
But it felt like a book before a book, if you know what I mean?
A set-up book.
The story that puts the pieces in place for some truly life-altering shit to hit the pages.
Frost Burned felt like the staging for the ultimate big bad, and in the Mercyverse's case, the big bad is a civil war between the supernatural races and most definitely the humans.
Prejudice is a running theme throughout this series.
The werewolves tolerate the vampires.
The vampires goad the Fae.
The Fae hold themselves above every living creature, especially the humans.
The humans aren't much better.
And just about everyone has an issue with Mercy, including an alarming number within her pack.
The people who are meant to be her family.
Because she's a coyote - a lesser creature to shifters, married and mated to an alpha werewolf, and they don't like it.
And they aren't shy about showing it.
Of course there are exceptions, as with all racial prejudice, but the overwhelming feeling in the Mercy series is that there are too many cooks in Hell's supernatural kitchen, and somebody's got to come out holding the special spatula.
(Random fact: my cat's afraid of the word spatula. Runs for the hills if you dare to say it in his presence. ... Because he's insane. And staring at me right now like I betrayed him by telling you this)
Frost Burned is the beginning of this conflict spilling over from conversational bigotry into hate crimes, cult behaviour, killing sprees and countless other heinous acts.
The ones who want power are getting organised and making a bid for power.
And Mercy is stuck smack bang in the middle.
As per fucking usual.
Christ, she's exhausting.
But would I change her for the world?
Not even a little.
And even if this story didn't bring me the immense amount of joy the previous have, it did cement the fact that Mercy isn't alone anymore and she won't be ever again.
That's a nice fact to have.
Especially knowing what's heading her way.
If the next book's blurb is to be believed, it's a vain, manipulative ex-wife out for marital blood.
Well...

However, with the way Mercy can win people over before they've even met her?


There was one of those speaking silences, then he laughed. "Please tell me I won't end up with eggs in my pillowcase or peanut butter on my car seat."
I threw up my hands involuntarily and turned to him to face him again. Walking backward, I said, "I was twelve. Don't you wolves have anything better to gossip about than things that happened twenty years ago?"
"Mi princesa," he told me, his voice deep and flirty, "I was in Spain and I heard about the peanut butter. Two decades are nothing, I assure you―we will speak of it a hundred years from now in hushed voices. There are big bad wolves all over the world who tremble at the sound of his name, yet a little puny coyote girl peanut-buttered the seat of Bran Cornick's car because he told her that she should wear a dress to perform for the pack."
"No," I said, getting hot about it again. I turned and stalked down the hall. "He said Evelyn―my foster mother―should know better. He made her cry." And that was the last time I consented to play the piano.
I opened the guest room door, and Asil paused until I looked at his face. "Yes," he said sincerely. "Such a one deserves peanut butter on the seat of his pants.
And that sincerity was the last straw. I put my hand over my mouth and leaned against the door and laughed.


Yeah, I'm not all that worried.
Bring the Wicked Bitch of the Ex on.


A note on world-building and supernatural politics in the Mercyverse before I go:

Stellar.
Intricate.
Compelling.
Absolutely balls to the wall bonkers.
About to be blown to shit.

Uh oh...

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All my eyes are seeing is a mashup between this scene in Pride & Prejudice:


And my eyes are exceptionally pleased.

Also, the reminder of how cute these two are:

Disgusting.

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First all:

Je-sus.

Seriously... Je-sus.

Second of all:

I LOVE THIS FUCKING SHOW.
...

I mean, it's problematic as fuck, but oh so fluffy.
So fluffy it'd make an alpaca blush and goddammit, I am this close to going the full Fisher King and this show is basically the only thing suppressing my Holy Grail downward spiral.

Forgive me but I needed those abs, that smile, and that cocksure swagger to keep me sane.
Oh, and the this surly wench didn't hurt either:

Feral cinnamon rolls are my weakness, and Eloise Bridgerton is the ultimate surly spiced baked good.
And of course Miss Penelope Featherington:

Can we just ditch the clueless men and let the sapphic-ness of these two glorious creatures be realised and set free to scamper around in period costume?
Please?
Their chemistry is wild:

Also, Liz Parkes:

I think I'm mildly in love with Nicola Coughlan.
Especially as Clare in Derry Girls.
She's just my kind of anxiety-laden, rule-abiding miscreant:

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Mrs.Frollein and the perfect partner:

This is the dream.
The only thing that could improve it is cake.
And limitless tea.

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Sara Tisdale's glorious verdant creature:

I love her.

And her:

She drew... her stretch marks.
...

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Rewatching Dawson's Creek:

Eesh.
I will love this show forever.
But... eesh.
The shit you don't see when you're a kid.
At least my love for Jen Lindley remains strong and true.

Legitimately the only fully decent human being in that show.
...
And they killed her.

At least Dawson was alone in the end.
Gaslighting, misogynistic pissant.

As himself in Don't Trust the B– in Apartment 23, however?
Delightful.

I'm still so bitter they cancelled this.

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Go fuck yourself:

The description says it all, really.

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Sami Elu's Chopstick Piano:

My sister has this innate, enviable ability to find people who take something mundane and turn it into something beautiful.
Perhaps because she's one of them.
Or she's a witch.
Probably both?
No, definitely both.
She showed me this one afternoon and I completely fell in love.
A significant amount because of the joy you can see on Sami Elu's face.
...
Crafty people.
They blow my frickin' mind.

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Hamilton continuing to blow my mind with his painterly pictures.
I can't stop looking at the wet creases on Sheerah Ravindren's stomach.

Speaking of painterly pictures:

Doesn't this photo by Aimee Twigger look like some modern VelĆ”zquez nonsense?

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Not great.
Really not great.
Teenagers stuck in a Lost, Wayward Pines, The Leftovers, Lord of the Flies township and the inevitable anarchy that ensues?
But done in an irksomely lacklustre way.
...
And I got completely sucked in.
Why?
I don't know.
It just happens sometimes.
It's the reason I watched The 100 for so long, and The Walking Dead.
Sometimes apocalyptic boredom ticks all my boxes.

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If you can fathom it, these are drawn entirely in ballpoint pen.
...
I know.
Madness, isn't it?
I love art made with humble tools and what's more humble than the trusty ballpoint?

The question is: blue or black?


Ps. My sister posted in more detail about Apriani's process in her 12 Days of Christmas series.
Just in case you want something a little more substantial than the happy seal content you're blessed with here.

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...

Holy mother of fluffballs, this was obscenely adorable.

The gist?:

"Ugly" cat is adopted by handsome softie human.
Whimsy ensues.
...
I'm dying over here.
I've been murdered by interspecies love.
It's so puuuuuure.
And familiar.
All the fruit loop behaviour only cat owners are aware of is displayed in vivid technicolour in this manga.
Well, actually it's monochrome but you know what I mean.
...
Either way, you can't fake this nonsense.
Cats are insane and they manipulate us with their big eyes, their fluffy bellies, and all those goddamn toes.
I swear they make it seem like they have infinite paws.
Case and point:

I know it's only three.
I know my cat only has one other paw buried somewhere beneath his chonk of a body but for life of me, it's like looking at Odin's horse, Sleipnir:

Tell me I'm wrong.
And then go read this manga because everyone deserve the enflorphin - as we call them in my family - high it comes with.

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This sparkly wonder's been doing the rounds on Twitter for the past couple of weeks and every time I see it I start to drool a little.
I spent an inordinate amount of time in a music shop near my university, air-stroking a candy apple red Gretsch my friend and I were obsessed with.
I could only play Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) and I thought I was worthy of such beauty.
Foolish child.
That thought pattern did lead to me googling how to play Good Riddance on the ukulele, which in turn sent me down a delightful pink ukulele K-hole.
(My favourite ukulele of all time)

Because if I can't have the Sparkle Penguin, then a watermelon ukulele might be the next best thing.
Although, if Brian Fanner can make a ukulele look like a Fender, then a sparkly Gretsch uke might be in my future.
...
Says the idiot who hasn't learnt to play the ukulele yet.
(Technically... I do know a few songs, but I've forgotten them all because my brain is a bucket with no base)
I'll never fucking change.
...

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It's that Ketnipz time again!:
That little smack! murders me.


And this is why I learned from a very young age to grip my jumper cuffs like a chilly koala before putting on another layer.
Because I too suffer a case of the get it off, get it off, get it offffffffffs when the... bunching occurs.
Oh... the bunching.

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The Magicians, the fifth and final season:

It wasn't the same.
It couldn't be the same without our resident emo fuckboy, Quentin Clearwater.
(Not a slur, I love the idiot unreservedly)
But... for a goodbye?
Not bad.
Not perfect.
And for me, they'll all find a way back in the end.
But I can live with it.
And I didn't give myself a sob-induced migraine this finale!
That's a win, right?


Ps. Michael Luwoye's voice:

Has Hades ever sounded this fucking good?


Pps. I'm going to miss these beautiful morons so much:

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Introversion and the friend dilemma:

Shelby Miller aka. Shubbabang

I need this printed and laminated so I can shove it in people's faces so they understand WHAT MY MAJOR MALFUNCTION IS.

Also this because it sums up my friend skills perfectly:

Izzy Burton

My apologies for the trail of friendships I've left in my wake.
I actually still consider you all friends.
I just don't have the spoons, man...
(I feel this gif in my bones. This is how I look when I socialise)

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MatĆ­as Bergara's Ghibli art:

He's the artist behind the graphic novel Coda, which I'm desperate to read:

Watch that and tell me it doesn't give you the Thunderdome, NeverEnding Story, Ralph Bakshi shivers.
'Cause my bones are shaking!

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...

This is exactly what'll happen to all my books, though:

...
It'll be glorious...

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...
...

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Aisling Bea and Sharon Horgan as sisters is possibly the most perfect sibling matchup in the history of tv?
Or I'm blinded by my love for these two glorious creatures:

The show's pretty good too.

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Rhettaro's Vampire Dad and Anya:

Supernatural softness is the equivalent of smooshing your face into a cat's belly.
Unbelievably comforting and a life-taking risk all at once.

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There wasn't a single doubt in my mind that this would happen but for it to be official?
...

I've a few books left in the KD series and I've been dreading losing a fictional world and its people I've come to not only love but rely on to get me through the everyday existential dread.
But now there's more.
...

While we're here:

I'm always on the lookout for fanart for the KD series because it's so damn rare (what's wrong with you people?), so when this one popped up almost as soon as Blood Heir was released I kinda lost it a little bit.
Quite a lot because Julie's wearing blood armour and I just...

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Dead Pixels season one:

She's tiny.
She's nerdy.
She's just a little feral.
So, of course I love her.

HE'S TOO BULKY!

...

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Nature is wild:

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Henry Sene Yee's watercolours for Neil Gaiman's oeuvre:

My grabby hands are in need of a copy of Neverwhere.
And P. DjĆØlĆ­ Clark's, Ring Shout, which Yoon also designed:

It's meant to be incredible.

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Kristen Callihan's, Winterblaze:

"Every morning we rise up from our beds and death is there, hanging over us, waiting for an opportunity. Life is a gamble, husband. The question is, will you play your hand when the risk is at its greatest?"


Selective Literary Amnesia.
That's my diagnosis for the perpetual behaviour I display of finally remembering to dip back into this series and then proceeding to mentally bitch-slap myself for not doing it sooner.
This historically happens after I've devoured the first chapter and remembered how much I love it beyond reason.
...
And that I'm crushingly stupid.
...
With the memory of a bewildered puffin.
...
My brain makes me so mad sometimes.
Why can't it just remember there's nothing quite like an alternative Victorian-era London dusted with light steampunk, full of werewolves, vampires, demons, corporeal ghosts, the odd Egyptian god, and a trio of supernaturally gifted sisters who own my fucking heart with their ferocity.
Feral women are my undoing.
And the hero puppies who match them in their strength but worship the crotchety ground they walk on.
Which is actually my favourite couple dynamic at the moment: the grumpy one and the sunshine one.
Especially when the sunshine one has all the attributes of a well-loved Labrador.

Throw this ship dynamic at me and I can promise you there will be a happy wiggle involved.
Numerous in fact.
And, although the main couple in Winterblaze - Poppy and Winston - don't precisely fill the requirements of this trope, they did play into another of my favourite ships: the feral cinnamon roll and the adoring alpha-mallow.

It's almost the same but the hero is typically less of a happy puppy and more of a seasoned hound who's still capable of play.
The play is required to necessitate the age old past time of let's poke the grumpy one and see if we can make them smile.
Alpha-mallows rarely value their own lives in this respect.
But it does provide a nauseating amount of cuteness for the reader when the Mallow finally cracks Grumpzilla.
...
Poppy and Winston couldn't embody this trope any more if they tried.


"Your rude behaviour won't scare me away." But it made her inexplicably hot. Damn him.
His gaze grew shadowed. "Who said I wanted you scared?"
She tried to breathe, but he was too close, his cock throbbing now against her hand. "And how do you want me?"
His lips touched her temple, the merest caress before slipping away. "I want you safe. I want you gone from here."
She glared back at him, and their mouths brushed. Desire and frustration made his eyes go dark. She smypathized, but wouldn't let him go. "I am here to protect you, Win. Whether you like it or not."
The wrong thing to say, apparently. His nostrils flared, and his gaze frosted over. "So then," he murmured against her lips, "is this the full-service guarding that you usually provide?"
She wrenched him.
"Ah!" Win fell to the floor, cupping himself. "Christ!" He hissed again, then looked up at her through the wild strands of his hair as Poppy stepped around him. "Bad form, Poppy. Exceedingly."
"Come now, I did not do it that hard."
His even, white teeth snapped together with a click. "Had you balls, madam, I'd be happy to reciprocate. Then we'd see who was flippant."
"Idle threats, Win."
"Poppy Ann Lane," he snarled. "You get back here."
"You know," she tossed over shoulder, "at the moment, I'm sorely considering going by Poppy Ellis once more."
"We are not finished with this."
Her heels clipped against the floor as she strode farther away. "Oh, I believe we are."


They're so fucking cute it makes me sick.
(gif by Milk & Mocha Bear)

And because of this adorable form of antagonistic verbal sparring, it actually addresses the bigger issue of the divide between men and women, specifically within a marriage.
Who's life is more important?
Why should a man act as a shield for his wife and not the other way around?


He leaned closer to Poppy and smiled as though he were paying her a compliment. "When we get to the overpass just ahead, move to the wall being me and stay there."
Her brown eyes flashed in surprise. "And do what? Wait meekly until you have bested them?"
"That is the general idea, yes."
Her lips thinned in a parody of a smile. "How about this? You take two, and I take two." Her arm moved slightly, and she clutched her fan at the ready. A bloody fan? He almost laughed, only he wanted to strangle her more.
"Might I remind you," he said through his clenched teeth, "that you are with child."
"Which makes it imperative that we end this scuffle quickly."
Her logic appalled him. He was on the verge of pulling her to the side when she spun round to face their stalkers.
"Gentlemen," she said as the men halted. Four big brutes who looked spoiling for a fight. "I believe you have lost your way. I advise you to turn around before you regret it."
Win had to give her credit. She was as fearsome as the worst schoolmarm.


How do you find the balance? And cope with that balance tipping either way occasionally?
They're valid questions and Poppy and Winston spend a significant amount of the book caught in this exact power struggle.
Not one that's built on prejudice but instead on the need to protect each other and demanding equality in that role.


Poppy's voice was soft as it drifted across to him. "I knew it would bother you."
When he wrenched his head up, he found her blinking down at her clenched hands. A sad smile splayed about her lips. "I understand that a man wants to be the protector, to know that he can keep his wife from harm. What man in his right mind would want a woman who can freeze him solid with a thought? She laughed weakly. "Who is versed in multiple weaponry and proficient in six forms of physical combat?"
[...]
Poppy was silent. Then she swallowed audibly. "Part of me was happy to keep it all from you."
"Because you did not want to offend my manly pride?" He said it lightly, though the idea that she believed he was so small-minded bothered him.
Her dark eyes found him. "Because I didn't want you to stop looking at me as a woman. As a wife who needed you."
The carriage shuddered over a rut as he absorbed her words. Win cleared his throat, and it sounded overly loud in the space between them. "When we did battle again those undead, with your back to mine, each of us moving as one, I did not feel diminished. I felt alive." He stared at her, and his blood heated again. "I think you are magnificent, Poppy Lane."


It's interesting to witness this in a Victorian novel, when women are so often solely depicted as wives and mothers.
They aren't allowed careers, they mustn't put themselves in danger, and if they do they will of course be rescued.
By a man.
...
Kristen Callihan, quite frankly, tells this stereotype to not so kindly fuck off.
In her alternative London, women are free to be mothers, to be wives, but to also be the head of a secret supernatural syndicate who conceal the extraordinary from the mundane, if they so choose.
Because why the fuck not?
This is half the reason I love this series so much.
Typically, I'm not very drawn to fiction set hundreds of years ago; the language is too formal, everybody is hamstrung by the way they must behave in society, and it takes too damn long to get to the point.
That... that's just not my thing.
I like my women punchy and snarly and able to get shit done.
Or doing the Victorian version of slothing around if that's their poison of the day.
I like my characters to have choices.
So, when someone like Callihan takes the rigid format of an older society and lets her characters behave in a more modern fashion, I can't help but be a little giddy over it.
You get all the frothy aestheticism of a historical novel but with characters who curse, and fuck, and wear unconcealed knives on their person and glare at anyone who dares to even glance at them askance for it.


The walk back to his stateroom was not enough time to calm Winston's thoughts. Demons and Poppy danced around in his head.
[...]
Poppy followed along beside him, blithely ignoring the baffled looks their fellow travelers gave to her goggles and mussed hair. Not to mention the blasted knife she still had strapped low on her hips. It was as if she were sending out a dare to all and sundry: Do not fuss with me. That Winston found the costume exceedingly alluring was simply one more irritant to his day.


This is what I want in my version of history.
And Kristen Callihan kindly provides it.
With adorable, bicker-happy OTPs thrown in.


She nudged him with her elbow. "Go on, then."
"Very well." He gave her a short nod before muttering, "The things I do."
He had almost got to the door when she grabbed his arm and yanked back. Her face scrunched up in a manner he knew to mean that she was struggling with some internal conflict. When she finally found her words, they came out clipped and efficient. "Mrs. Noble might have certain expectations should you go in there alone."
Winston bit back his laugh, but he could tell by the way her lips compressed again that his effort to hide his amusement failed. So he let it show as he leaned in close enough to feel her soft breath against his cheek. "Yet into the lion's dean you send me." When her scowl formed, he grinned, suddenly enjoying himself. "Do you know, Poppy Ann," he said against her smooth cheek, "I do believe you are worried."
Her straight, strong teeth closed over his earlobe and the muscles along his abdomen tightened in response. "And I believe that you like me worrying over you." Her warm breath against his ear sent shivers along his skin. She nipped him then, hard enough to make him jump. "Behave, Winston Lane."
His hand found its way to her neck, holding her there. His mouth touching her ear. "Then it would be wise not to give me a cockstand while I am working, wife."


...
Can you hear me happy sighing?
Good, because I'm not being subtle or anywhere near finished.
Because it's not just the world-building (which is like a cheerier Penny Dreadful by the way) or the loveable, tempestuous OTP that makes this one of my favourite series.
It's the storytelling.
Nothing about the Darkest London series is necessarily new but it is wonderfully compelling.
In the midst of marital unease, we're thrown almost immediately into a mystery built on forgotten, Faustian bargains, concealed familial truths, and whole lot of subterfuge.
Our heroine is alone, abandoned by the hero and doing her best to be the M to her supernatural MI5.
Our hero is tortured with PTSD, caught between anger at his wife for her deception and his hopelessness without her.
Nobody's happy.
Nobody wants to be separated.
So, what better way to patch up a marriage than forced proximity and a mutual adversary to send back to the hell they slithered from?
...
There is no better way.
Throw in an abundance of sexual tension, only one bed, and nothing but time to air out some long-suppressed grievances and bam! A good time is had for all.
I certainly enjoyed myself and it feels as though the overriding arc of the Darkest London series is starting to unfold more clearly.
The danger is being ramped up, the main players are forming a family of their own making to take on said danger, traitors are being weeded out, and long-concealed secrets are finally being revealed.
This is only the third book, and the last focusing on the Ellis sisters, which makes me a little sad because being one of three sisters myself, I couldn't relate more to their behaviour.


Poppy turned into [Miranda's] embrace, trying to quiet her even though she couldn't quiet herself.
Beside them, Daisy began to sniffle. "That's old news. If you really want a confession, I must admit . . . I was the one who ate those cream caramels Winston sent you when you were courting!" With a pathetic pout, she held her arms out for a hug.
Miranda and Poppy glared at her, and then Miranda snorted. "And you talk of old news."
"You had a caramel smudge on your chin when you denied your sins and did not even notice." Poppy added in disgust.
Daisy scowled. "I felt terribly guilty! For hours!"
"Bah," Miranda said as Poppy wiped at her face. "You merely had a sour stomach to lament."
There was a small silence in which someone sniffled. And then they were laughing.


Yup... yup, this rings so true.
(There's a certain talcum powder incident from my youth that smells distinctly of this kind of sisterly funny-business. I'm really bad at hiding evidence, apparently)
I'll miss moments like this but I can sacrifice them for the furthering of the story, because it just doesn't feel like a standalone story for each book anymore.
It feels like something's brewing, something big, and goddamn, I cannot wait to see what trouble Kristen Callihan's lovable idiots can get into next.

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My current fanart wallpapers:

Lilytsugu
(Geralt was already beautiful but goddamn)


Synnaley
(So soft. I ship these two so hard and this is making it worse!)


And a perfect animated tribute by Tortie:

I love these comics so much. And the movie, but seeing it animated in Bryan Lee O'Malley's style is just...

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I enjoyed this immensely but I was distracted.
Distracted by Anya Taylor-Joy.
I could not for the life of me look away from her.

For once, for bloody once, tv gave us a woman who's unapologetically who she is.
A prodigy.
A bitch.
A child.
Gifted.
Ambitious.
Fucked up.
Vulnerable.
Hateful.
An addict.
A multitude of human qualities that aren't explained away with mental illness (it doesn't make you superhuman and I'm sick of it being used as such; we're not here for your amusement), or childhood trauma (although, that plays a part), or some inexplicable otherworldliness.
Beth Harmon is exactly who she is and she couldn't give a fuck if you don't like it.
Thus, the reason I couldn't look away.

More women like this, please.
And men.
Let's just have awesome tv characters from on, 'kay?


Bonus kickass fanart by Sveta Shubina:


Talking of awesome ladies who don't give a fuck what you think:

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Blad Moran's textured cats:

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First of all: WHAT THE FUCK?!

Second of all: this is about the right size for me.
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