#pulpy-ness

[fieriframes]

[Scallions, or the "scal-yons." Ginger dressing. Look at all the ginger sitting in there, that pulpy-ness. Oh, that's awesome. I could eat the whole thing.]

[utilitycaster]

Hi, would just like to say thank you for writing up so much meta on campaign 3, it is keeping me sane seeing similar thoughts to what I’ve had written down coherently.

The last couple asks you’ve answered have got me thinking about how campaign 3 ended up like this (indecisive characters, weird nonsensical themes, only setpieces and maybe a ship or two being memorable) and I remember hearing that c3 was described by Matt as ”Pulpy” and I keep coming back to that and thinking that there was never even meant to be a big decision. From what I’ve read of old pulp fiction dnd novels it's pretty much “here’s the big bad go defeat/seal/slap them on the wrist, have fun on the way there with several cool setpieces and romance!” and I wonder if there was even meant to be a god debate at all or if it was just picked up in the middle of the story by the cast. It could explain why the characters wouldn't fit the story if this wasn’t meant to be the story.

Cause a character who goes with the flow is fine in those books and a character who only looks into what is thrust upon them works, but it feels like somewhere it tried to be more and just fell apart.

Because even now the story does feel pulpy but just held down by a narrative it isn’t handling well. 119 was a great episode and having the Raven Queen show up in the middle to give boons is an incredibly cool beat that would be memorable as hell but for it to end up as another god debate just sucks. But the rest of the campaign sort of does that with cool beats that end up dragged down in one way or another so its not unique I guess

I know you talked about the “pulpy”ness of c3 a while ago and was wondering if you had more thoughts now that we’re in the endgame for the campaign

I do - this is all rather speculative but in some discussions with other people one possible explanation that's come up is that Matt genuinely didn't expect the characters to be so hesitant to save the gods or stop Ludinus or sympathize with the the Vanguard, and has kind of pivoted to make a campaign that accomodates those doubts...but in doing so sort of fucked his end premise of "we must deal with Predathos". Which, you know, makes a lot of sense! What if Hearthdell was intended as a glimpse into why people might join something like the Vanguard to introduce an element of complexity to a party that (quite reasonably I might add) had said "these people are a fucking scourge on Exandria" but instead served to fan the flames of "well the gods didn't give me things when I asked so yeah we should let them be eaten"? What if the fetch quests to the Shattered Teeth or the scouting mission were like the quest for vestiges - something that the party desperately wished to do to achieve a deeply felt goal - and not something they had to be nudged along to do every step of the way? What if the party went into the final confrontation with any consensus or intention? Because then yeah a pulpier "you're taking on the Big Bad Ultimate Threat...but your MOTHER is on THEIR side" a la vintage superhero comics plays out much more coherently. I cannot stress enough that the cultural touchstone Matt brings up about the campaign is the 2012 Avengers film. Regardless of some posts I've seen (which tend to assume anything the cast has ever read/watched/played is an influence, which is. incorrect) that is your starting point.

The thing about all the "take a third option" and "status quo" talk surrounding this campaign is...this post is actually a good description of how it plays out in real life. Like yeah there's a lot of political constructs within the world that are stupid and unjust! However it is unproductive, naive, and idiotic to act as though just because you don't like them they aren't part of a complex system that needs thoughtful dismantling (at least, if you place any value on human life) or worse, that they simply don't exist because they shouldn't. Sometimes you genuinely do have two choices and neither is ideal and if you do not choose between them because you're holding out for a better option the choice is made for you, and often, it's the worse one. Sometimes there is in fact a problem caused by something stupid that you cannot undo in time to solve said problem, and it is selfish and childish to say "well I think this shouldn't be a problem" and leave it at that. You will fail in your endeavors if you do this. People will see that's your approach and stop listening to anything you say.

Bells Hells feel like that to me and it's not even entirely their fault. I think because Matt had such a clear endgame in mind in the sense of "face off against Predathos" and the party was so ill-suited, and the early pacing was genuinely already bad, he's sort of tried to pivot away by following every dumb idea Bells Hells have to perhaps funnel them towards that endgame. And this is a problem too, because it means the plot doesn't push back on them and they do not grow as people, which means that a lot of us are getting tired with their shit. It's telling that most of Bells Hells' loudest defenders are the "well, if you're traumatized, you're excused from all responsibility for your actions ever :)" types within the fandom because like, part of why people are sick of Laudna's shit (for example) is that it's like ok I agree you shouldn't have an evil wizard in your head but you do, so like, what are you doing about it. And because she hadn't done anything about it and because they had to get to Predathos we had our Deus Essek Machina situation, which to be clear, not mad about, but it also means Laudna never really learned or grew from this. And to be clear she's not alone; part of the frustration around Ashton is it seemed like they DID have a revelation around shardgate and then immediately discarded it.

There's many more factors I'm sure but just to sum up:

Matt has a very clear overarching plot in mind [and, also, probably was creating a campaign for characters who see point 3 had more realized worldviews and goals and investment in their communities]

Matt does not give the cast much guidance in creating characters for that plot; "pulpy" is really tonal and not even genre

Cast, having played characters specifically designed for the "complex and morally gray and must be from the continent the campaign is set on" campaign last, turn to wacky and go-with-the-flow types

Overarching plot kicks in; characters do not behave as expected

Matt tries to embrace/encourage this by getting the party to follow what they want to do

Go-with-flow/take no responsibility party doesn't know what they want to do

endless loop of a DM trying to adjust the direction of flow to a directionless party instead of imposing a direction/Cast trying to take direction cues from a DM who keeps throwing more options at them in the hopes one will appeal to them which turns into a "what do you want to do" "I don't know what do you want to do" situation.

[victusinveritas]

Some Vampire and Related Fiction Recommendations

I wrote this list up for a Reddit comment and thought I'd share it here in case any of you nerds liked Vampire fiction.

This list leaves out Stoker, Anne Rice, Stephen King, etc.

Certain Dark Things by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. The queen of Mexican-Canadian horror. Check out Mexican Gothic and Gods of Jade and Shadow too (not vampire as such but still great reads).

"The Wide Carnivorous Sky" by John Langan. Probably the best modern Vampire story you'll read. Novella-ish length, worth getting the entire eponymous story collection as it is one hell of a ride through modern horror.

Anno Dracula series Kim Newman. The first book is the best, though the other books in the series are very fun, if a bit campy and too clever for their own good, still worth reading. His main character, Genevieve Dieudonne, is awesome and spans genres from his vamp work into his Warhammer Fantasy work (which is also great imo).

Christopher Golden's Shadow Saga (starts with Of Saints and Shadows)--absolutely one of my favorites. The first three books are great and kind of form a self-contained trilogy, but the other books are also fun, even if a tad uneven.

Those Who Hunt the Night by Barbara Hambly. Look, it's a bit pulpy in all the right ways while still being a really good historical-vamp-fiction, full on Victorian vampire hunters. The rest of the series gets high marks too.

S.P. Somtow's Vampire Junction and related books.

Dhampir series by Barb and J.C. Hendee. Vampire killers (a half-vampire (dhampir), an elf, and a wolf) wander around a Gothic landscape stabbin' all sorts of things. Kind of reminds me of The Witcher in that monster-bashing way, except with more romance plots as the series moves on, sometimes veering (if I remember correctly, which in truth I might not) into almost bodice ripper territory.

Brian Lumley's Necroscope series. It's maybe a bit dated, very 1980s/1990s feel but that's fine and it is still golden. Lumley's one of those workhorses of horror, just happily churning out stuff until the day he dropped dead and a lot of it was really great. I don't think he got enough notice on this side of the pond.

John Conroe's Demon Accords series. It's got vampires, werewolves, demons, and everything else…look, it's not high literature, at all, in the slightest, it's the worst of Kindle Unlimited self-published author schlock at times, like most of the time, but it kept me hooked for fifteen books until I finally hit a wall and just couldn't wade through a single goddamn page of it anymore. Am I ashamed of reading this series? Yeah, a little. Did I reread the first seven or so books? Also yes.

A lot of Laird Barron's stuff has vampiric elements re the Cult of the Old Leech, especially his novel 'The Croning,' however the Leech and devotees are not vampires in the traditional undead sense. I adore all of his work (especially his horror though, and Xs for Eyes is just, just beautiful), including the Isaiah Coleridge stuff which has hints of cosmic horror and the dark-fucked-up-ness at the Center of It All, peak modern noir.

The Lesser Dead by Christophe Buehlman. Honestly, I'm including this one even though the ending felt like a massive let down for me. There's a point where it says to stop unless you want the twist ending. Take it up on that and stop. The twist made me violently angry at the author, like I get why he did it and all, but I'm still pissed about it a year or two later. There's no need to fuck with readers like that, my guy. So, yeah, listen to the warning. Until then, the world-building was great and the vampire characters (narrator included) very fun, with a great working knowledge of 1970s New York.

The Unnoticeables by Robert Brockway. Vampires? Eh, kinda. Angel-things that suck people dry and remove them from existence to 'correct' the universe, definitely. Do punks fight them? Yes. Is it overall a satisfying series: absofuckinglutely.

[seriousfic]

The Satan Sleuth by Michael Avallone

I'm two books into this series now. They have the advantage of being short, but also a number of flaws that detract from a reading experience that should be a pulpy good time.

The premise is sound: Playboy wunderkind Philip St. George has his wife killed in a Manson-style slaying. He instantly becomes a vigilante against Satanism. Although not literally Satanism, but more all varieties of seventies, In Search Of... weirdness. You know, ESP, Stonehenge, the Loch Ness Monster, the Bermuda Triangle. Anything that might catch Leonard Nimoy's attention, he's on it. His wife wasn't even killed by sincere Satanists, but more crazed hippies who say "Hail Satan!" in the same way Metallica might.

Amusingly, Philip is characterized somewhere between James Bond, Doc Savage, Batman, the Saint, and only a little bit the Executioner. The narrative constantly goes on about how he's a man among men, good at everything, physically perfect, his wife was the hottest thing on two legs, and so forth. By the end of the book, he's straight-up being compared to Jesus Christ. It's a hoot. Shades of Rick Dagless M.D. from Darkplace.

He starts calling himself the Dragon Killer, but then I guess he doesn't find that name dorky enough, because he switches to the Satan Sleuth. Yes, he actually calls himself that. And he doesn't actually believe in Satan, so it's a pretty far reach for a name that, y'know, blows.

These books are pretty thinly plotted. The killers in the first book turn out to be hiding out not far from Philip's mansion and they decide to head back to his mansion, allowing him to pick them off one by one. And in the second book, he's trying to find a werewolf, which amounts to stumbling across someone the werewolf has killed, then following the werewolf's tracks to its lair.

Well, I don't think anyone picks up a book called The Satan Sleuth expecting a Robert Ludlum novel. The real issue to me is the prose. As short as these books are, they feel incredibly padded out. Every sentence is textually underlined and circled, repeated ad nauseum, draining all the propulsion out of the storytelling. Avallone never uses one sentence when he can use three and a dozen adjectives. I'll quote an excerpt to show my point:

St. George had far more curiosity than the average man. He had had that long before the tragedy of Dorothea Daley, when he always wanted to know what was on the other side of the mountain—and now that he had dedicated himself to something greater than his own life and safety, that curiosity had to be satisfied. It must be satisfied, at all costs. Most especially if he wanted to end the Fletcherville reign of terror and bring to earth the monster stalking its terrain, terrorizing and killing its populace—as well as any drifters who wandered into the vicinity. All innocently to meet death. Man or monster—he would learn that, too. It was the work, the task, the career he had sworn himself to. Forever. Until his own ultimate end, whenever that might be. Philip St. George's coming of age had simply been a matter of the savage murder of his wife, Dorothea Daley St. George. His life had begun from that day forward—christened in blood. Which was why, he, one of the richest young men in the world, was now sitting on a rumpled, four-postered bed in a meaningless little town in the middle of nowhere, fiddling with a soaked-through black Bible, disguised as a dull-faced salesman, instead of yachting off Majorca or dawdling with bikini-bare, bronze-skinned beauties on the French Riviera. Or clipping coupons in the London Hilton. He had turned his back on that world. Without regret, without fanfare, without a look back to see if he had missed anything. Fletcherville had become important to him. The people of Fletcherville, specifically. People, particularly. All people. Mankind, everywhere. Vulnerable mankind, so often victimized by hocus-pocus and the blinding magic tricks of their own fears, obsessions, and prejudices. Prey to the voodoo, hoodoo, mumbo-jumbo of cant, strange beliefs, false doctrines, which supposedly led to another god, some other truer god. All the fake astrology, phony mystic, Satanism-inspired behavior that evoked lunatic cultism of all kinds and yet brought nothing but ultimate failure, hypocrisy, lies, and more often sickness, brain decay, and—death. All those who used the occult and mysticism as a personal source of profit and gain or simply for the sheer cruelty and viciousness of it—those were the enemies of Philip St. George, quondam playboy-adventurer-explorer. The man who had grown up, almost overnght, to become a crusader with his own very special crusade. Those who used the Devil to mask their enterprises would have to pay the piper for the dance they called for. And that piper was Philip St. George, The Satan Sleuth. What other kind of man would have waited three long, crawling hours for the wet pages of an ancient Bible to dry? To become of use.

Narration by Mojo Jojo.

This kind of navel-gazing goes on for pages on end, grinding the plot to a crawl and making me want to shake the author and go "GET ON WITH IT!" At one point, the big fighting climax pauses so that we can follow an FBI agent realizing the Satan Sleuth is real. It leeched a lot of the campy fun out of the reading for me.

Now, I used Kindle Unlimited to read these, so I feel I got my money's worth, but Amazon is charging an unbelievable five bucks a pop for these ebooks, each of which hover around 150 pages. For my money, not a good bargain.

[saint-starflicker]

I understand doing the confused double-take at some takes (Saltburn is like The Secret History? how though.) Definitely it's not like The Addams Family or Crimson Peak because those are obviously gothic from the first glance.

But yes my argument for Saltburn being gothic:

Criteria: Ill-Reputed Work. Gothic as a novel genre is centuries old by now so most people think it's respectable because of the survival bias of selected works being somewhat good, but back in the heyday it caused mini moral panics about what the world is coming to and how the work sets a bad example, at the same time gothic novels were pulpy sensationalist slop. I think this is transferrable to today how differently people can interpret or argue the agency of each character or their true motivations, and why the work can still be entertaining even with the content it shows. ✅

Criteria: Optionally, Supernatural. Going ahead with this and saying I think the movie did not take this option, even though it mentions a vampire. ❌

Criteria: Haunted by the Past. The entire framing device is Oliver reminiscing about that summer when his lies about dead or druggie parents caught up with him. ✅

Criteria: Architecture. Saltburn the estate. It even has crenellations! It's a castle! ✅✅✅

Criteria: Wilderness. While the hedge maze is mapped and has groundskeepers and gardeners probably, it introduces the element of chaos that becomes the movie tagline on some posters. ("Don't get lost".) ✅

Criteria: Sublime, Abject or Uncanny? Fair enough, neither Felix nor Oliver are running hell for leather across windswept moors shouting each others' names in defiance of the forbidden-ness of their love, or Farleigh isn't pulling a Sweeney Todd and becoming a serial murderer to avenge himself on Oliver—so, marks off for not being melodramatic (Sublime.) Maybe half a mark for the grave scene and diving into the water to get Felix's pebble, and telling a comatose woman "I hated all of you" because he can't win quietly he has to make a big speech and a grand gesture. The body fluid scenes that everybody keeps talking about qualifies as Abject, even if it's not the scat or fascination with entrails that you would find in a Dennis Cooper novel, also Oliver killed so many people on purpose. Finally, I think the betrayal of what should be familiar in Oliver qualifies him as Uncanny: we thought he was going to be the put-upon everyman, and he really wasn't. ✅✅✅

Gothic tropes that didn't make it into their own category but I do think help qualify Saltburn as gothic: a foreigner who is treated as a guest while being thought of as an intruder (Farleigh), a young lady who wanders around the estate in her nightgown and who gets constantly accused of being insane (Venetia), and getting slowly poisoned to death by somebody very trusted—for inheritance reasons too (Elsbeth).

i am begging on my hands and knees. saltburn is not gothic. saltburn is not the secret history. saltburn is not a class commentary. everyone stop misinterpreting im going to start YELLING

[jessaerys]

the tension between cathy and chris in part 1 of petals on the wind is so interesting to me because on the one hand it IS tragic that the incestuous desire they developed to cope and find respite in each other during a prolonged traumatic event is now what is hindering them (possibly forever) from being able to experience normal platonic intimacy that would ironically help them mourn and process what happened, now that it is over, therefore prolonging their stress. it's a very intuitive trauma narrative, so despite the vc andrew-ness of the whacky plotlines it feels like real human psychology

however on the other hand there is also fully just the pulpiness of mid-century heterosexual romantic roles in which the man is the Pursuer and the woman goes through the whole "no... i don't want this... but i DO... but i don't!" routine so that she can keep the Purity of a sympathetic female character (discussed to death re: baby it's cold outside) which when interpreted as literal *is* abusive, however i really do not think it is meant to be read that way (specially when compared to how all other romantic relationships in the series are written, all of which include similar elements) as much as it is just written like a gothic romance with 70s gender roles. vc andrews you contained multitudes

[calamitys-child]

I actually think the problem I have is that people have been taught that horror is low culture and I think I hate a lot of "elevated horror" because it doesn't actually say anything that pulpy, trashy, horny, sweaty, campy, bloody, low horror hasn't already explored as well if not better. It just looks prettier, and pretends it isn't horror, and people go nuts over it while shitting on the foundations the whole thing is built on. It's the argument Hbomb makes in Sherlock Is Garbage And Here's Why except it's an entire genre somehow. I'm not saying that it's never good, either - it almost always is, at least on a technical level if it does nothing else for me - but it really generates a split between that and every other piece of work that already exists, gaining praise at the explicit cost of its fellows. This guy is trying to articulate the idea of the shining being a movie about "past-ness, not a specific moment in the past but the idea of past itself, coming back to impinge upon the present unless you retrace your steps and learn to face it" and like yeah man so's Halloween (2018)/Halloween Kills (2021), yknow?

[knifeonmars]

Capsule Reviews, February 2021

Here's some things I've been reading.

The Curse of Brimstone 

DC's New Age of Heroes books, emerging from the beginning of Scott Snyder's creative-flameout-as-crossover-event Metal, mostly constituted riffs on Marvel heroes like the Fantastic Four (in The Terrifics) or the Hulk (in Damage). The Curse of Brimstone is a riff on Ghost Rider. It's... uneven. The first volume is generally pretty good, and when Phillip Tan is drawing it, as he does the first three and a half issues, it's gorgeous and unique, when he departs though, the quality takes a nose dive. None of the replacement artists, including the great Denis Cowan, can quite fill his shoes, and the story gets old fast. Guy makes a deal with the devil (or rather, a devil-like inhabitant of the "Dark Multiverse" as a not horribly handled tie-in to the conceits of Metal), realizes it's a raw deal, and rebels. The characters are flat, lots of time is spent with the main character's sister haranguing him to not use his powers (it is, in my humble opinion, something of a cardinal sin to have a character whose primary role is telling other characters to stop doing interesting things), too many potboiler "I know you're still in there!/I can feel this power consuming me!" exchanges, a couple of underwhelming guest spots (including a genuinely pointless appearance by the old, white, boring Doctor Fate) too many flashbacks, and not enough of the action. There's potential in the classic demonic hero rebelling plotline and its link to the liminal spaces of the DC universe, forgotten towns and economic depression, but the wheels come off this series pretty much as soon as Tan leaves. The really disappointing this is that the series is clearly built as an artistic showcase, so after Tan's shockingly early departure, the main appeal of the series is gone and there's nothing left but the playing out of an obviously threadbare story.

Star Wars - Boba Fett: Death, Lies, and Treachery

I don't care much about Star Wars these days, and I think that most of the old Expanded Universe was, as evidenced by Crimson Empire, pretty bad. Death, Lies, and Treachery, is that rare Star Wars EU comic which is actually good. John Wagner writes and he's in full-on 2000 AD mode, writing Boba Fett as a slightly more unpleasant Johnny Alpha (who is like a mercenary Judge Dredd, for those unfamiliar) right on down to the appearance of a funny alien sidekick for one of the characters. The main attraction is Cam Kennedy's art though, along with his inimitable colors: this might be the best looking Star Wars comic ever. The designs are all weird and chunky, with an almost kitbashed feeling that captures the lived in aesthetic of classic Star Wars, and the colors are one of a kind. Natural, neutral white light does not exist in this comic, everything is always bathed at all times in lurid greens or yellows, occasionally reds, and it looks incredible. In terms of "Expanded Universe" material for Star Wars, this hits the sweet spot of looking and feeling of a piece, but exploring the edges of the concept with a unique voice. It's great. I read this digitally, but I'd consider it a must-buy in print if I ever get the chance at a deal.

Zaroff

Zaroff is a French comic (novel? novella?). It's like 90 pages and it delivers exactly on its premise of "Die Hard starring the bad guy from The Most Dangerous Game." It's pretty good. Count Zaroff, he of the habitual hunting of humans, turns out to have killed a mafia don at some point, and after miraculously escaping his own seeming death at the end of the original story, finds himself hunted by the irate associates of this gangster, who have brought along Zaroff's sister and her kids to spice things up. Zaroff not only finds himself the hunt, but he also has to protect his estranged family as they struggle to survive. Nothing about this book or its twists and turns is likely to surprise you, but I don't think being surprised is always necessary for quality. Zaroff delivers on pulpy, early-20th century jungle action, is gorgeously rendered, and the fact that Zaroff himself is an unrepentant villain adds just enough of an unexpected element to the proceedings and character dynamics that it doesn't feel rote. There's a couple of points, ones typical of Eurocomics, which spark a slight sour note, such as some "period appropriate" racism and flashes of the male gaze, but for the most part these are relatively contained. It's good.

Batman: Gothic

Long before Grant Morrison did their Bat-epic, they wrote Batman: Gothic, an entirely different, but then again maybe not so different, kind of thing. It starts off with what must be called a riff on Fritz Lang's film, M, only where that story ends with a crew of gangsters deciding they cannot pass moral judgment on a deranged child-murderer, in Morrison's story they go ahead and kill him, only for the killer to return years later to rather horribly murder all of them as a warmup for a grandiose scheme involving unleashing a weaponized form of the bubonic plague on Gotham City as an offering to Satan. Along the way it turns out that said villain, one Mr. Whisper, is a former schoolmaster of Bruce Wayne's, who terrified the young Batman in the days before his parent's deaths. It's an earlier Morrison story and it shows. Certain elements presage their later Batman work; Mr. Whisper as a satanic enemy recalls the later Doctor Hurt, and the cathedral Mr. Whisper built to harvest souls recalls what writers like Morrison, Milligan, and Snyder would do concerning Gotham as a whole years later.The art, by Klaus Janson, is spectacular. If you're familiar at all with his work collaborating with Frank Miller you'll see him continuing in a similar vein and it's all quite good, even when he stretches beyond the street milieu which most readers might know him from. There's one particular sequence where Janson renders a needlessly complicated Rube Goldberg machine in motion that manages to work despite being static images. The writing by Morrison though, is not their finest. The M riff doesn't last as long as it could, and Mr. Whisper's turn in the latter half of the story from delicious creepy wraith to a cackling mass murderer who puts Batman in an easily escaped death trap feels like something of a letdown from the promise of the first half of the book. Gothic is good, but not, in my opinion, great. It's certainly worth checking out for Morrison fans however, and I imagine that someone well-versed in his latter Batman stuff might be able to find some real resonance between the two.

Green Arrow: The Longbow Hunters

For a long, long time, Longbow Hunters was THE Green Arrow story. It is to Green Arrow as TDKR is to Batman, deliberately so. Mike Grell wrote and drew the reinvention of the character from his role as the Justice League's resident limousine liberal to a gritty urban vigilante operating in Seattle over the course of these three issues, which he'd follow up with a subsequent ongoing. Going back to it, it certainly merits its reputation, but its far from timeless. Grell's art is unimpeachable absolutely incredible, with great splashes and spreads, subtle colors, and really great figure work. The narrative is almost so 80's it hurts though, revolving around West Coast serial killers, cocaine, the CIA and the Iran-Contra scandal, and the Yakuza, and it's hard to look back at some of this stuff without smirking. The story begins with a teenager strung out on tainted coke sprinting through a window in a scene that's right out of Reefer Madness. In the cold light of a day 30+ years later, parts of it look more than a little silly. The 80's-ness of it all doesn't stop with that stuff though, even the superhero elements smack of it. Green Arrow realizes that he's lost a step and has be to be shown a way forward by an Asian woman skilled in the martial arts (recalling Vic Sage's reinvention in the pages of The Question), and Black Canary gets captured and torture off-panel for the sake of showing that this is real crime now, not the superhero silliness they've dealt with before. The treatment of Black Canary here is pretty markedly heinous, it's a classic fridging and Grell's claims that he didn't intentionally imply sexual assault in his depiction of her torture is probably true, but still feels more than a little weak considering how he chose to render it.The final analysis is that this book is good, but it exists strictly in the frame of the 1980's. If you're a fan of Green Arrow, there are worse books to pick up, or if you're interested in that era of DC Comics it's more than worth it, but as a matter of general interest I wouldn't recommend it very highly.

SHIELD by Steranko

Jim Steranko is sort of the prodigy of the early Marvel years, a young guy who came up through the system, blossomed into an incredible talent, and then left the company, and by and large the industry, behind. He would go on to dabble in publishing, work in other mediums, and generally kick around as the prodigal son of Marvel Comics. This collection, of both his Nick Fury shorts in the pages of Strange Tales and the four issues he drew of the original Nick Fury solo series, charts Steranko's growth as an artist. The book starts off with Steranko working from Jack Kirby's layouts with Stan Lee's dialogue and writing, and Steranko might be the one guy in history for whom working off of Kirby's blueprints is clearly holding him back. The first third or so of this collection really isn't much to write home about, as Steranko is obviously constrained by someone else's style, and at the end of the day those early stories still read as somewhat uninspired pulp compared to the highlights of early Marvel. There are flashes though, of techniques and ideas, which foreshadow what Steranko is capable of, and when he finally takes over as solo writer/artist it's like he's been unleashed. He immediately has Nick Fury tear off his shirt and start throwing guys around over psychedelic effects. He writes out most of Kirby and Lee's frankly uninspired boys' club supporting cast, he makes Fury visibly older, wearier, but also so much cooler. It's the birth of Nick Fury as a distinctly comic book super spy.By the time he finishes wrapping up the previous writers' plotline with Hydra and Baron von Strucker, Steranko is firing on all cylinders. By the time it gets to Steranko's Fury solo series, he's somehow surpassed himself, turning in effects, panel structures, and weird stories which make the earlier installment about a suit-wearing Man from UNCLE knockoff and its strict six-panel layouts look absolutely fossilized.I can't recommend this collection highly enough for any fan of the artform, even if the stories themselves might not be everyone's cup of tear. It's truly incredible to watch Steranko emerge as an artist over the course of this single collection. The book itself has a few problems, it's not the most elegantly designed in its supporting materials and index, but the content of it more than outweighs that. It's great stuff.

[bmpmp3]

ive probably talked about the dead girlfriend trope too much already (specifically in the context of media marketed towards women and girls, although i also think its very fun to talk about action movies and all those dead wives as a related but not quite the same trope) but man i really find it fascinating 'cause even though I personally don’t have the same (very understandable) aversion to it, I still definitely agree that like 80% the plot point tends to miss the mark by a longshot, like there’s some more grounded and realistically written shoujo manga and probably some otome games out there that handle it like a poignant story about grief and love written with grace and subtlety but also. i love my pulpy and borderline unintentionally campy properties more than anything in the world and i mean this in a loving way but in those kinds of stories it often just ends up like huurghhh bishounen’s gf is dead hhhhggnnrghhh oh no he is sad and the mc is jealous of a dead woman nhnhghhhhhrhhhhhhh nevermind we have fixed everything with a bandaid of love like duct tape to a leaky pipe hrjhhhghhhnhgtrjeehkdsdjfhbskjfld and like most of the time I just think its kinda funny from a trope analysis standpoint BUT MAKE NO MISTAKE i am also frustrated and disappointed consistently by these storylines, but sometimes i wonder if maybe the solution is not just getting rid of the trope entirely. maybe we can rebuild her (the dead girlfriend). i wonder. i wonder if. like. not to sound like a supervillain threatening a hero’s love interesting with narratively ironic fates but I think. i think that maybe. maybe these goofier otome games/shoujo/josei manga. maybe they should just go further with it. lean into the sheer “story”-ness of it all, like just go full shakespearean tragedy with it but with even less subtlety, maybe they should make the main characters go through the exact same fate of the dead girlfriend and just live if u need the happy ending (i know i do lol). dead gf died in a robbery OH SHIT THE MAIN CHARACTER ALSO JUST GOT SHOT IN A ROBBERY in the same SPOT there is a HONING GUN for this guy’s girlfriends’ ABDOMENS dead gf died of mysterious off-screen disease OH NO MC JUST CAME DOWN WITH SYMPTOMS suspiciously similar to THE DEADLY OFF-SCREEN-ITIS dead gf was hit by a car OH GOD....OH GOD....THE SAME CAR.....i think this is what pulpy romance media should do. dead girlfriend 2: electric boogaloo.

[three--rings]

You should listen to...

The Penumbra Podcast...

Okay, so I have this whole sideblog at @gentlysociallypinned​ and when I made it this main blog was almost entirely YOI and I was getting really into a bunch of podcasts/web content so it made sense.  It’s where I have posted The Adventure Zone stuff (almost only reblogging art), my Penumbra thoughts on episodes and my Penumbra fic, and when I was HEAVILY into Critical Role for those few months two years ago,  it was mostly that. 

These days it’s mostly DEAD, but I’m still actively a fan of TAZ and TPP and am going to just bring them over to join the multifandom shitshow this main blog has become since it transitioned from YOI to The Magicians to MDZS mostly.  Whatever, this blog is Shit I Like Right Now.

So I’m going to occasionally be posting and rb-ing TPP stuff.  And since I’ve kept that fandom so much off this blog, I feel like maybe a lot of folks who follow me here might not be aware of it.  Especially if you’re not in any other podcast fandoms.  (Because all podcast fandoms are ultimately one, and NO I have not listened to Magnus yet. Big RQG fan, though.)

ANYWAY, so consider this my VERY LONGWINDED (ALREADY OMG IT’S 5AM WHY?) intro post about The Penumbra Podcast and why you should listen to it. 

It’s Queer.  The End.  

Ha.  But no, really, it is.  Very.  Queer.  The mission statement of Penumbra is to tell tropey genre stories but Very Queer. 

So there are two main fictional universes/storylines that currently make up TPP (at the very beginning of S1 there were one-off episodes but those stopped pretty quickly.)  The main one, the one that starts at episode 1, and that most people think of when they think TPP is the Juno Steel series.  Juno Steel is a noir private investigator who lives many centuries in some nebulous future.  On Mars.  It’s very light, pulpy sci-fi, totally uninterested in explaining its sci-fi-ness.  But it’s also set in a world without our current understandings of gender and sexual categories.  I.e. everyone is just very casually queer and it’s not talked about.   Juno himself is NB and bisexual, though those words are not used in-universe.  The master thief who becomes his potential love interest is an homme fatale.  People are trans and NB without it being a Thing worth commenting on.  It’s...lovely. 

(Above: Official art by Mikaela Buckley.)

It’s also very noir.  Juno is a broken, broken lady at the start of the series, for reasons that very slowly come to light over the course of two seasons.  The end of the first season was enough of a downer to make me literally cry myself to sleep for three nights straight the first time I listened to it.  (At which point I wrote fix-it fic because I was COMPELLED.)  The series, while often silly in the episode to episode mystery plots, also touches on extremely difficult and dark subject matter like drug and alcohol abuse, childhood abuse, mental illness, suicide, etc.  So I feel like I HAVE to put that out there.  All episodes have trigger warnings in the description and you should read and mind them if needed.  Some episodes can fucking WRECK you, in frequently utterly brilliant ways, but still, be mindful.  Ultimately, I will say there is light at the end of the tunnel (though the series is ongoing in the third season atm) but it’s a long, painful road to get there.  But JESUS CHRIST I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a narrative about a mentally ill and victimized character actually working through their shit in real-time in this way.  While also being a show with a hyperintelligent car that communicates in beeps and whistles, and giant killer rabbits that live in the sewers.

The second ongoing universe is The Second Citadel.  This one comes in part way through the first season.  It’s set in an Arthurian-style fantasy universe, but one set in a jungle with all POC characters.  The first few episodes all focus on different characters within the same world, most Knights of the Second Citadel, mostly ones that somehow have broken the stereotype of the usual knight.  (There’s a female knight, a physically disabled prospective knight, etc.)  The first few episodes aren’t that popular and are a little weak, but eventually it all comes together, right around the time that Sir Damien, his fiancee Rilla, and Lord Arum the anthropomorphic lizard monster are introduced as one of the strangest and most instantly charming love triangles ever. 

This is where I started getting actually more invested in Second Citadel than Juno Steel.  Because star-crossed queer love between a knight who kills monsters and one of those monsters and the scientist/doctor girlfriend who ends up also developing feelings for The Lizard....yeah.  It’s Everything, y’all.   I love all three people in this ship SO VERY MUCH.  I even play one of them as a DnD character (Lord Arum.  He’s a Dragonborn Fey Sorlock. )  Sir Damien the knight-poet with terrible anxiety, Lord Arum who desperately doesn’t want to admit to having Actual Feelings for a Human, much less Two Humans!! Fencing while developing Queer Lust!  Rilla the scientist who doesn’t know why she has to have fallen for not ONE SILLY BOY but TWO?! 

This series is much lighter in tone than Juno, so it’s a nice balance. 

So anyway, the show is really filled with excellent writing and fantastic characters.  The acting is also generally Very Good, but that’s more true the longer it goes on.  Some of the actors are INSANELY good.  But it’s not without its faults, especially towards the beginning of the show.  In particular, the sound editing/design isn’t very friendly to the ears, especially if you’re sensitive to loud sound effects and like...blaring alarms and stuff.  If it bothers you I recommend not using headphones and/or listening via an app/device that lets you adjust levels.  It’s literally the one flaw that still annoys me with the show, though it’s gotten better.

So if you’re looking for a new fandom, or something to listen to in these trying times, something fun but also REAL, tropey and sincere...check it out.

And also I have six fics in the fandom, in case you didn’t know that.  I feel like I could always just spontaneously produce more TPP fic at any time, too.

[tlbodine]

Giallo Horror: Deep Red

The last film from our journey through the 1970s was Dario Argento’s giallo classic, Deep Red, released 1975. 

Giallo was a horror genre that took off during the 70s, primarily in Italian cinema (where it was invented) but with an influence on the film of other cultures and time periods even up to today. The name, “giallo,” is a reference to the yellow color of cheap paperback mysteries popularly sold in post-fascist Italy -- basically, pulps. 

As you might expect for pulpy stories, giallo horror is a sort of thriller/mystery that’s big on the violence and gore. Think of it as film noir except painted blood-red. 

Anyway: Deep Red is about a pianist who takes it upon himself to become an amateur sleuth after witnessing a murder (and fearing he might be next). The investigation leads him on a quest of breaking-and-entering, poor timing, and run-ins with a killer whose repertoire of evil includes creepy dolls for....some reason. 

This movie is a wild jaunt, and a lot of fun. It also suffers from the “what the fuck is this soundtrack” problem that has plagued so many of our 1970s films -- seriously, what were sound designers in that decade thinking -- and sometimes it seems like the characters themselves can hear the ominous-bizarro music because they sometimes start freaking out for no clear reason just as it’s amping up. 

But, despite its over-the-top-ness, it’s still quite fun. There’s some clever kill sequences, the plot is appropriately convoluted, and it’s unintentionally hilarious at times (the fucking BIRD omfg). Watch this as a double-feature with Alice, Sweet Alice and you’ll emerge as a Giallo afficionado.

[qvietlight]

time for the big archie fact file!!

The Basics

Name? Archie Virginia Taylor

Age? 37

Approximate height? 5′8

Hair colour? Blonde

Eye colour? Blue

Do they speak with an accent? No

Where are they from? Zuzu City

Where are they now? Stardew Valley

Backstory

Who are their parents? Charles and Anthea Taylor

What is their earliest memory? Meeting her little brother, Aubrey, for the first time. She turned to her parents and asked if they were sure he had to come home with them.

What did they want to be when they grew up? Still a ghost hunter, but more the Scooby Doo type - busting baddies and hanging out with the loch ness monster.

What did/do their parents want them to be? Archie’s job is a point of contention with her father. Charles wants her to have a ‘proper’ career. Any career. Preferably something in an office that made use of her degree.

Do they have siblings? Older or younger? Brothers or sisters? Yes, one younger brother, Aubrey. He’s adopted, and they have a very good relationship.

Do they have or have they ever had children? How many? No. Gross.

Do they or have ever had a significant other? Are they still with them? Why? Why not? Penelope. They were together for fifteen years, and broke up only a couple of months ago. Penelope wanted to get married, Archie didn’t.

Up until now, what’s the most noteworthy thing they’ve done? To them? To the people around them? To Archie? Starting That’s the Spirit! To other people? Graduating summa cum laude from Colombia with joint honours in Sociology and Political Science.

Tastes

What’s your character’s favourite colour? Red

Do they/would they choose to wear a scent? What would it be? She wears a Jo Malone scent - Blackberry and Bay.

Do they care about what things look like? All things, or only some? In some ways? She likes things organised, and likes to appear put-together herself.

What’s their favourite ice cream flavour? Pistachio.

Are they a tea, or coffee drinker? Or soft drinks, or do they drink a lot of alcohol? What kind? Coffee coffee coffee! She doesn’t really drink soft drinks, but in terms of alcohol, she prefers her drinks uncomplicated. Beer, whiskey, etc.

What kind of books do they read? What TV shows and movies do they watch? Mostly non-fiction, she’s always looking to expand her knowledge in whatever way she can, but she does have a soft spot for pulpy detective novels. In terms of TV, she watches lots of documentaries, and likes British Crime dramas. She’s also a big Twin Peaks fan.

What kind of music do they like? Do they like music at all? Is it loud? Angry? Fronted by a female singer? She’s into it.

If they were about to die, what would they have as their last meal? Japanese food. Bang bang cauliflower, gyoza, yaki soba...

Are they hedonistic? In all cases? Or does practicality sometimes/always/often win out? No, Archie is practical to a fault.

Do they have any philias or phobias? Not really. She’s largely unflappable.

Morals, Beliefs, and Faith

Do they have an internal or an external moral code? Internal, I guess. She’s not above a little light law-breaking to accomplish what she needs. 

To what extent are their actions dictated by this code? Mostly?

Do they believe in a God or Gods/Goddesses/Higher being of some description? Nah.

Are they superstitious? Not really.

Do they believe in an afterlife? If so, what’s it like?  Not really. All of her research has disproved an afterlife so far.

Do they have any specific beliefs that manifest obviously? No.

Are the respectful of the beliefs of others? To what extent? She tries to be. But some people are stupid.

Have they ever had to stand up to criticism for being religious? Or not being religious? Nope.

Would they be more likely to act for the good of the one, or the good of the many? The good of the one.

Relationships

Do they make friends easily? Not at all. Her personality is kind of abrasive.

Do they have a best friend? It was Penelope. So not anymore.

Can they get people to do what they want them to? If so, how? Sometimes? Mostly though just being completely relentless.

Do they have a lot of romantic relationships? Serious, or short term? Not a lot. She had a couple of girlfriends in college before Penelope, but that’s all.

Do they fall in and out of love easily? Not at all. It takes her a long time to warm to people.

Do strangers and acquaintances actually like them when they meet? No.

Do they have a network? Probably just her dad and brother now. 

What is their relationship like with their family? Complex. After her mother died, she and Aubrey were raised very hands-off, and their father always treated them as adults rather than children because he simply didn’t know how else to relate to them. Archie and her father are very alike, which is part of the reason they butt heads so much. But there is no doubting their love for each other. 

Are they still in touch with non-family people they were in touch with a year ago? Five years? Ten? More? She’s got a couple of friends from college she still talks to, but her social group isn’t exactly huge.

Do they like children? Do they want children of their own? No, and no. 

Physical Appearance

How does this character dress? How would they choose to dress, if all options were open to them? Mostly dark clothes, clean and simple, and Doc Martens.

Do they have any tattoos? What do they mean? None.

Do they have piercings? How many? Just her ears, one in each lobe and one in her right cartilage.

Do they have scars? Where did they come from? Yes, from gender reassignment surgery. 

Do they alter their appearance in some way on a regular basis? She wears makeup almost every day.

Is there something they’d choose to change about their appearance if they had the opportunity to? Nope, she looks hot. 

Is there something about their appearance they’re particularly proud of/happy with? She’s got nice eyes, and she likes her freckles. 

Objectively, are they physically attractive? Fairly plain? Unattractive? Attractive...

Do they have an accurate mental picture and opinion of their physical appearance? Yes, I think so.

How much time do they spend thinking about their physical appearance? Not much at all anymore. She looks how she always wanted.

General Knowledge

Can they navigate their own local area without getting lost? To what degree? Yeah, she’s confident and fairly intuitive.

Do they know who the top politician or monarch is where they live? What about elsewhere? Yes, she tries to keep up to date with current affairs, being a Poli-Sci major.

Do they know if/where there are any major conflicts going on right now? Yes.

Do they know the composition of water? Yeah.

Do they know how to eat a pomegranate? Obviously.

Are they good with the technology available to them? Average? Completely hopeless? Her lifestyle is very tech-based, so yes.

Could they paint a house? Without making a mess of it? She certainly thinks she could - whether that’s actually true is debatable.

Could they bake a cake? Would you eat it if they did? She can follow instructions because she’s not an idiot, so the cake would be fine, but she wouldn’t be excited to waste time on it.

Do they know how to perform basic maintenance on the common mode of transportation? She knows how to change a tire and the oil in her car. She has to, since her car is a pile of crap.

Do they know the price of a loaf of bread? Yes.

Specific Knowledge

Do they have a specific qualification in a narrow area? No, he dropped out of college.

Is there something they do or know exceptionally well that most other people don’t? Well, she knows a lot about mythology and the supernatural. 

Do people often comment on a particular skill or area of knowledge to this character? Behind their back? Probably not?

Is there an area this character could be considered top of their field or a genius in? Probably not. She’s very intelligent, but lots of people are.

Have they deliberately sought to gain knowledge in a specific area? If so, why? She deliberately seeks knowledge in many different areas, because you can never be too educated.

Do they speak more than one language? More than two? Why? She speaks English, and some rudimentary Chinese and Spanish. It just seemed smart to learn.

Does their cultural background effect what they would be expected to know? Idk, white people shit?

Have they ever been publicly acknowledged for being well-versed in something? Well, she graduated college summa cum laude so yes!

Have they ever been bullied for knowing a lot about something? People wouldn’t dare. She’s scary.

Do they actively seek new knowledge, or let it come to them naturally? Actively.

Miscellaneous

What did they have for breakfast this morning? A cup of coffee. 

What ridiculous belief/s did they have as a child? ): None really. 

Do they like marshmallows? Not really. Not vegetarian.

Do they sleep on their side, front, or back? Side

Do they work better with sound or silence? Sound, but only sound she can moderate herself.

Do they have a strange obsession with something minor? Ghosts? Mythological creatures?

Do they like art? Some? 

How fast can they run? Fast enough.

Do they prefer to sit on the floor or on a chair? Chair.

What do they want, right now? Another cup of coffee. And a cigarette.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

the larger courier six verse, media influences

tagged by @sybil-writes ty

the bibliography for this thing is extensive. my taste is wide and omnivorous. i try to drop what i was thinking about when i wrote a particular bit into the author’s notes, and i think i’ve credited all the direct references, but I consume a lot of dystopia and post-apoc media and harder scifi/fantasy with rules, and i don’t keep an accurate running list of shit I like, so i’m certainly not going to get everything in one post. this is mostly me looking at the very limited number of books i have with me and frantically looking at wiki lists like “yes read that liked that stole that”. if i link everything i will die. if you have trouble finding a specific thing lmk tho. this feels real goddamn pretentious like Ah Yes Look At The Media I Have Consumed but here goes 

music: one of these days I will drop links to the network of playlists I have for these kids, but they’re all of Spotify and not super accessible. Danger Days, a post-apoc desert graffiti/neon/cars album by My Chemical Romance. the soft, nonsense love songs off Pretty. Odd by P!ATD. the poppy but sad neon bullshit of Too Weird To Live, Too Rare To Die also a P!ATD production. Wasteland, Baby! by Hozier, specifically Talk and Dinner & Diatribes. Halsey’s cover of I Walk The Line, Rihanna’s Desperado. Everything by Orville Peck but mostly Roses Are Falling and Take You Back (The Iron Hoof Cattle Call). Instrumental stuff: the opening to Silverado, the Billy the Kid musical, bits of Lawrence of Arabia. It’s Been A Long, Long Time. Fitz & The Tantrums’ Get Away. Mother Mother’s album O My Heart. Gorillaz’ Plastic Beach. 

filme: 

the Dollars trilogy ofc

the sheer bullshit nonsense of Wild Wild West and Blazing Saddles and Turbokid. 

a lot of the interaction between many characters in a tight space from Stagecoach. my dad really loves John Wayne, so I am constantly thinking about Monument Valley even though that’s nowhere near the Mojave. honestly whenever i’m thinking about how to describe landscapes I’m thinking about The Searchers, even though I have a lot of problems with that film. 

the colorful nonsense future of The Fifth Element. 

the gritty self-surgery and prospecting of Prospect (2018). 

SO much Trigun and Cowboy Bebop, for space western flavor and the same sort of analog-cassette-future. u kno how everything in Star Wars looks like it’s been there forever? the absolute opposite of a slick Apple future? that. 

god I wish Firefly was...good

Akira, bc every time I think about motorcycles the Akira motorcycle slide gif plays in my head. 

speaking of which probably a decent chunk of Adventure Time, esp the Super Porp episode. 

a smidge of how a platonic trio works from Samurai Champloo. 

anything with a big sprawling market and a chase scene, even though the only things I can think of are Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets and the first Indiana Jones. oh Skyfall also

the set dressing from Tank Girl

Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. look I just really like airships and retrofuturisum but art deco

honestly a lot of Ghibli- the aviation fantasy of Porco Rosso, the gardens from Castle In The Sky, a lot of Sophie Hatter energy from Howl’s Moving Castle, the underground bits in Nausicca, the otherworldly sea from Ponyo (except the Fallout sea is probably much emptier). the lovely homey-ness and gadgetry of Sherlock Hound. 

almost certainly some Metropolis for how I think about cities

thinking a lot about The Incredibles and earlier James Bond movies recently for that sort of sleek but still small physical gadget spycraft 60s bullshit

the team and found family dynamics in Leverage

The Man From U.N.C.L.E. the more recent film which I have stolen ENTIRELY too much of the Angel + Blondie + Six dynamic from 

mad max: all of them, to some extent, but a lot of Fury Road. I have a theory about how the Dollars films take place in reverse order, bc of how they feel next to the Mad Max films. The first Mad Max film is about a specific person in a specific place and time doing really specific things. it feels like a movie made off the info of someone who was there. GBU also feels like that- it’s really place-specific in a way? The second Mad Max film is a little hazier, and focuses on mostly people trying to accomplish a goal. For A Few Dollars More also feels a little hazier, like it’s a little more metaphorical/a morality tale and it’s being told by someone heavily embellishing secondhand events. the third Mad Max movie is just over the top nonsense. feral children living in the wreckage of an old plane escaping in a working plane? sure. why the fuck not. For A Fistful Of Dollars also feels like this. of COURSE this big bad gunslinger drifts into town and escapes in a coffin and invents the bulletproof vest. why the fuck not. 

books: i like shit that goes beyond the wander/scrounge/defend trio of verbs. 

the trying to wrap your life around a huge unknowable event from Roadside Picnic, 

too much Le Guin and Butler to really fit here, 

god if anything i write ever has a tenth of the flavor of Kill Six Billion Demons i’ll be happy, 

the postwar feel of Vonnegut and Heller,

Margaret Atwood’s biopunk Oryx and Crake trilogy 

the incredibly sad decaying biopunk/mutation/last days novelette The Drowned World by JG Ballard. 

the space-opera political machinations from the Ancillary trilogy by Ann Leckie. 

World War Z’s accounts of survivors has always felt like reading terminal entries from Fallout games. 

Philip Reeve’s Fever Crumb trilogy, for its interpretation of high-tech artifacts and archaeological reinterpretation of those artifacts. 

Tales of the Bounty Hunters. Tales from Jabba’s Palace. 

A Canticle for Leibowitz of COURSE. 

the original three books in the METRO (2033, 2034, 2035) trilogy, for their tight dense locations and resource management and life-threatening travel/exploration. 

the Family Trade comic by Jordan & Ryan, for setting and intrigue and a very unorthodox power source  

Elizabeth Bear’s short story And The Deep Blue Sea, about a different kind of courier. 

how Gibson’s The Sprawl trilogy (a trilogy i have MANY opinions about, not all of them positive) does worldbuilding when it implies a vast sprawling richly imagined world with casual in-universe references that you can extrapolate a lot from.  

The Gernsback Continuum, for making me think about stranded architectural bits that survived

a little bit of the Empress’ energy from Cavendish’s The Blazing World. 

the short story The Rational Ship by Caro Clarke, about a ship that runs on orgasms, from the EXTREMELY out of print Memories and Visions: Women’s Fantasy and Science Fiction edited by Susanna J. Sturgis. i’ve scanned it in as a pdf and will send it to anyone who asks. the stories in this volume are WILDLY varying in quality and terf-yness. i would not buy this book on purpose. 

i think each separate Vault storyline is a tiny separate Lost World story, so just pick your favorite and insert it here. 

Westerfeld’s Leviathan trilogy was FORMATIVE for baby me. biopunk! big trans energy! SKY WHALES 

fucking hate  Paolo Bacigalupi for what he does to his female characters but Ship Breaker was good from what I remember of it

there are three very oblique Sherlock Holmes references in “blow a kiss, fire a gun” for my own amusement. 

Fallout scifi seems to be very Verne and Wells and Burroughs derived? a lot of very pulpy  “pseudojournalistic realism to tell an adventure story with little basis in reality.” or “hey look at this COMPLETE NOVEL i found in a bottle by the sea OR locked in my weird great-uncle’s things, i shall retell it to you here” 

idk i think The Road and the Hunger Games have so profoundly shaped the state of the genre, there’s probably at least a little bit of both these things in here even if I didn’t particularly like either of them. There’s also a lot of super bleak post-war stuff I read but am not necessarily incorporating, like Nevill Shute’s On The Beach. probably some Dune in here too if i’m being totally honest. why have a desert if there’s not going to be a giant worm, Fallout: New Vegas???

jesus i gotta read more lady authors. there are probably way more that i’m not remembering bc almost all the books i own are in a storage unit seven hours away that i haven’t touched in three years. there are probably way more comics also. 

OH not a book but the decaying-rich-people-paradise of Bioshock. pity how they never made a third game 

[livenudebigfoot]

The Exorcist, by William Peter Blatty (The Bookchelor, 3/46)

I love The Exorcist an upsetting amount.

Not in a way that upsets me, but in a way that upsets other people. When you say, “The Exorcist is a terrifying horror movie,” people nod in grim agreement. When you say, “I love The Exorcist,” people make bad faces at you. Both of those things are true for me, but the first thing is just kind of a small aspect of what I like about The Exorcist, whereas the second is my complete truth. I love the movie. I find it terrifying and upsetting, but also oddly soothing. I love its atmospheric Jesuit-ness. I have strong feelings about most of the characters. I think the film is so successfully funny when it allows itself that relief. I own multiple cuts of the movie and have marathoned them in a single day to compare and contrast. I have listened to the director’s commentary, which is light on insight and heavy on “Grandpa William Friedkin Sleepily Narrates The Exorcist [ASMR]”.

Reading the book was pretty much inevitable.

I had a strong expectation of what this book would be and it both met that expectation and exceeded it. I was expecting a story that was pretty similar to the movie (but with some additional details that didn’t make the final cut), written in a pulpy, digestible style. And it was exactly that. But I didn’t think it’d be beautiful? It’s beautiful. The way William Peter Blatty is capable of using language is intensely beautiful. And grotesque sometimes, like you’d expect. But like, beautiful. I’m talking street scenes in Iraq that you can smell, I’m talking deliciously simple lifestyles, I’m talking Damien Karras’s pecs, which are described lovingly and like a LOT. This book is very horny for Damien and I support it 1000%.

The novel deepens the characters - I understand what’s going on with Willie and Karl a lot better, my deep and abiding love for Chris MacNeil is further cemented, Kinderman gets a whole-ass personality, Damien is even more tragic than I thought - and answers some questions, but mostly it’s just a distillation of everything I love about the movie that allows me to really sink in. 

Did I enjoy reading it? <3 <3 <3

Will I read it again? Not for a while, but yes.

Is the book itself attractive? The copy I bought is secondhand, hardback, with threadbare red binding and faded gold embossing. Owning it makes me feel like I own an occult bookstore.

Keep or donate? Keep!

I’m running behind, but in a good way, kind of: I actually finished The Exorcist like three weeks ago. At the time, I was like “I’ll write up The Exorcist tonight! Let me just start this next book!” and then that book turned my brain into sand. I’ve finished two other books and started a third since finishing The Exorcist, but I haven’t written up any of them because I’m so stymied about how to talk about the book I read next. You’ll see.

[moonyslove78]

Fuck, Rae!! 🔥🤯🥵

I said I was looking for a good Remus fic to read… but this one was better than good! 😳

The amount of spicy wolfish-ness in this mixed with sweet boy Remus was perfect!

"Knew it," he breathed, pressing kisses along your neck that he followed with the scrape of teeth, pleased at the little gasping moans you emitted as he went. *You love when I toss you around a bit, huh, baby?"

Yes- Yes I do! 😫

Ugh! And the pet/nickname!! 🥺 something about Fox/Foxy just makes me feel things.

"M'gonna fuck you, foxy," he murmured, knocking your knees further apart on the couch and guiding his cock along your dripping slit, cooing at the sight of you dripping for him.

Holy fuq! Am I deceased after that one? Yup, I do believe I am! 😫😳🥵

"Tell me you love me," Remus breathed, his lips so close they brushed yours lightly as he spoke. The brush of almost. Of a paintbrush on a blank canvas, filling your heart and mind with watercolor promises. Spilling and spreading through pulpy, paper crevices. Like ink running through your bloodstream. "Tell me like a good girl."

I think I’m officially a puddle of goo! 🥺😩✨

This will be one I will be returning to reread, I know.

Thank you for sharing this masterpiece! 😍 it was beyond amazing!

Also now I also need Remus figuring out reader has a thing for being man-handled 😵‍💫🌻

HAHA I am UNWELL. Why can't I just write a simple blurb? Anyway, I hope you enjoy... 

18+ only please -- thigh-riding, biting, finger sucking, throat grabbing, couch sex, my stupid ass.

something so magic about you [marauders!remus lupin x fem!reader]

word count: 4.2k (HAHA HOW) of unedited domestic bliss, nonsense, and my stupid attempts at sexy touching, my usual abuse of simile and metaphor.

If you enjoyed, please rb, thanks! 

--

Some things break. You know this. Broken glass happens. 

The noise of thin, blown glass shattering clinked and rang through your apartment, glass pieces like cracked eggshells mingling with the amber tea now spilled in splotched puddles along the faded tiled floor of yours and Remus’s tiny, shared kitchen. 

As soon as he heard the noise, Remus shot up from his resting place at the little table near the window in corner of the kitchenette. Fresh berries halfway to his mouth when he took in the sight of you standing next to a puddle of what was once tea, the green glass mug that you had found whilst thrifting now in jagged pieces scattered around your socked feet. 

Not wasting any time, or sparing any thought for his own similarly-stockinged feet, Remus strode to you – little care for the loose state of the cardigan drooping over your bare shoulder, or how one sock was sliding and bunched at your ankle – when he fixed both hands around your waist and scooped you like you weighed nothing. Settling you onto the kitchen counter and away from the mess. 

Maybe it was the shock at Remus’s sudden action; maybe it was the thrill of him lifting you so easily up and away. (Was added strength a bonus of lycanthropy? Maybe you’d needed to look into this). 

Whatever it was, the borderline-embarrassing shrieking little squeak you’d emanated upon being lifted onto the kitchen counter by your love was … well. Remus would have to tuck that one into his back pocket for later. 

For now, his hands enveloped your face, cupping your jaw and concernedly searching your eyes for any pain, be it glass or burns. 

“Are you okay, kit?” Remus asked, thumbs stroking over cheekbones as he assessed the mess. 

“Of course, Rem,” you giggled, placing a hand over his heart as he stood between your legs, unconcerned for the state of his own dampening socks. Your heart rate returning to normal in the aftermath of the shattered glass and of Remus literally sweeping you off your feet. “Though I really wish you wouldn’t call me that, Moony. We aren’t school-children anymore.” 

Remus sighed through his nose, the corner of his mouth quirking at your statement. You didn’t call him by his schooltime moniker often. He’d leave that to James and Sirius. Besides, you’d had your own names for him that were definitely reserved for the two of you alone. Sweetheart. Honey. Love… A few that were definitely more inappropriate, and he’d keep those to himself. 

But for now, you were fine. Definitely fine, if you could sass him. 

“Can’t do. Won’t do. You know you’re always my kit, my fox.” he pecked your nose quickly while turning from his most cherished place between your legs, spread on the countertop, long fingers trailing over the tops of bared thighs, as he turned to pluck the larger glass pieces from the floor and into the bin.

“You know, you literally have magic for that,” you called from your perch, watching Remus clean. You made to slide off the counter, only to be met with Remus’s eyes and a pointed finger.

“I wouldn’t entrust anything as imperfect as magic when it comes to taking care of you. Stay there, kit. I don’t want you near the glass.” The low timbre of his voice and the flash of his eyes compelled you to obey, the burn of where his fingertips had gripped your waist to lift you still at the forefront of your mind. He really could be commanding, when he’d wanted to. Or when you wanted him to. 

“Fine,” you huffed, watching Remus go. “Suppose it’s fine. The cup was an old one. And in the grand scheme of things, aren’t some things made to be broken?” You swayed your feet along with the song playing softly from the wireless in the other room. 

“Drinking glasses, my dear, are not made to be broken,” Remus amended, now mopping the sad state of what was supposed to be your morning tea from the old tiles. “Nothing is.”

“Untrue,” you crowed, beaming at him from your place on the counter. “Spaghetti if you have a small pot?”

Remus huffed; he knew you were pleased with yourself, taking in the curve of your smiling mouth, your lips full and eyes brimming with mirth. 

He could kiss your laughing mouth, every second of every day. He really could. 

“Come on then, k– my little fox,” he amended. 

Eager to test the theory percolating while he’d cleaned, he’d scooped you once more, twirling you a bit as he’d moved you from the counter to the now-clean kitchen floor. 

And there it was. 

The pleased little hum. The rush of heat blooming against your skin beneath his fingertips. The sweet catch of your breath as he’d moved your body for you. You enjoyed it. 

File that one away for later, indeed. 

—

Remus was like autumn. Steady. Evoking warm, easy shades of yellow and amber. Embodying comfort, the desire for warmth. The heat of fading summer in his touches and behind his eyes, replaced with coolness of an easy temperament and reasoning. Quiet like the falling rain outside of your window. 

And in some ways, an absolute torment. An even-keeled purgatory that made you long for an extreme. Like now, for instance. 

And it was true. Remus on this day had to be some kind of torment concocted by a higher deity (that you didn’t believe in, by the way) who sought to punish only you. For today was a day for the two of you to relax; and only one of you seemed capable of following the rules of said day. 

You sat on the leftmost cushion of the threadbare couch, space heater blasting warm, welcome air over your bare legs, clad in one of Remus’s stretched, thinning t-shirts that he had purchased from an art museum gift shop during a prior visit, the screen-print of Monet’s “Water Lilies” long-since faded, a barely-decipherable swirling blur of greens, blues and florals. 

Thumbing your way through a copy of “El Club Dumas” that belonged to your beloved, enjoying the literary mystery of an ill-fated rare book collector. Soft music still playing, a plate of half-eaten toast with tart lingonberry jam left near the corner of the coffee table. 

You enjoyed reading Remus’s copies from his own curated collection. They were well-loved, to say the least. Pages were dogeared to indicate favorites; lines were drawn under treasured passages with reverent blue ink, so as not to be lost. An occasional coffee mug stain adorned a back cover, a resting place of contemplative caffeination and prose. 

And every so often, you were delighted to discover annotations here and there in a random margin, when something had occurred within the confines of Remus’s mind, which you often likened to the rippling surface of the ocean, caught within the changing tide. Cool, steady, churning depths that belied something deeper. Sea-green moments of tinged thoughtfulness with depths that others may never see.

Said annotations were also a puzzlement of dark, oceanic depth. For one, they were basically illegible-- between Remus’s cramped, looped handwriting and the smudging away of the ink due to his thumbing through the pages time and again, you could no sooner decipher about sixty percent of the notes than you could decipher the machinations swirling behind Remus’s honey-amber eyes when he would glance up from the pages of his own novel to stare out the window.

The two of you were supposed to be relaxing; and you were holding up your end. Reading in the comfort of cozy, well-loved clothes by the warmth of your sputtering heater. (Probably a fire hazard, though you certainly weren’t about to snitch to Remus’s overbearing landlady, who you were convinced hated you). The source of an endlessly embarrassing anecdote about her coming to the door to notify Remus of noise complaints by the neighbors, and could his guest please keep her voice down? 

She’d come back a while later complaining of yet more noise – the two of you really needed to figure a way to stifle the noise of the headboard against the wall.

So, you were reading. 

Remus, on the other hand. The light of your life? He was working. Poring over notes from his editor, scribbling angrily, huffing at pages rife with red ink. 

You had been hoping, perhaps foolishly, that “relax,” when Remus had suggested it, was a euphemism for some mutually-beneficial form of relaxation. Perhaps a nice nap would follow a particular form of well-earned physical exertion. Flashes of Remus bending you over the couch, or of fucking you right on the living room floor near the space heater, permeated your mind. Your idea was clearly different from Remus’s, however. 

How dare he sit across the room from you looking so inviting -- leaned back in his chair, pen in hand and between his lips in ponderment.  His legs were spread wide, thighs creating an inviting “v” on either side of the chair. His sandy hair was slightly mussed and sticking up in funny patches, curled over his eas and indicating where he had been tugging on it in moments of the passive, absentminded frustration so frequently-suffered by deep thinkers. 

He needn’t tug, you thought. You would be so glad to do it for him, if ever he would ask. 

He wore clothes indicative of a lazy day -- an old plain t-shirt covered by a well-loved cardigan rolled to the elbows, his fine-lined and minimalist tattoos trailing down a bared forearm. Replete with a pair of grey sweatpants. Remus was a well-loved, cozy Autumn day. 

It was honestly unreasonable how good he looked while sitting across from you, paying you no mind. Inconsiderate, really. 

You could only sigh and rub your thighs together from your spot on the couch so many times before Remus was bound to get the gist. 

So you sighed one last time, cheeks warm with your frustration and the proximity to the heater, rolling your eyes and closing the Reverte novel with a gentle whump.

“Peevish of you,” Remus broke the silence, turning to gaze at you, honey eyes blinking owlishly.  “What could you possibly have to pout about today?” 

You hmm’d lightly, “Rem …”

“Fox,” Remus countered.

“This was supposed to be our day to relax. It was your idea,” you nodded at his stack of papers and his aged typewriter, dog-eared pages beneath a steaming mug of tea dwarfing the card table that comprised his workspace. “You’re not relaxing.”

Remus exhaled, drawing his hands through his hair once more, your eyes following the journey of his fingers as he carded through tresses, leaning back in his chair with a groan and tossing the pen onto his stack of papers with a mild clack. 

“Do I not look relaxed?” he rumbled, the barest hint of a dare behind his words. A dare you were confident didn't carry any depth as you watched your beloved now swipe at his own bleary eyes.

You rolled onto your stomach, burning eyes glittering and glaring up at him from your spot on the couch.

“No,” you passively rolled your eyes, “you don’t.” 

“And that annoys you, does it, little fox?” 

“Rem,” you sighed. “Don’t be irritating. You know damn well … it isn’t as relaxing for me if you’re working. Now I feel like I need to do something,” you were whining now. A tone you knew would either plague Remus until he paid attention to you, or endear you to him all the same. 

Selfishly, you hoped for the former. The thrilling tingle of want that coursed through you at the promise of your lover's exertion in times of annoyance, of how he would respond to you so well was hardly a deterrent for being, admittedly, somewhat bratty.

Your love could be downright wolfish when he wanted to be.

And truth be told, you were very flustered. Whether said fluster was the result of Remus’s maddening inability to honor your lazy day pact, or the fact that his cozy, threadbare sweater and his spread legs rendered him devastatingly, ever-moreso inviting, you weren’t quite sure. But the heat radiating across your cheeks couldn’t only be the result of your proximity to the heater. That you knew.

 Remus chuckled darkly, his honeyed eyes glinting with midnight mischief. 

“Oh, poor fox,” he sing-songed, mock tone laden with lilting pity, “Surely no one has suffered as you have suffered.”  

“Suffering is relative, then, don’t you think? Surely, there is some objective measure of ache, of pain?” 

“Ache?" Remus quirked a brow at you, honeyed and hopeful, playful and piteous. "And if I fucked you silly, would you pipe down?”

“Hmmm,” you put your book down, marking the page before rising from the couch and swaying over to where your beloved was seated. “I’m not so sure. Can you even be trusted to pay attention to me?” 

You perched yourself onto Remus’s lap, one of his thighs between yours, as you twined your arms around his neck, settling in and making sure to wiggle your hips over his thigh as you settled, teasing the building ache between your own legs as you went. 

“You’re awful, you know,” You brought a hand up to cup Remus’s jaw, fingers trailing along the bow of his upper lip on their way as you murmured into his mouth. “You’re over here working, and I’m over there suffering while you look so… devastating. Uncaring for my condition.” 

“Oh, poor fox,” he breathed, eyes traveling down to your lips, pleased at their proximity to his own. 

You struck then, pressing your lips to your beloveds, sucking his lower lip into your mouth and letting your hands rove beneath his cardigan to feel the firmness of his torso beneath your own wanting fingers. Allowing your hips to roll teasingly over the apex of his thigh once, testing Remus’s parameters for your little game. 

For his part, Remus helped himself to your form, trailing his hands up your bare thighs as you kissed, gripping your hips with one hand while the other roved up your torso. Pausing to roughly cup your breast through his faded t-shirt. Trailing up your collarbones and arriving at his destination – cupping his hand lovingly around the tender arc of your neck, pressing a long thumb into the column of your throat – delighting in the way he could feel the pleased little gasp in your throat and beneath his thumb.

You pulled back from his kiss then, his hot breath mixed with yours, your faces mere millimeters apart, breathing heavily into one another. You squeezed the hand at the base of Remus’s jaw, tipping his head back, and grazing your teeth along Remus’s jaw, biting his chin lightly. Your hips continue to buck into his thigh, chasing the something that was building. You release Remus’s chin, your teeth opting to sink in his plush lower lip, your hand continuing to squeeze his face lightly. Remus sighs contentedly as you relinquish your grip on his lip and lick your way into his mouth, soothing the sting of your bite as you go.

Remus’s grip on your waist was punishing now, encouraging the roll of your hips as you rode his thigh, breaking the kiss once more to take in your wild form, kiss-bitten lips and sparkling eyes, gasping breaths at your wriggling efforts along Remus’s lap, his erection now straining against his sweatpants. 

“The incisors, who would’ve thought,” Remus breathed. “Fucking sexy, when you bite.” 

“Yeah?” You murmured, heated honey falling from your lips and straight through Remus to settle between his thighs, he swears. “What a coincidence, Rem. I love your mouth,” you piteously sighed.

Taking your thumb and middle finger and trailing them over his lips, allowing them to press into the plush fullness of his lower lip, dragging it down and letting it settle back into place at your release, your eyes following the movement.

Remus’s lips parted just so, allowing you to slip your fingers into his mouth, where he promptly sucked on your digits. The sight and feel of him, of his warm, sinful mouth around your fingers caused you to groan, tilting your head back with fluttering lashes, bucking your hips into him with purpose.

The ache that burned through you at Remus’s words, at his mouth around your fingers, at his guiding hands along your rolling hips, at the feel of him beneath you, was coursing. It burned crimson, cloudy and acrid.

Remus gently released your fingers after a purposeful suck, kissing your fingertips before speaking to you again.

“I have to try something now, fox,” Remus pressed a plucking kiss to your lips now, chuckling at the confused wrinkle that crossed your brow as he stilled the roll of your hips. “Don’t worry, I think you’ll like it.” 

The echoed memory of your little whines and gasps when he had picked you up to and from the counter played in his ears, drowned out by the very real, very present lilted moan that escaped your lips as Remus lifted you from his lap, carrying you to drop gently along the length of the couch. 

Remus shed his cardigan and the shirt beneath it fluidly, stepping out of his sweatpants, his cock bobbing before you as he followed you onto the couch, covering your form with his own. Making to trail his hands once more along your thighs, up, up, up until he reached his goal, swiping a long finger over your clothed pussy, pleased to find the fabric of your boy-short panties damp beneath his touch. 

“Knew it,” he breathed, pressing kisses along your neck that he followed with the scrape of teeth, pleased at the little gasping moans you emitted as he went. “You love when I toss you around a bit, huh, baby?” 

His fingers continued to pluck and play with your clothed slit, the pleasant friction of your damp panties causing little, electric thrills to thrum their way through your body, rolling your hips to meet his hand, sheer delight evident in your little broken moans. 

Quick as a flash, Remus swatted your thigh, a lightning crack along your already-sparking skin. Lifting your head and shoulders from the couch with a long-fingered hand that gently looped around your throat. 

“I asked a question, fox,” his voice melted into you, an internalized rumble of far-off thunder. If the lightning swat of his hand against your thigh was anything else to go by, you knew your comparison of Remus to a stormy sea was nothing short of apt. 

“Uh-huh,” you mewled, nodding as you continued to buck your hips into Remus’s hand. “L-love it.” 

Remus gazed through hooded, caramel eyes down  at your piteous form, writhing beneath him on the couch. Loving how ready you always were for him. Rife with alacrity. 

“Well then…” Remus switched his grip, letting you fall back into the cushions of the old couch with a soft whump, gripping your hips with a hand that he knew would leave a bruise. The air was knocked from your lungs with a delightfully forceful flip of your hips by your beloved, causing you to now lie on the couch on your stomach. Instinctively arching your hips and ass up for Remus. 

You can’t help but giggle at Remus’s treatment of your body, your feelings bubbling to the surface, lightweight little champagne clouds, alight with adoration for the man above you. 

Remus could be, just, so … infuriating. Unfairly good looking. Whiskey-tea eyes and shining caramel hair. Slender, spider-like fingers, the elegant hands of a pianist. To you he’s the ultimate dichotomy: All sharp angles and simultaneous soft touches. Cotton candy sweetness, fluff and air, dissolved by dissonant volatility. He’s easy, soft-spoken until he isn’t; even when he’s teasing you, you can always find a warm glimmer in his gilded, mossy eyes. 

Wolfish indeed. 

How you find yourself consistently drowning, wrapped in the strong, warm embrace of Remus Lupin is a mystery to you. But here you are -- his arms around your waist, ripping your panties down your thighs and over one leg, leaving them to dangle on the other ankle. You feel the heat of him behind you. You, sense the grip he has on his own cock, teasing himself as he takes in your arched hips, your obviously-wet slit worked up from writhing in his lap, and from his treatment of your body, tossing you about as he pleased – his little doll. 

“M’gonna fuck you, foxy,” he murmured, knocking your knees further apart on the couch and guiding his cock along your dripping slit, cooing at the sight of you dripping for him. Of your wetness gathered along the shaft of his cock before guiding himself home into your tight heat. 

You groaned at the welcome intrusion, at the feeling of fullness your beloved rendered you with. Wriggling your hips impatiently as Remus began his game – the game you knew well – a chessmatch of slow, sensual thrusts that would build the bursting pleasure inside of you. 

You breathed gasped, punched moans into the crevice of the couch arm, Remus’s hands wandering beneath his faded t-shirt that you still wore to skate along your ribs and grasp at your tits, pinching and rolling your perked nipples as he continued to thrust into you.

You loved when your beloved toyed with you, it was true. The feel of his lean, strong thighs pressing into the backs of yours with each thrust and roll of his hips. The way he would surround you with himself, his tall form pressing you into the couch. Heated musk and Remus pressing the heat building inside of yourself to a frenzied heated pitch. 

Remus abandons your tits in favor of tilting your jaw back to allow your lips to meet his in a cloying kiss, bruised lips meeting, a strand of saliva following Remus when he breaks from you to spill heated murmurs into your mouth.

“Tell me you love me,” Remus breathed, his lips so close they brushed yours lightly as he spoke. The brush of almost. Of a paintbrush on a blank canvas, filling your heart and mind with watercolor promises. Spilling and spreading through pulpy, paper crevices. Like ink running through your bloodstream. “Tell me like a good girl.” 

Remus’s thrusts were punishing now, the long fingers of his hand pressing you, your face, by the back of your neck, into the cushions of the couch, wrists locked behind your back in the grip of his other hand – When had that happened? 

The heavy weight of him dragging inside of you with each thrust, filling you with him, with the bruising ache of your building pleasure. 

“Oh,” you breathed. “I l-love you, Rem, of c-course I do,” you hiccuped your adoration with the uneven cadence of fucked-out breaths, a particularly keening whine escaping your plush lips and muffled into the cushions of the couch. 

Remus held you the way he meant to, forceful. Like spilling like water over the sides and through the cracks of clumsily-cupped hands. 

Pleased as punch with the borderline pornographic sounds of your wetness as he continued to fuck into you, of the ever-tightening of your pussy around him. He wriggled a hand between the couch and your hips to allow you to roll yourself, your clit, into his fingers while his punishing thrusts pushed you into the couch and over an unseen edge. 

“P–please, Rem,” you gasped, “I’m s-so close. C-can you cum in me?” 

And how could he refuse? You were the picture of sin. A portrait painted for him alone – tears gathered at the corners of your eyes, heated cheeks pressed into the couch cushions, watching him above you as he fucked you with bruising purpose. His release had been building as you clenched your thighs as close as they could allow, to squeeze your pussy around him as he fucked you harder, harder into the couch. 

“Y-yeah, fox,” Remus grunted, “C’mon then,” picking of the pace of his fingers beneath you, relishing in the prolonged keen sigh and the pulse of your aching pussy that signified your cracked release, allowing himself to spill inside your walls not long after. Euphoric, heated rush – space heater be damned. He could live inside the heat of you for as long as you would let him. 

You wriggled beneath him as he withdrew from you, turning yourself by your hips to lie on your back on the couch, plopping boneless legs along his lap with the loose and easy confidence of someone who’s just come, as Remus settled himself down into a seated position, aching bones and scarred skin. Content to settle into the sated, chestnut warmth of one another. A true relaxation day. 

His amber eyes shine with adoration as they take you in -- rich, honeyed whiskey poured over glistening ice. If you indulge too long? The burn eventually fades, replaced by a smoky, whispering sensation that warms your bones. Which fades, too. Eventually. Until you’re left in a daze, with naught but the memory of how the weight of his romance made you feel, tipsiness tipping into sobering sobriety. 

“I love your eyes, Rem,” you crooned, reaching up to trail a finger along the sharp curve of his jaw. “My beautiful love.” Pleased at the fond, blissed-out smile that bloomed across his lips at your words and at your intentions.

Eternally impassioned, your Remus. Now if only you could get him to take days off more often. 

--

Thirsty Thursday: Send your Thots 💌

Tagging: @spidervee @luveline @withahappyrefrain @mrshipsmcgee @friendly-neighborhood-blondie @flightlessangelwings @peterthepark @reigndropss @blooming-violets @brucewaynefucks @lilacvine @summertimestyles @decadentpaperduck @2clones-1kamino @papaya-047 @inklore @clints-lucky-arrow @petcr3 @aphrogeneias @realspideyspice @phoenixhalliwell @abibliophobiaa @ouralcohol @levylovegood @harriedandharassed @lorosette @realspideyspice 

[nyuudoupee]

i'm a little bit pensive about the new KEY repackage because i loved the grit and pulpy-ness that gasoline had but...

considering the title of "killer".... does this mean kibum took some notes from taemin's splatter horror movie suggestions and we're getting a hotline miami-y concept??? are we finally getting the high pace carpenter brut esque synthwave i've been waiting for from key??? if that's what we're getting then fuck yes