Andulka
One Nice Bug Per Day
Cosmic Funnies
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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blake kathryn
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@spore-loser
WELCOME / i am vee (she, her) ✴︎ sometimes i make graphics; sometimes i write.
this started as a book blog, but has come to encompass a bit of everything as i wade further out of compartmentalizing.
>> analysis • edits + moodboards • fanfiction • recs + reviews
lil sneak peak of the first scene of the next chapter of my neris fic:
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He had come to know it in successive moments.
His mother healed quickly. She always had. There were never bruises. As a small boy there’d been a time when he was carding his fingers through her auburn hair and had found a patch of bare scalp, where the hair was just a fuzz, and the skin was red beneath it.
She’d been quick to scoop him into her lap. She’d shushed him and said that she’d torn it out while she was brushing it, and at the time, he’d believed her.
He’d been young when he was betrothed. Old enough to know what Illyrian leftovers meant, old enough to have killed an enemy before, but not yet seventeen. Mor had been so sick from blood loss that her skin was gray. They’d been betrothed by the agreement of their fathers without having even met. It was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her.
He knew his people’s customs. He knew that having her dry blood on his boot didn’t count as touching her. She’d been so close to death that he’d been surprised she had the strength to shake her head no.
He’d known his father would break his neck if he found out that Eris had called the shadowsinger to fetch her from the border, but he’d done it anyway.
Three hundred years ago Eris had found his mother in bed with the Lord of Day. She’d turned white as her bedsheets, her hands held out to him, half shield, half supplication.
He hadn’t said a word. He’d just left. He wondered if she had mistaken him at first for his father. It was an easy mistake to make.
Jesminda’s blood had run emerald green in the cracks of the courtyard. There was no basket to catch her head when it fell. It’d taken four guards to hold him back. It had taken six to hold down Lucien. Another century passed before he saw his brother again.
His mother had mourned her youngest son, who was exiled, more than Kiran and Phoros, who were dead. Eris still had the scars.
He conscripted males from their mothers’ houses and watched them die on Hybernian iron. He undid the laces at the throat of his shirt in the dungeon of the Forest House. His life was based on one true thing.
It’s him or me. It’s him or us. It’s him or me.
For sapphic drabbles, Random number gave me 19: beneath.
For the pairing, let's go Nesta/Clare.
Yes, love this! Fair warning, it turns sad by the end... I hope you enjoy! Written for @sjmsapphic Day Two: maiden, mother, crone | touch | red string of fate
—————
The willow keeps their secrets.
That’s what Clare always says, ducking beneath the trailing curtain of green leaves, pulling Nesta after her by the hand. No one will find us here. She's right. The branches are thick, falling down and brushing the grass, sealing them into a green-hued, quiet world that belongs only to them. The river babbles somewhere beyond the green curtain, signaling life continuing without them. Nesta has stopped caring about the outside world. This, right here, is all she needs.
They’ve been coming here for two summers now, ever since Clare first pulled her through the branches and they sat in the green, sun-dappled grass, talking for so long they lost track of the afternoon. Since then they’ve claimed this space. They keep a blanket folded in the crook of the roots, together with a small stack of books and little notes they write each other.
They come here as often as they can. After lessons during which Nesta’s mother has been extra cruel. After market days. After Nesta’s father says something that sits wrong and she needs to get it off her chest. Clare always comes.
Today, they’re lying in the grass, their shoulders touching, watching the light move through the branches. It’s peaceful. There’s nowhere else they need to be.
Clare turns onto her side. She watches Nesta for a second, and she can feel the gaze like a brand. Nesta turns towards Clare at the same time she touches Nesta’s face, her fingertips tracing the sweep of her cheekbone, unhurried, like she’s confirming something by touch that she already knows by sight. Nesta freezes, holding her breath. Clare tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting her fingers trail down the curve of it. Nesta feels that small touch everywhere.
“Clare—”
“Shh.” Her thumb moves to Nesta’s jaw, tilting her face up slightly toward the light as if to study her. Then her fingers drift down to the soft skin of her throat and rest there, feeling her pulse. Nesta wonders if Clare can tell it’s speeding up in anticipation.
She probably can.
Her hand moves lower, to the center of her sternum, and she presses her palm there, warm skin against flushed skin, like she’s steadying her.
She can definitely tell.
Nesta exhales slowly, trying to steady her racing heart. Clare’s fingers come back up, tracing her bottom lip in a feather-light touch. Nesta parts her lips, a soft sound escaping them.
Something pulls in Nesta's chest, something enormous and frightening and entirely inevitable. She closes the distance herself, surging up into Clare’s arms.
Clare makes a soft sound when their mouths meet, her hand sliding into Nesta’s hair. She kisses her back deeply, slowly, with a tenderness so sincere that Nesta doesn't know what to do with it. She has never been kissed like this. Like she’s something deserving of love. It’s nothing like she thought it would be. She used to think she’d know what to do, but she doesn’t. She only knows she doesn’t want this feeling to stop, ever.
When they finally pull apart, gasping for air, Clare is smiling, her eyes still closed.
"Finally," she whispers.
*****
Nesta wakes to the grey morning light, greeted by her own, cracked ceiling, lying in her own cold bed.
The dream dissolves quickly, like water slipping through her fingers. Clare's face goes blurry, then her voice goes distant. The phantom warmth leaves her last. Nesta lies still and tries to hold on as long as she can, sighing deeply, feeling tears trickling down her cheeks when the feeling inevitably leaves her.
Clare Beddor has been dead for two years.
The willow is probably still there, its branches long and thick with green leaves, their blanket tucked between the roots, their notes probably falling apart from the effects of time and the weather. It’ll still be there, their private little world, keeping secrets for all eternity.
—————
Send me a prompt for SJM Sapphic Showdown!
I am the offering, and the fire which consumes it, and the one to whom it’s offered
Prints here! Again, moved all my stuff to Inprnt—better quality and higher margins than Redbubble.
my cover artist for the Time of Iron books is a genius.
I command the storm
And you command me
This has to be my first Fanart Friday for All Hail Chaos!
It is beyond my wildest dreams that I should have a scene drawn directly from the book, that it should be That Scene, and that it is so beautiful! What sorcery made the chair glow? Look at the Abandon All Hope Diamond, and the claws and the COLLAR! and the storm beyond! All so artfully and thoughtfully rendered. Thank you so much.
From Veronica Tucker via Pinterest
My finished trapunto quilted gambeson for Vax! It was so cool to take techniques I learned on my Galadriel gambeson and dial them up further for this design!
As Vax is associated with ravens, I designed various wing and feather motifs wrapping around the body, a stylised raven skull in the back, and then added his “threads of fate” in hand stitched gold embroidery ribbon.
"Have you never considered art grants us the impossible? Art opens a door into someone else's imagination and lets us walk through. Art is the dreamed-of escape. Art lets the dead speak and the living laugh. Art takes you away from pain when no medicine can save you. Art is the first and last word. Art is the final consolation."
The Golden Cobra, Long Live Evil by Sarah Rees Brennan
Persepolis (2007) dir. Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Paronnaud, based on Satrapi's autobiographical graphic novel of the same name.
The success of Persepolis established Satrapi as one of the most widely read Iranian authors in the world, and her role in co-directing the film led to Satrapi becoming the first woman to be nominated for an Academy Award for Best Animated Feature.
Satrapi died in Paris on 4 June 2026, aged 56.
Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi
Do we ship Mor and Emerie because we actually think they’d be a good couple or is it because we love Emerie and she has a crush on Mor? I’m truly curious.
Maybe my petty ass still haven’t fully forgiven Mor for every nasty thing she’s said to/about Nesta including how they should throw her in a dungeon in the Hewn City and leave her there?
I don't like Emerie x Mor because Mor said Windhaven should be burned to the ground. 🫥
Also... the shipping discourse in this fandom? UNHINGED. TOO MUCH.
Like we're at borderline religious fervor levels.
"OUR LORD AND SAVIOR SJM WILL PROVIDE THE RIGHTFUL CANON COUPLE REVELATION SOON, SISTERS! WE SHALL BASK IN THE GLORY OF THE CANON COUPLE.. FREE OF SIN. THE SIGNS ARE ALL HERE!!!! THE HERETICS WILL ALL SOON BEHOLD THE HOLINESS OF OUR DECREE!"
"ALL WILL SOON BEAR WITNESS TO THE DIVINE MIGHT OF THE ONE TRUE SHIP! THE HERETICS WILL LANGUSH FOREVER IN THE FIERY PITS OF THEIR OWN INIQUITY!!!!!"
She was also part of the editing team for Martin Scorsese’s 1970s films “Taxi Driver,” “Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore” and “New York, New
Marcia Lucas was the editor on 1983’s "Return of the Jedi" and the pre-"Star Wars" George Lucas-directed films "THX 1138" and "American Graffiti."
She was also part of the editing team for director Martin Scorsese’s 1970s films "Taxi Driver," "Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore" and "New York, New York."
Marcia Lucas was often called the unsung hero of "Star Wars," the original film that after sequels, prequels and spinoffs has come to be known by its subtitle, "A New Hope."
She convinced husband George that he should have Obi-Wan Kenobi, played by Alec Guinness, in his light saber battle with Darth Vader and become a spirit guide to Mark Hamill’s Luke Skywalker.
And she had to make sense of the raw footage that could’ve been a mess in the wrong hands, including the climactic rebel attack on the Death Star.
[....]
"Her influence on film is indelible, but those who knew her best will remember the way she made life feel more vivid, more beautiful, more fun, and more full of love," a family statement said. "Her work was known for its emotional intelligence, rhythm, and humanity — a rare ability to find the truth of a scene and bring heart, momentum, and clarity to the screen."
These pescatarian birds are directly exposed to PFAS contamination due to the island's position near the St. Lawrence Seaway.
Over fifty years of data show a peak in PFAS (also known as "forever chemicals") content in seabird eggs in the 90s, followed by a decrease as regulations went into effect. The most recent findings show a 70% decrease of most common PFAS.
While continued vigilance a regulation is needed, this data indicates that regulations are working to reduce PFAS concentrations in marine ecosystems.
Kris P. Bacon @KrisWolfheart kids today are missing out of the pre-streaming era, where your childhood was at least partially defined by some semi-obscure movie your family just happened to own on tape and you watched several dozen times
kateprincessofbluewhales #the bad seed
Mine is also a murderous child story 😆 : The Good Son, starring Macaulay Culkin and Elijah Wood.
t h e c o l d e s t g i r l i n c o l d t o w n { h o l l y b l a c k }
“I screwed up.” Tana looked at her shiny, clean face in the mirror. That was the problem with monsters. Sometimes they looked just like everybody else. [...] She didn’t want to explain the recklessness, the pleasure of making the bad choice, the glory of at least this once, picking her own path to damnation.
t h e m o d e r n f a e r i e t a l e s : t i t h e { h o l l y b l a c k }
she was giddy with night air, burning like the white-hot moon. everything smelled wet and feral like it did before a thunderstorm, and she wanted to run, swift and eager, beyond the edge of what she could see.
