black printing ink

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👻 👻 👻 👻 SUGAR COATED DAMAGE  👻 👻 👻 👻

“Sugar Coated Damage” is a comic book that reveals an ever twisting abstract story,that dives deep into thoughts and comes back to the surface with an uncertain confidence that being damaged or causing damage in any way, may or may not be nicely awful. It is more or less a psychedelic chain of events that transform and fuse together without any good reason.

Paperback first edition, 52 pages, measures 23 x 17.5 cm, risograph printed with black soy ink on recycled fine paper.

                                              Purchase Here

                                              My Etsy Shop

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HERON & GRASS SNAKE🐉 LONG-LINE T’S available on the shop on Thursday 27th April 7pm UK time! Sizes S - XL available. Printed on 💯% Organic Cotton EarthPositive long-line white shirts. £29.00 each! So damn happy with these - real chuffed with that lil’ logo on the inside neck, thank you so much @blackwaterstudios 🙌🏻 (for those who are asking for paper prints of this piece, they will hopefully be available next week - I’m having some delays from my printer’s side - hold tight and apologies for the wait!♥️)

“Mora”, #2

Mora” is a series of illustrations based on induced nightmares.

I woke up to him peering through a hallway leading out of my room. In front of him was a plate with finger nail clippings in it. He intended to lure me with them.

By @nemanja_bogdanov

A Ticket To The Sun, 1.

Part: One • Part: Two • Part: Three (Finale)

Genre | Dystopia AU.

Pairing | Min Yoongi / Reader.

Words | 14,859 words.

Conspectus | Overpopulation of the planet leads to the unethical method of culling thousands of people once every month through a customary enlistment ballot. In such a world where your future is determined by your name on a piece of paper, life becomes much easier when you choose to be desensitised of emotions such as love and affection. But such an ideal flips completely upside down when you punch a kid called Min Yoongi in the face.

Warnings | Pining. Many references to weapons in a metaphorical sense. Mild disassociation. Sexual content. Strong angst. Death.

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Speke Hall, No. 1
Artist: James McNeill Whistler (American, Lowell, Massachusetts 1834–1903 London)
Date: 1870
Medium: Etching and drypoint; printed in black ink on ivory laid paper removed from a book (unrelated pen and brown ink manuscript verso)

The Met

Sugar (Luke)*

Businessman Luke doesn’t know how to get your attention, but he thinks a hefty tip will do the trick. 

*= smut | WARNING: BDSM, read at your own risk. 

MASTERLIST

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“Maybe i could get your number, sweetheart?”  

Your breath hitches in your throat as his hot breath tickles your arm like a warning signal. You tilt your arm, pouring his dark, unsweetened coffee from the steaming pot in your grip before sliding the mug towards him.

“Not today, Al.” You grumble,straightening out your pink cotton dress. Hearing a familiar ding from the back, you instinctively reach out  and take the scaldingly hot plate of poached eggs on toast that had once been resting on the counter behind you.

“The usual?” You say, setting the dish gently in front of him.

“Thanks, love.” Al says, grabbing some silverware from the metal container beside him and digging in.

Sighing, you grabbed a dish rag from  below the counter and made your way over to the tables by the windows, their surfaces in desperate need for cleaning.

When you thought  of your “gap year”, you didn’t think it would involve waiting tables and getting hit on by middle-aged, horny men- but that’s exactly what it was turning out to be. Long hours of wearing uncomfortable push-up bras the management had forced upon you and these ghastly roller-blading shoes that made you feel like you were at least 5.

“It creates that endearing 1950′s vibe.” The manager had said, handing over your uniform with a forced, teeth-grinding smile.

You smiled at the memory, shaking your head as you took a quick look at the diner around you. This diner was hardly endearing-tears in the old, “vintage” wallpaper, paint chips in all the mugs and glasses, and worst-of all, the broken set of airconditioning that dripped water every time you glided past. A look that quite have possibly died in the 1950′s itself.

Swiping  some bagel crumbs off the table, you realised that there was no point in your consistent complaining. Even if working at this diner was as close to hell as you would get-  it did give you good pay.  Backpacking across Europe would  cost an arm and a leg- but with this job, there was at least a sliver of a chance you would be able to fulfill your dreams in one whole piece.

Smiling a little to yourself as the inner child in you dreamt of all the best places you would see, you  were about to drag your tired legs back to the counter when the chimes on the front door signal you to someone’s entrance.

“Table for one please.” A gruff voice says.

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