#Story behind the fine art print

[purplemagics-blog]

ART THE CLOWN X FEM READER!!

“Baby your not good for me, your not good for me, but baby I want you I want you!”

“Scary? My god you’re divine!!”

WARNING: reader gets kidnapping, attempted suicidal, weapons, please tell me if I missed anything!

Lmao I wrote this laying in bed, listening to diet Mountain Dew and watching 100 days in Minecraft

I put like 2 will wood references in this and there both really close together and if you find them both put it in the comments and what song they are them and you can choose what the theme for the next fanfic! (I literally ran out of ideas so this)

Wow… this is a lot…

You had just put the little pale girl down to sleep and now you and Art were cuddling up on the couch. Well how did you get here? Welllll it’s a long story!

A couple years back you were really close to ending it. You didn’t have family or friends, your band was breaking up and that was your only job you had for income! There you were standing on the edge of a bridge your old looking dress with a flower print on it blowing in the wind, your white cardigan long forgotten on the ground and your black shoes with black bows? They were also forgotten on the ground. As you about to jump you felt something grabbed the back of your legs and forced you backwards! Fell into someone’s arms… a clown? Maybe it was a fan? Your band did have a clown theme to it. But next thing you know the clown with a creepy smile forced a white cloth over your mouth and he most definitely put something on it as you passed out. You woke up in some sort of strange dark place. You where inside of a small cage (like a dog cage) and as you looked around you saw a little creepy pale girl trying to get a tv to work and as you looked up you saw the same clown guy sitting at a desk making a wimp with a knife tied to the end!

••••••••••••••••✰☼✟♡✟☼✰••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••☆☆☆••••••••••••••••••••

Ok so he did try and kill you but every time the little pale girl stoped him! She real liked you and in some short of way she was a like a child to you and after a while Art started to get closer to you like letting you out the cage, sharing “food” with you, and even letting you go outside ones and a while. And well about a year later you just assumed you both were dating at least that’s how you took it when the little pale girl was making drawings with crans with you, Art and her as a… family..? I mean Art gave you gifts, kissed you, you helped him kill people ones and a while, just you guys just acted like a crazy couple!

You took Art and the little pale girl into your house after a while (the police were going to fine you guys so y’all needed to move lmao)

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

So in the president, you had just put the little pale girl to bed and Art and you were cuddled up on the couch watching a scary movie. You were laying down and Art was laying on you with his face buried in your chest and his arms wrapped around your waist. These days he was the biggest simp for you. You both looked so cute together to be fair! Your past left behind and the future with Art is ahead! As you both are cuddling the movie has a jump scare and you finch and Art? He jumps silently laughs and mocks your face! WHAT A DICK! You powdered and he just didn’t care what an ass! As the end of the movie happens the title pops up “love me normally! Why apologize for being blue and cold?” And when the actors and stuff. Art stands up and picks you up bride style and carries you to bed. He plops you on the bed and when he walks over to the other side of the bed and he lays down and pulls you close. You both cuddle close and he kisses your forehead before you both drift off to sleep.

ANYWAYS HOPE YOU LIKED IT!!!

[havendance]

Year One vs Zero Year: A Tale of Two Batmen

(You can also read this on AO3 if you want)

In the introduction to the Batman: Year One collected edition, Dennis O’Neil writes about the impetus behind the post-crisis reboot—things had become dated and it was time to revamp their most iconic characters: Superman, Wonder Woman, and Batman. “The writers assigned to the task had quick and clear ideas about how to update Superman and Wonder Woman, but Batman was a problem. He was fine just as he was.” Batman: Year One was not a story that was trying to reinvent Batman, it was a story that was trying to distill him, to revisit and retell his origin for a new era of DC storytelling. Whatever you may think of Frank Miller, he and David Mazzucchelli certainly succeeded with that goal.

While I don’t have a nice clear editorial quote like that for Batman: Zero Year, it’s clear that Synder was trying to do the same with the story. Zero Year is a Batman origin for the new era of storytelling that was the New 52. It has its nods to Miller—it has to, simply existing after Year One’s influential rewrite of Bruce’s origin—but it owes far more to the Batman of the golden age in it's story beats. It is not just Batman: Year One for the New 52, it is the Batman origin of the post-flashpoint comics, it's art and storytelling reflecting this Batman of a new era.

Batman’s origin has always been consistent in its strokes: Bruce Wayne’s parents are killed by a mugger. Devastated, the young boy swears to devote his life to justice. He trains both body and mind, until finally ready to begin, a bat flies through the window, and he takes it as an sign that he should become Batman—a creature that strikes fear in the hearts of criminals. It can be summarized in a page or two to get the audience up to speed.

(Batman’s Origin as told in Batman #47)

Neither Year One nor Zero Year change any of the fundamental pieces, but the narratives that surround them are vastly different. Year One seeks to tell a Batman origin grounded in reality as much as it can. In an afterward by David Mazzuchelli in the Batman: Year One collected edition he writes that “with year one, we sought to craft a credible Batman, grounded in a world we recognize”. The main enemy that Bruce Wayne faces is corruption: in the police and in the leading families of Gotham. Beside Gordon and Alfred, the other members of the Batman mythos that are present are Selina Kyle, just beginning to put on the catsuit and Harvey Dent prior to becoming Two Face, both of them surrounded by plausibility and grit. The Joker gets a single name drop at the end. It takes up four issues and covers the span of a year, covering the emergence of Batman’s mission

In contrast, Zero Year is bombastic. It’s a story full of bright colors and fantastic events: explosions, blimp chases, and Gotham city cut off and run as the Riddler’s personal fiefdom. It’s longer—spanning 10 issues—and covers a significantly shorter period of time. In it, Batman faces the Joker, The Riddler, and a bone-mutated mad scientist foe who’s name I don’t remember. Pamela Isley and the Penguin are alluded to as well. The giant penny plays a role in the plot. It calls back to many pieces of golden age lore, such as Bruce’s Uncle Philip Kane, and his love interest Julie Madison. (For a more modern retelling of the golden age Batman’s origin, see Secret Origins (1986) #6)

(The Batman: Year One and Batman: Zero Year trades. Please also note that the Year One trade contains at least an extra issue’s worth of bonus content at the end, where the Zero Year trade only has some variant covers)

There is also a difference in attitude between the two origins. Year One is a comic that is trying to escape the bounds of genre; Zero Year is a comic that revels in it. Part of it is the tone—Year One is setting itself in contrast to the Batman of the past in its commitment to realism rather than melodrama. Part of it is the art. In terms of color, the original printing of Year One and Zero Year are very similar. In Year One, this is because of technical limitations. There are only so many colors, most of them bright, and still Richmond Lewis works to create a strong sense of atmosphere to highlight the noir-type story that is being told. Zero Year uses these colors as a deliberate homage to comics of the past. It’s filled with bright pinks, blues, yellows, and greens set in contrast to each other. It’s beautiful. It’s also a clear stylistic choice.

Richmond redid the colors of Year One for later reprintings. While beautiful, they are far more subdued and muted. It’s clearly the sort of look they wanted for Year One from the beginning, but could not achieve. In contrast, Zero Year stands out from the comics surrounding it in the first half of the New 52 precisely because everything else is illustrated in this overly realistic dull and gritty style.

(Batman #405 — original printing vs recolor)

(Batman (2011) #22 vs Batman (2011) #1 — These comics have the same colorist, but clearly different philosophies guiding them)

This can also be seen in the Batman costumes themselves. While both Year One and Zero Year are drawing from the same original Batman costume from Detective Comics #27, they take different parts. Year One’s Batman suit has a simple and streamlined black and grey. The Zero Year suit keeps the purple gloves.

(From left to right: Batman in Detective Comics #27, Batman #405, and Batman (2011) #24. While the image from Detective Comics #27 is faded, note that the gloves are purple)

This contrast isn’t just in the origins themselves—it is the comics that surround and follow them as well. Year One and Zero Year are origins for two different eras of Batman. I’ve read primarily post-crisis Batman comics and am less familiar with the pre-crisis era, so I can’t say how much of the storylines that followed were specifically picking up on Year One’s influence, and how much was just the natural change in storytelling direction, but throughout the major Batman events of the Post-Crisis era, there is a throughline of sensibilities that they share with Year One. AsYear One set out to tell the grounded origin of the Batman, so do many of the foes and challenges he faces have this grounded nature to them as well. They all still have a larger than life feel, but the foes Batman faces tend to fall into the categories of crime (Knightfall, War Games), natural disasters (Contagion, Legacy, Cataclysm), and himself (all of them, but more specifically Murderer/Fugitive and arguably a Lonely Place of Dying as well). These are events that start from a realistic starting point that are magnified. Earthquakes, outbreaks of disease, a gang war—these are all things that could happen to any city. Any man could lose a son or be framed for murder. The heightened nature of these stories is what separates them from the real world.

(Even an event like No Man’s Land, with its premise of ‘Gotham getting kicked out the United States’ that stretches the suspension of disbelief, is intensely focused on what this means for the city that remains. It cares about grounding the fantastic events in real reactions.)

In contrast, post-flashpoint events tend to have this more fantastical feel. The Night of the Owls does not put Bruce up against ordinary corruption among the elite, but against a masked conspiracy with immortal assassins at their disposal. The driving force of Robin War is not the idealism of the We Are Robin movement against a city that doesn’t like or trust them, but a power play by the Court of Owls. In Night of the Monster Men, Batman and co. fight Kaiju-like monsters; there are themes of contagion throughout the story, but this isn’t a hopeless fight against that ancient enemy of humanity that is disease, it’s a thrilling, action-packed fight. One approach is not necessarily better than the other, but they are fundamentally different paradigms of storytelling. I remember reading Night of the Monster Men at the same time as the lead up to Bruce Wayne: Murdere/Fugitive and thinking that they didn’t feel anything alike.

 Unlike Year One, Zero Year does not feel like a origin point for this shift in narrative focus. The beginning of the new52, while having the benefit of being the beginning of a new era, also isn’t it—these storytelling trends could be seen in the comics leading up to Flashpoint as well. If I had to pick an event that started to show this shift, it would be Batman RIP. Morrison’s love for silver age comics and deep cuts to lore lead it to having that same fantastical feel. While the Batman of Morrison’s run is nominatively the one of Year: One, he fits more in line with the storytelling motivations of Zero Year—the callbacks to older ages (Morrisons’ Batman definitely wore the purple gloves), the extreme feats of survival, the larger than life events. Year One was an origin for an era that had come to an end.

A new Batman origin was inevitable, if for no other reason than the constant passage of time. One of the big differences between Year One and Zero Year is the sheer difference in the type of technology Batman uses in each. In Year One, there is no Bat-Computer. Bruce has his grappling hooks, his smoke bombs, his ultrasonic device that summons hoards of bats—It’s all far too simple for a Batman of today’s world. Zero Year has computers everywhere and Batman’s gadgets are upgrading to fit the glitz and advancement of the modern era. The New52 gave DC the chance to revisit it and for better or for worse, no one could call Zero Year, ‘Year One only set 30 years later’. Both works are products of their times, and both works show the audience not only the basic beats of Bruce’s origin, but also what a Batman story looks like. Together, they show the way that he has evolved as a character over the years. Maybe in 15 years, DC will put out another origin epic for Batman. Chances are, he’ll have changed yet again.

[deanorosphoto]

FROZEN SHORES OF LAKE SUPERIOR: A DOUBLE EXPOSURE PHOTOGRAPH OF THUNDER BAY'S MAIN LIGHTHOUSE

Blanketed in snow, the waters of Lake Superior near the shore are locked in ice. Amid this frozen expanse, the Thunder Bay Main Lighthouse stands solitary and steadfast.

Built in 1937, this striking two-story structure serves as a beacon on the breakwater of Thunder Bay, Ontario, in the heart of Superior Country. Painted white with bold red accents, it rises 43 feet (13 meters) above the icy waters, its lantern room guiding vessels safely into the harbor. Though the breakwater remains disconnected from the mainland and inaccessible to the public, the lighthouse can be admired from the water by boat or from afar along the Thunder Bay Waterfront.

OWN IT

Frozen Shores of Lake Superior is available as a custom fine-art print in various sizes. Bring a piece of nature home—order yours today.

THE ART OF VIEWING PHOTOGRAPHY

Photography originated as an art form designed to be experienced in person, much like painting and sculpture. Yet, in today’s digital age, images are often AI-generated and fleeting, confined to the endless scroll of social media and backlit monitors. True nature photography—captured by a human behind the lens and meticulously crafted into tangible fine art prints—unveils depth, texture, and storytelling in a way digital screens simply cannot replicate.

New to collecting photography? I'll help you! I'm always happy to guide clients in making informed photography decisions. Please feel free to reach out.

SIDE NOTE: FAT BIKING IN WINTER

As I sip my morning latte and write this, I know I’ll soon be stepping into the crisp, icy air—last night’s temperatures dropped to -23℃ (-9.4℉).

Northern Ontario winters have a magic all their own, and today, that magic leads me to a fat biking trail adventure. Equipped with studded winter tires, it should be fun! Hmmm... to bring a camera or not? How do you enjoy winter?

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[deoidesign]

if i may ask, is it difficult at all to re-edit/organize the comic pages from the webtoon format to fit the graphic novel format?

on another note, I'm so happy that your kickstarter was funded!!! I love time and time again, im so excited to see this all happen <3

I'll just turn this ask into something of a guide for the process! Because yes, it is difficult, but there are also many ways I have been preparing from the beginning for this very situation to make things easier for me!

I've worked in both print and scroll in the past, and have done this transition once before for a short story, so I already had familiarity both with my goals for print, and struggles with the transition!

How I prepared from the beginning for this transition:

1: My panels are 2500 pixels wide, so they can span my page (which is 8.3x5.8 inches) at 350 DPI (which is print quality)

2: My layers are organized: Text, FX, Foreground, Characters, Background

3: I draw one very large (twice as big as any panel would be, minimum) background for my major locations, as well as drawing furniture assets in isolation. This not only saves me time when making my actual episodes, but it also offers me INCREDIBLE flexibility when making this transition to print.

These 3 things let me pull the character art to the page by itself, scale it up or down to fit my panel, and then fill in the background behind the character.

So, I read the scroll version, decide how many and which panels I want on the page for the pacing (I also keep page spreads and page turns in mind while I am doing this), and then I pull those panels over from the scroll version to the page.

Then, I make the panel borders/page layout that I want, fit the character art into it, paste in the backgrounds, do any art editing that I need, add FX, and then re-do the text!

Sometimes I do need to draw parts that are missing (shoulders or elbows getting cut off is an extremely common one) and sometimes I need to adjust facial expressions, cut panels, or rearrange panels to make things read more clearly. Since it's my comic already, I know how to do these things while maintaining the original intent, but if I were working with someone else's comic I would need to work closely with them to know what can and can't be cut.

(original panel vs an expanded version)

Another common issue is that VERY tall panels will inevitably lose a lot of information when they’re turned to pages. Identify the purpose of the panel (pacing, showing a lot of detail, etc) and then replicate that with your page layout.

examples (in order) are: scene transition, being overwhelmed, suspense, and establishing shot. All of these were a single panel in the scroll version!

Another issue when converting pages is that panel order is a lot less straightforward than when starting from print format. Conversational back and forth that's fine in scroll often messes up the flow of reading in a page (characters facing out, not looking at eachother from panel to panel, etc) and so some creative solutions are necessary to keeping the reading order.

For the first page I had to delete and rearrange some panels, and in the second the dialogue bubbles guide us to read this page in a circle. (dialogue guides through a lot of my pages lol)

And the last really common issue that pops up is that height differences can be really difficult. Usually in print this is solved with clever angles, but I’ve already drawn everything. So, I’ll either resort to vertical shaped panels, panel pop-outs, or editing a character up or down to fit into the panel.

(examples in order)

So, yes, it is difficult! But I have a lot of experience with both formats, and having prepared for this from the beginning I've been able to make the transition a LOT more smoothly than I otherwise could have.

I hope this helps!

And, thank you about the kickstarter! I'm extremely excited I'll be able to print these, the proofs I've received so far look just absolutely stunning and I'm so so so excited to get to send them to people!!!

Obligatory self promo, if you want to see the kickstarter page and get these four books for yourself, then you can check it out here ^^ It's been funded, so at this point we're just reaching stretch goals and placing orders!

[fkmarrycill]

One Shot: A Small Favor

Tommy Shelby x reader

630-ish words (635 in Google Docs, give or take some final edits in Tumblr 🤷🏽‍♀️)

🔞 For implied sex and foreplay

I'm slowly easing back into writing, and this scene was inspired by #16 on this list of smutty prompts. The idea just screamed Tommy to me. Thank you for reading! ❤️

She sets her lipstick on the dressing table and admires her efforts for tonight: hair twisted into a low chignon, lips an enticing shade of deep red, eyes lined for subtle drama. Her black, off-the-shoulder gown skims the dangerous curves of her body, and diamonds sparkle in her ears and on one of her wrists.

There's just one thing marring the sophisticated look she was going for: an angry, purplish bruise on her collarbone. She stares at it in the mirror. It's not large, maybe the size of her fingertip, but it's all she can see now.

He approaches from behind, resting his hands on her shoulders and kissing her neck. “Is something wrong, love?” He traces a finger on one of her ears before gently nipping her earlobe.

“You damn well know the answer to that, Tommy. Look at what you did! I told you, not tonight! Churchill could be there!”

“He loves the arts, as I'm told, and certainly will be in attendance at the opera. And, lucky for me, the only thing that he loves more than arts and this fine country is a bawdy story.” He winks at her reflection and kisses her on the top of her head. “This one tells itself quite clearly, with no need for a single word of elaboration, yeah?”

“You already planned to meet with him, didn't you?”

“I may have offered to buy him a drink during intermission and meet my wife, yes… Did I not mention that?” He murmurs before sliding his hands up her ribcage, skimming her body just below her breasts, before cupping them in his hands over the fabric and grazing his fingers on her nipples.

She lets out a soft moan but quickly recovers. “No, Tommy, you most certainly did not.” She wriggles out of his grasp and heads to her closet, returning shortly to the mirror to arrange a floral-print scarf around her neck. But Tommy's handiwork from their earlier lovemaking refuses to be concealed, peeking out just below the edge of the artfully arranged silk.

She yanks the scarf from her neck and sighs in frustration before balling it up and throwing it at him.

“Oi,” he barks gently, as he often does when mildly scolding their children. He lets the scarf fall to the floor, grabs her hands, and pulls her close. “I won’t apologize for marking you up,” he says with a stern shake of his head. “Everyone should know you’re taken.” His gaze is intense, but there's still the softness of love to it, nothing like the unnerving, steely glare reserved for his enemies. “Everyone, including Churchill, should know you're mine, that Thomas Shelby, OBE, is a man who loves his wife passionately. He's no longer the fucking thug who dirtied his hands with whatever needed to be done, he's an MP who is uniquely capable of meeting the needs of his city, as much as those of his woman.” He adjusts the bowtie of his crisp tuxedo before whispering in her ear, “Now, if you forget about the mark and make polite conversation for a few short minutes, I'd be more than happy to fuck you in the car on the way home. I know you like that, love. I have very, very fond memories, as you do, to prove it. What do you say?”

She scoffs, but the flicker of desire in her eyes does not escape Tommy's notice. She might be a little embarrassed by the evidence of their time alone, but she never objects to feeling completely possessed by him.

“Fine. I'll play along.”

“That's my girl, he says, placing a hand on her lower back to usher her through the bedroom door. “Let's say goodbye to the children and go.”

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: October Wrap-Up.

Gr8 news: I am no longer very far behind on my NaNo prep reading!! I had to drop JUST LIKE HOME (reread) and HOUSE OF LEAVES, but I got through the rest of my Haunted House and/or Aliens and/or Parasite/Fungus TBR. Here they all are!

Photos and/or reviews linked:

SHRIEK - ★★★★ I think SHRIEK Is my favorite volume of the Ambergris trilogy, taken as a whole--the one-way conversation Duncan was having with Janice was a really neat narrative choice, and then the reveal in the Afterword's Afterword was, in true VanderMeer fashion, mind-blowing.

FINCH - ★★★★ I was actually surprised by how much I liked this one. It helped me figure out a LOT about what kinds of power dynamics I enjoy in borderline-dystopian fiction, and what intrigues me most about limited agency. It wrapped the story up almost too neatly, for a VanderMeer, but I did still have a good time and blitzed through it quickly. Given this one and SHRIEK, I'm counting the Whole Series as a Four-Star read--I'd like to reread it someday, now that I know what's going on.

LEECH - ★★★★★ (reread) STILL ONE OF MY ALL-TIME FAVES, OFFICIALLY!! It's very gothic and heavy and fucked up, but it does FASCINATING things with POV, and worldbuilding, and storytelling frameworks. PLEASE check the content warnings, but if none of those are hard no's for you, definitely pick this one up. I suspect anyone for whom Animorphs was a Formative Influence will adore this (but so far my sample size is really only 1)--please prove me right.

A HOUSE WITH GOOD BONES - ★★★½ This was fun! Not my favorite Kingfisher (that award still goes to HOLLOW PLACES), but I had a good time--I laughed, I squealed over vultures, I blasted through pages to get to the end.

STARLING HOUSE - ★★★★ Alix E. Harrow always manages to write exactly my catnip, somehow. Maybe it's the ADHD, but I'm constantly finding connections to my own writing projects in her work, and STARLING HOUSE was no exception! I liked that this one was more modern, and the sibling dynamic was precious, and I love weird sentient houses where space is more of a suggestion than a hard and fast rule. I'll probably reread this one for Driscoll purposes!

WOODWORM - ★★★½ So much rage in such a tiny volume, and I was Absolutely Here For It. I don't tend to read much lit fic, but I do try to read a lot in translation, and I thought this one did very cool stuff with Spanish--the prose felt natural in English, but I loved the linguistic details the translators left in Spanish and how much depth that added. I feel like this one might be a good fit for Carmen Maria Machado fans, too.

HOW TO SELL A HAUNTED HOUSE - ★★★ Call this a low 3, from me. It was Fine, I guess. I liked what he did with the act structure (labeling parts as stages of grief was very cool), and I liked the family dynamics and history, but a lot of the humor didn't land for me (I got a few sensible chuckles, but a bunch of it wasn't funny), and the "oh this author is A Man, huh" moments made me roll my eyes (seriously: Who thinks about their ~breasts~ when an angry taxidermied squirrel is clawing down your shirt?? No One With Breasts, Mr. Dude). This book did at least teach me that I'm not really interested in gore (it's just boring, unlike body horror, my beloved). I might still pick up HORRORSTOR, but I probably won't look into most of his other stuff, if this one is indicative of his general style. Meh.

THE ART OF EXCESS - No rating (didn't read the whole thing). At the end of ALWAYS COMING HOME, Richard Powers mentioned this book as the reason he finally committed to ALWAYS, so I was curious what this Tom Leclair dude had to say about it back in 1989. I had a heck of a time tracking down a copy (it's very out of print, and my local library had to source it from the Library of Congress for me), but I didn't want to buy it to read just the preface/intro/epilogue, because I haven't read any of the other texts he analyzes. Leclair's style was very readable, and I was intrigued by his framework, but I found some of his conclusions eye-rolly, given his sample size. I posted this one because I think Library of Congress books are fun, but I didn't add it to my Goodreads.

BLACK TIDE - ★★★½ This one had me rolling my eyes in the first couple chapters, and I was afraid I wasn't going to like it, but once Fucked Up Shit Started Happening, the momentum really picked up and didn't stop--I blitzed through it way past my bedtime on a school night. It was fucked up and weird and tense and bloody pull-no-punches horror, but it ALSO made me laugh, and I loved our two fuck-ups surviving the apocalypse together. NOTE: Dogs (and Gulls) Are Not Safe, and the cast is small enough that it matters a lot :( if you can't stomach animal harm/death, skip this.

A HALF-BUILT GARDEN - 81/338 pages read; will report back. Enjoying it so far! Glad I put it on my NaNo prep reading list, though not quite for the reasons I planned--the reflections on motherhood as well as parenting outside the binary have been interesting, so far (and that's relevant for my own haunted house endeavors!). A much gentler ride than BLACK TIDE, and the immersive tech reminds me of Murderbot's world, just Earthbound.

Overall! Fabulous month for reading! Anytime I think "wow I need A Break™ from writing or life," this is the type of reading I mean--where I can spend a couple weeks annihilating books within a day to Refill the Words Reservoir.

Under the Cut: A Note About ~*★Stars★*~

Historically, I have been Very Bad™ about assigning things Star Ratings, because it's so Vibes Heavy for me and therefore Contingent Upon my Whims. I am refining this as I figure out my wrap up posts (epiphany of last month: I don't like that stars are Odd, because that makes three the midpoint and things are rarely so truly mid for me)(I have hacked my way around this with a ½). Here is, generally, how I conceptualize stars:

★ - This was Bad. I would actively recommend that you do NOT read this one, no redeeming qualities whatsoever, not worth the slog. Save Yourself, It's Too Late For Me. Book goes in the garbage (donate bin).

★★ - This was Not Good. I would not recommend it, but it wasn't a total waste or wash--something in here held my interest/kept my attention/sparked some joy. I will not be rereading this ever. Save Yourself (Or Join Me In Suffering, That Seems Like A Cool Bonding Activity).

★★★ - This was Good/Fine/Okay/Meh. I don't care about this enough to recommend it one way or another. Perfectly serviceable book, held my interest, I probably enjoyed myself (or at least didn't actively loathe the reading). I don't have especially strong feelings. You probably don't need to save yourself from this one--if it sounds like your jam, give it a shot! Just didn't resonate with me particularly powerfully. I probably won't reread this unless I'm after something in particular.

★★★½ - I liked this! I'll probably recommend it if I know it matches someone's vibes or specific requests, but I didn't commit to a star rating on Goodreads. More likely to reread, but not guaranteed.

★★★★ - I really enjoyed this!! I would recommend it (sometimes with caveats about content warnings or such--I tend to like weird fucked up funny shit, and I don't have many hard readerly NO's). Not a perfect book for me by any means, but Very Good. This is something I would reread! Join me!!

★★★★★ - I LOVED THE SHIT OUT OF THIS, IT REWIRED MY BRAIN, WILL RECOMMEND TO ANYONE AND EVERYONE AT THE SLIGHTEST PROVOCATION (content warning caveats still apply--see 4-star disclaimer). Excellent book, I'll reread it regularly, I'll buy copies for all my friends, I'll try to convince all of Booklr to read it, PLEASE join me!!

[her-satanic-wiles]

Kinktober Day 16 - Exhibitionism

Papa Emeritus I x Reader

You are a sex worker at the Ministry, performing sensually behind double-sided glass, indulging in fantasies of being desired by Primo. As Primo watches you with intense longing, he succumbs to his own pleasure, yet his desire for you only deepens, fueling a craving to possess you completely.

Masterlist ⛧ Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

Words: 4.4k.

Reading Time: 18 min.

Warnings: exhibitionism, fingering, gang bang fantasies, masturbation, mentions of gang bangs, nipple play, objectification, self-objectification, vaginal fingering, voyeurism

Taglist: @akayuki56 @alien-the-ghost @amazing-bobinsky @angellayercake @anonymous-appreciation @babydestinyinfluencer @bitchywitchygardener @blossomsea @call-me-little-sunshine84 @copiaspet622 @copiasslut @cosmixxdust @da-rulah @dolceterzo @dopey-fandom-girl @faithisyours @ghoulishxdelights @hauntedharmonic-ghoulishhaunter @high-above-the-city @howlingco @inkstainedrat @kaijukimchi @kenken-the-shoggoth @ledger-kaos @magopi @megachaoticstupid @meliza1001 @miss-leto @mommy-dust @neganwifey25-blog @piaart @saintbowie @shycardinale @sister-of-sin-claudia @sisterof-sin @sodoswitchimage @the-did-i-ask @xiyingly @zombiesnips-blog

Author’s note: Hi, everyone!

Today’s fic draws inspiration from the Edo-period (1603–1868) red-light district of Yoshiwara, where peep shows were a popular form of entertainment. Although the exact names of these peep show structures are not well-documented, they provided secluded, intimate viewing spaces. Visitors would discreetly observe courtesans or sexual performances, reflecting the controlled nature of these environments.

These voyeuristic setups were part of the broader ukiyo (“floating world”) culture—a space dedicated to escaping societal norms through pleasure, indulgence, and art. Activities ranged from public erotic performances to private encounters facilitated by intermediaries, such as in tea houses or pleasure chambers. Yoshiwara wasn’t just about sexual activities; it also fostered artistic expressions like ukiyo-e prints and literature, capturing themes of fleeting pleasure and desire.

In modern Japan, venues like Nozoki Beya (peep rooms) mirror some aspects of these historical practices. Nozoki Beya allows customers to watch performers engage in erotic acts, either live or behind glass partitions. These booths offer a voyeuristic experience similar to the setups of Yoshiwara, with a strict separation between viewer and performer.

The popularity of establishments like Nozoki Beya grew in part from legal loopholes created by Japan’s 1956 Anti-Prostitution Law. After World War II, Japan saw a rise in unregulated prostitution and forced sexual slavery. To combat this, the law banned prostitution (defined as vaginal intercourse for money). However, other sexual services—such as non-penetrative acts—remained legal, leading to the growth of businesses like Nozoki Beya.

These venues operate within legal boundaries by prohibiting direct physical contact between customers and performers. They require local government licenses and are subject to zoning laws, which restrict their operation to areas like Kabukicho in Tokyo. Adult entertainment businesses cannot operate near schools, parks, or residential areas, but the ambiguous nature of Japan’s laws creates some gray areas. Venues often navigate the fine line between legality and illegality, especially when performers’ actions approach the limits of prostitution.

While this fic takes inspiration from both Nozoki Beya and the historical practices of Yoshiwara, it is not a direct depiction of these activities. All characters featured are adults above the age of 21, and everything in the story is entirely consensual.

Enjoy the story!

🔞 MDNI 🔞

The red glow of the octagonal room enveloped you, the soft light casting playful shadows that danced across the mirrored glass. You settled onto the padded lounger at the centre, the silk of your robe clinging just enough to tease the senses. This was your space, a sanctuary of seduction where you could lose yourself to the performance, even if the audience remained unseen.

You adjusted your position, allowing the fabric to slip from your shoulder, exposing a hint of skin. You caught your reflection in the glass—a captivating sight that both excited and empowered you. You loved the way it felt to perform, the thrill of revealing just enough while holding back the rest.

But tonight, beneath the intoxicating haze of incense, there was a yearning that stirred deep within you—a desire for a particular gaze. You wished Primo would come to watch. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, the ache of wanting to be seen by him amplifying the heat radiating in the room. You imagined his dark eyes on you, exploring every curve and movement, but the truth was, you had no idea if he would show.

With each languid stretch of your limbs, you painted a picture for the invisible audience. You smoothed your hands over your thighs, the subtle caress igniting a fire in your belly. In the back of your mind, you whispered a silent plea for him to appear, to share in this intimate moment, even if he remained hidden behind the glass.

You leaned back against the cushions, your lips parting ever so slightly as you exhaled, an invitation carried through the air—a sound meant for him, even if he was still just a thought. In this world of shadows and reflections, you held onto hope that he would find his way into your light.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm of your breath guide you. The anticipation thrummed in the air, urging you to embrace the performance. With a soft smile playing on your lips, you let the tension ease from your body, focusing on the sensations that rippled through you.

Opening your eyes, you began to move, each motion fluid and deliberate. You arched your back slightly, allowing the fabric of your robe to slip further down your shoulder, revealing more of your collarbone. The mirrors caught every angle, reflecting a beautiful illusion of yourself—a vision you hoped would entice anyone watching.

You leaned forward, your fingers grazing your thighs, slowly tracing circles on your skin as if inviting the audience to feel the heat emanating from your body. The room felt electric, each subtle movement weaving a spell of seduction that filled the air. You thought of Primo, picturing him in your mind as you performed, his presence a silent motivation that pushed you deeper into the moment.

You turned your body slightly, allowing the curves of your hips to catch the light, shifting to give the reflections a tantalising view. You imagined Primo’s gaze, how he would study every detail, and the thought quickened your pulse. Would he appreciate the way you teased the fabric, pulling it closer to your body, then letting it slip away again?

As the performance intensified, you let your hands roam, exploring your own body as though it were a work of art. The sensuality of it filled you with a confidence that radiated through the glass, mingling with the faint scent of incense in the air. You could almost feel the heat of his gaze upon you, igniting a deeper yearning that urged you to give more.

You shifted again, propping yourself up on one elbow, your body poised in a way that accentuated the curve of your waist. You locked your eyes onto your own reflection, the desire within you manifesting in a wicked smile as you teased the edge of your robe, letting it slip just enough to suggest what lay beneath.

With your heart racing, you let the energy of the moment sweep you away. The way the fabric caressed your skin sent shivers down your spine, urging you to explore further. You took a deep breath, focusing on the sensation of your body and the power it held in this intimate space.

You shifted again, letting your legs fall open slightly as you reclined back onto the lounger, propping yourself up on one elbow. The angle provided a tantalising view, showcasing the curve of your hips and the softness of your thighs. You could almost hear the whispers of admiration from an invisible audience, and you imagined Primo’s eyes drinking in every detail, a mixture of longing and desire.

You began to play with your hair, letting the silken strands cascade down your back and across your shoulders. With each movement, you wove your fingers through your locks, drawing attention to the graceful lines of your neck and collarbone. You could picture him captivated, lost in the way you transformed even the simplest actions into something alluring.

Feeling bolder, you lifted your hand to your chest, tracing a path down the fabric of your robe, teasingly pulling it aside just enough to reveal a hint of skin beneath. The warmth of your own touch sent a rush of heat through you, and you relished in the delicious tension that filled the air. You could almost feel the weight of his gaze pressing against you, urging you to go further.

*

Primo stepped into the booth, his heart racing with a mix of anticipation and excitement. The moment he entered the dimly lit space, he was enveloped by the warm glow of the red lights that pulsed softly around the octagonal room. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight before him.

There you were, a vision of seduction reclining on the lounger, the silk of your robe glistening under the soft light. The way you moved was hypnotic; your hands glided over your skin with an elegance that left him entranced. Each deliberate stroke drew his gaze, the rhythm of your touch igniting a fire within him.

He watched as you leaned back, arching your back just enough to accentuate the curve of your waist. The robe slipped slightly from your shoulder, revealing the delicate expanse of your collarbone. He felt a surge of desire at the sight, his heart pounding as you showcased your body, unhurried and deliberate.

Primo shifted in his seat, the anticipation thick in the air. He didn’t want to miss a moment; your every movement was a tantalising tease that left him yearning for more. He could hardly believe his luck in being here, hidden behind the glass, able to witness this private performance. The thought of you, completely unaware of his presence, only deepened his desire.

As you ran your hands over your thighs, he could feel his pulse quicken. The way you traced your skin, as if awakening every inch of your body, sent a shiver down his spine. He leaned forward, entranced, hungry for the sight of you unraveling before him. The intimate atmosphere heightened every sensation, each flutter of your fingers igniting something primal within him.

“Sathanas, you’re stunning,” he murmured under his breath, even though he knew you couldn’t hear him. He wanted to reach out, to touch you, to draw you closer, but the barrier of glass kept him safely on this side of desire. It was both exhilarating and torturous, and he found himself lost in the depths of your performance.

You lifted your hand to your chest, teasing the fabric of your robe, revealing just enough to stir his imagination. His breath hitched as you let the robe slip further, showcasing your curves, your skin glowing in the red light. Every moment felt electric, the connection between you palpable despite the separation.

Primo’s breath caught as you pulled your robe down, revealing the soft swell of your breasts. The sight sent a jolt of desire through him, tightening his grip on the edge of the booth as he leaned forward, completely captivated. The delicate curve of your body, coupled with the seductive way you played with your nipples, was intoxicating.

You teased the sensitive peaks, rolling them gently between your fingers as you gazed at your own reflection, lost in the moment. Each flicker of your movements seemed to pulse with life, and he could hardly contain himself, the urge to reach out and touch you almost overwhelming. The glass barrier between you was both a comfort and a torment, separating him from the intoxicating beauty before him.

He adjusted his position, feeling the fabric of his papal robes shift against his skin, the weight of them rubbing against his hardness. The thrill of being here, watching you—bare, uninhibited, and so incredibly alluring—left him with an insatiable hunger that only you could satisfy.

The way you surrendered to your own pleasure stirred something primal within him. He imagined the soft sounds of your breaths, the way your body moved with an almost liquid grace. The tension between you and him felt electric, charged with the unspoken connection that bound you in this moment. He wanted nothing more than to see how far you would take this performance, to witness every nuance of your desire.

“Damn it,” he whispered, unable to tear his gaze away. You were exquisite, a living embodiment of sensuality. The thought of you writhing beneath his touch sent a rush of heat through him, and he clenched his fists, fighting against the urge to reach out and break the barrier that separated you.

You sneaked your hands lower, fingers gliding down the curve of your waist and past your thighs. The air in the booth felt charged, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away as you spread your legs, revealing everything to him. The intimacy of the moment was electrifying, leaving him breathless and entranced.

The soft glow of the room highlighted your most intimate parts, and the sight left him utterly captivated. His heart raced in his chest, the primal urge to reach out and touch you coursing through him with every passing second. You were so beautifully exposed, unashamed in your sensuality, and it took everything in him to remain still behind the glass.

He watched as you let your fingers explore, your touch delicate yet purposeful. The way you arched your back, the soft moans that slipped from your lips, ignited a fire deep within him. His pulse quickened with each small movement, every sigh echoing in his ears like a siren’s call, drawing him deeper into your world.

As you continued to caress yourself, he could see the way your body responded to your touch—the slight quiver of your thighs, the way your breath hitched as you sought pleasure. His fingers itched to feel your skin, to explore the soft curves that were so tantalisingly close yet impossibly out of reach.

Every instinct urged him to close the distance, to step through the barrier and claim this moment for himself. The tantalising notion of being the one to elicit those moans, to draw forth your pleasure, filled his mind. It was maddening, the way you performed with such confidence, utterly unaware of how completely you had ensnared him in your web of desire.

With a quick glance around the booth to ensure his privacy, he reached beneath the soft folds of his papal robes. His fingers brushed against his arousal, a low groan escaping his lips as he began to pleasure himself. The sensation of his hand moving over his skin was electrifying, an echo of the pleasure you were experiencing, and the thought of you heightened every stroke.

His eyes never left you as he matched his rhythm to the movements of your hands, each caress of your body a tantalising tease that drew him deeper into desire. You were a vision of pure ecstasy, and he could hardly contain himself as he watched the way you surrendered to the pleasure, each sigh and moan igniting a fire within him.

As he pumped his hand in time with your movements, he imagined what it would feel like to touch you, to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips. The fantasy of being with you, of tasting the sweetness of your body, pushed him closer to the edge. He bit his lip, stifling the sounds of his pleasure as he focused solely on you.

You were an exquisite performer, every inch of your body a work of art that left him breathless. He could see how you arched your back, the way your eyes fluttered closed in pure bliss. It drove him wild, the thought that you were lost in your own world while he was completely entranced by the scene before him.

“Please,” he murmured, the word slipping past his lips unbidden, a silent prayer to the universe for a chance to be closer to you, to feel your body entwined with his. The moment felt electric, every touch of his hand against himself echoing the rhythm of your exploration.

Primo’s breath came in ragged gasps, the world around him fading away until there was only you, your body, and the sweet tension that hung in the air. He was lost in the spectacle, a willing captive to the allure you created, his pleasure entwining with yours in a beautiful, forbidden dance.

*

As you reclined on the lounger, every movement felt amplified, each stroke of your hands igniting a flame of desire within you. The soft glow of the red lights illuminated your skin, highlighting every curve and contour, and you revelled in the feeling of being on display. There was something intoxicating about knowing that people were watching you, their eyes glued to your every movement behind the glass.

With each slow caress of your body, you felt a surge of confidence. The sensation of your fingers gliding over your skin was heightened by the knowledge that you were captivating someone—drawing them into your world of pleasure. You leaned into it, letting your hands explore, each stroke deliberate and sensual. The heat pooling in your belly grew as you imagined the desire radiating from the booth, the silent, hungry gazes locked onto you, drinking in the sight of your performance.

Being on display like this was thrilling, a rush of power that electrified your senses. You relished the idea that your body was an object of desire, a canvas upon which fantasies were painted. There was a heady mix of vulnerability and empowerment in sharing such an intimate part of yourself, and you leaned into that feeling, letting it wash over you.

The glass separated you from the outside world, creating a cocoon of intimacy that made the experience all the more exhilarating. You caught glimpses of shadows moving behind the transparent barrier, a silent acknowledgment of the connection being forged in that space. Each sigh that escaped your lips felt like a call to them, an invitation to join you in this moment of pure indulgence.

As you spread your legs wider, the thrill of being so exposed sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. You played with your nipples, your body responding eagerly to your touch, and you savoured the sensations that coursed through you. The slight pressure, the way your skin tingled, all combined to create a symphony of pleasure that resonated within.

You felt like a goddess, commanding attention and desire, the thrill of the performance fuelling your every move. You enjoyed putting on this show, the way it pushed you to explore the boundaries of your own pleasure. You knew that your every gesture, every gasp, was met with rapt attention and longing, and it filled you with an exhilarating sense of purpose.

As you dipped your fingers inside yourself, a wave of pleasure coursed through you, intensifying the connection between your body and the exhilaration of being on display. You closed your eyes for a moment, surrendering to the sensations, but your thoughts drifted to him—Primo—and the way he would be watching you with such intensity.

But then your mind wandered further, teasing the edges of fantasy. What would it be like to be ravaged by all three papas? The thought sent a shiver of excitement down your spine. You imagined Secondo’s bold, dominating presence, the way he would claim you with a fierce passion, igniting a fire within you. His touch would be rough yet tantalising, pushing you to the edge of pleasure and beyond.

And then there was Terzo, with his playful charm and mischievous grin. You could almost feel his hands on your body, exploring and teasing in ways that made your breath hitch. He’d pull you into a world of sweet torment, drawing out your pleasure until you were begging for release.

But it was Primo who held your attention now, the way his gaze penetrated you even from behind the glass, a silent promise of what could be. You pictured him joining in, commanding the room with his presence, taking control of the scene as he directed the two others to pleasure you together. The thought of being surrounded by them, each one focused solely on your pleasure, sent a wave of desire washing over you.

You thrust your fingers deeper, letting the pleasure build as you imagined the three of them, each taking their turn to ravish you, to claim you in their own unique ways. The heat coiled tightly in your belly, and you could almost hear their voices urging you on, calling you to lose yourself in the moment.

The fantasy felt so real, your body responding to the idea of being the centre of their attention, of being worshipped and desired by all three. You envisioned the scene vividly—bodies entwined, hands exploring, the air thick with the scent of desire and the sounds of pleasure. The thought of being at their mercy, of being claimed by each one in turn, made your heart race.

As you continued to pleasure yourself, you moaned softly, your breath hitching as the fantasy enveloped you. You were lost in the throes of ecstasy, the image of the three papas circling your mind, igniting a fire that left you gasping for more. It was a delicious thought, and you reveled in it, letting it guide you deeper into pleasure, unashamed and utterly consumed by the fantasy.

You thrust your fingers deeper inside yourself, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure radiating throughout your body. With each movement, your mind remained locked on Primo—the way he watched you, those intense eyes filled with desire. The thrill of being on display for him alone heightened every sensation, every gasp that escaped your lips.

You imagined him leaning closer, captivated by the sight of you giving in to your own pleasure. The very thought of him watching you, taking in every intimate moment, stoked the flames of your desire even higher. You could almost feel the heat of his gaze enveloping you, making you feel alive and exposed in the best possible way.

As you continued to tease and caress your body, you relished the idea of him being the sole witness to your pleasure, the one person who understood the intricacies of desire. You could picture him leaning against the glass, his breath hitching as he watched you pleasure yourself, each gasp and moan pulling him deeper into the web of your exhibitionism. You reveled in the idea of being the star of his fantasy, a beautiful spectacle designed solely for his enjoyment.

The way he must have reacted—his breath quickening, desire coursing through him like wildfire—made you want to push even further. You arched your back and spread your legs wider, giving him an even better view, and you felt a thrill race through you. You were not just performing; you were offering yourself to him, inviting him into this moment, even if only in his imagination.

With each thrust of your fingers, you thought of how he would react, the pleasure reflected in his eyes as he watched you give in to the waves of ecstasy. The connection between you two felt palpable, as if the glass that separated you was nothing but an illusion. You imagined him whispering sweet nothings, encouragement urging you to let go, to revel in your own pleasure and the thrill of being seen.

You could feel your climax building, a wave of heat pooling low in your belly, and you surrendered to the fantasy of him—his presence dominating your thoughts. The intimacy of the moment was intoxicating, and you savored the connection that seemed to transcend the barrier between performer and observer.

As you neared your release, the thought of his eyes on you, filled with longing and desire, pushed you over the edge. With a final thrust of your fingers, you cried out, the sound echoing in the intimate space as pleasure coursed through you. In that moment, it felt as if it were only the two of you in the world, lost in the shared experience of desire, connection, and the exquisite thrill of being on display for him alone.

*

Primo leaned back in his booth, the glass between him and you amplifying the thrill of the moment. Watching you was intoxicating, a sensory overload that consumed him entirely. The way your fingers glided over your skin, the gentle arch of your back, and the soft sighs escaping your lips stirred something primal within him. He couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement as he realised how much he craved this—craved you.

His heart raced as he observed every intimate detail of your performance. The way you surrendered to your own pleasure, completely unguarded and exposed, ignited a fire deep inside him. He imagined what it would be like to join you, to feel your body beneath his hands, to taste the sweetness of your skin. The fantasy enveloped him, pulling him deeper into the realm of desire.

He watched as you dipped your fingers inside yourself, the sight sending a rush of heat through his veins. It was a sight he could have only dreamed of, and the knowledge that you were performing just for him heightened every sensation. Each thrust of your fingers seemed to draw him in closer, making him feel as if he were part of the scene, even from behind the glass. He could hardly breathe, caught between the beauty of the moment and the longing that surged through him.

Primo’s hand moved instinctively, mirroring your movements as he began to pleasure himself. He matched the rhythm of your fingers, the connection between you two electric. Every moan that escaped your lips was like a sweet invitation, urging him to give in to the raw, primal urge coursing through him. He imagined the warmth of your body, the taste of your skin, the sound of your breath—everything combined to create a world where only the two of you existed.

He could feel the tension building within him, an overwhelming urge to break through the barrier and claim you. The thought of being the one to worship your body, to push you to new heights of pleasure, sent shivers of delight down his spine. You were a vision of pure ecstasy, and the sheer thought of you belonging to him, even for just a moment, was enough to drive him wild.

As you reached the peak of your pleasure, the sound of your cries echoed in the small space, wrapping around him like a lover’s embrace. Primo’s own release was imminent, and he let himself be lost in the moment, caught in the exquisite blend of desire and satisfaction. The image of you, utterly consumed by your own ecstasy, pushed him over the edge. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the wave of pleasure that washed over him, feeling every pulse and throb as he gave in completely.

As the wave of pleasure crashed over him, Primo surrendered completely to the moment, his body tensing with the intensity of his orgasm. He watched as his release spilled forth, hitting the floor in rhythmic splatters that echoed softly in the intimate space. The sight was primal, raw, and it only heightened the exhilaration coursing through him. Each pulse sent shivers down his spine, a testament to the fierce desire that had been building within him since he first laid eyes on you.

But even as he rode the waves of his climax, his thoughts remained fixed on you. The scene was etched into his mind, the image of your body writhing in pleasure, fingers buried deep within yourself, and that glorious expression of ecstasy on your face. It was intoxicating, and as his heart raced and his breathing began to steady, he felt an even fiercer craving ignite within him.

Despite the release, his desire for you burned hotter than ever. He longed to touch you, to feel your skin against his, to taste every inch of you that had been laid bare before him. The throes of his orgasm only served to amplify the need that coursed through him—a desperate ache to possess you completely.

Primo could still see you, the way you were lost in your pleasure, utterly uninhibited and inviting. The thought of all the ways he could worship your body, of how he could take you higher, sent a fresh rush of need through him. He wanted to be the one to make you moan, to feel you quiver beneath him, to guide you to the brink of ecstasy time and again.

He leaned closer to the glass, a silent vow forming in his mind. This was only the beginning. The tantalising connection he felt—though brief—had awakened something within him that couldn’t be easily quelled. Each pattern his release left on the floor was a reminder of the intensity of the moment, and it made him crave you even more.

Even as he began to come down from the high of his orgasm, he knew one thing for certain: he wanted you. The fierce desire that coursed through his veins felt almost unbearable, a need that demanded to be fulfilled. The thought of you lingering in his mind, a haunting echo of what he had just witnessed, was enough to stoke the flames of his passion anew.

He wanted to know the taste of your skin, the feel of your body beneath his, and he could only hope that this performance was just a prelude to something far more intimate. For now, he was content to watch, but deep down, he knew that he would do anything to make you his—now and forever.

Prev./Next

[iambic-stan]

Benevolent Heretics

I started writing this the other day and didn't stop until it was done. Can it please happen IRL? I plucked an older character, Vera, from this dream-turned-story and here she is, a bit older and bolder but still somewhat self-conscious.

If it was a waiting room, it certainly didn't feel like any I'd ever occupied.  First of all, there was complimentary coffee.  Don't misunderstand me, though--it wasn't a slender Keurig sitting next to some Styrofoam cups.  There was an actual barista with beautiful taupe skin, box braids, wide-leg jeans and a crop top that said "Hillman College."  There was a fancy La Marzocco espresso machine and freshly baked pastries.  The lemon basil mini bundt cake looked delicious but I couldn't bring myself to eat.  That, and the pastries weren't free and I'd almost gambled all of my paycheck on this visit, hoping for, but not counting on, reimbursement from my insurance.  I eyed the dry erase board of specialty drinks, trying to read through ingredients quickly so the barista wouldn't become impatient.  

"Baby, you can take your time," she said.  "I love your hair, by the way.  What do you call that color?  It's like there are little specks of gold in the blue when you turn a certain way."

I beamed.  "Thank you so much.  Lapis lazuli."

"Oh, perfect!"

"Do you have a favorite scene in A Different World?

"When Diahann Carroll is telling Dwayne Wayne to just die," she said without missing a beat.

I laughed.  "Oh, I suppose I wanna try a hot Purple Haze?"

"Medium or dark roast?"

"I guess medium?"

I stared at the art behind her.  It depicted a dark-haired white man sitting in a booth, a sort of frustrated expression on his face.  Seated next to him was a great blue heron that almost seemed to be wearing a smile.  So strange.

"And what's your favorite scene?" she asked, setting the drink in front of me, little purple crystals sitting on top of the cloud-shaped foam art.  "Lids are on the counter to your right."

At that moment, an older middle-aged woman opened the door across the room, said, "Vera?" and looked in my direction.  I took her in for a second.  Her long, curly brown hair cascaded over a kaftan with, was it narwhal print?  The straps on her sandals were ocean waves.

We made eye contact.  "Ready for you," she said, smiling airily.

"Oh!" I said.  'Ok."  I grabbed my drink and started walking toward her, then recalled the question.  Before I disappeared down the hallway behind the woman, I turned and called out, "When Lena is explaining the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet!"  I thought the barista was smiling but it was hard to say.

The hallway was a bit of a labyrinth, but every twist and turn had a surprise.  The first treat was a banana ball python in a terrarium.  "That's Bert," the woman said, turning back to glimpse my face.  "Ernie's at the vet overnight, but he's fine."  

"Oh that's adorable!" I exclaimed, sipping my lavender and chamomile latte.

"By the way, I'm Celeste," she said warmly.  "It's great to meet you in person."  She reached for my hand, her bangle bracelets clanging against each other.

"You're the lady I talked to all last month!"  I blurted out.  I took the hand she offered, and she gently placed her other hand on top of mine, soft and smelling like jasmine.

I looked up at her, then down at my feet.  This woman knew just about everything...about one thing.  But it was one of the most important things in my life.  It felt frighteningly vulnerable.  I racked my brain to recall what I knew about her so I'd feel less disadvantaged.  It felt like I was running a search in Windows for "celeste" and opening every relevant file of hundreds, not quite knowing what I expected to find.  I knew she was married and had two black labs.  She started out as a physical therapist and then decided to specialize in....whatever this was.  My own physical therapist had recommended her.  She loved David Lynch films, Isabelle Allende novels, and lots of Brazilian bossa nova singers I'd never heard of.  She loved Italian restaurants but never ordered spaghetti because "you can make that much better at home."  She sang in the choir at the Unitarian church down the road.  She researched everything she bought to ensure it was vegan.  She had family in Washington, the state.  She really liked Animal Farm when she read it in school, too.  Everything I knew about her felt so surface level compared to everything she knew about me.  And some of what I knew was from doing my own internet research, if I was honest.  She let go of my hand and I shuddered for a second when she turned and said, "Just a bit further; we're almost there," and kept walking.  

Up ahead, I saw that the walls turned into aquariums full of colorful fish: gouramis, oscars, cichlids, danios, and barbs.  I stood mesmerized as she opened a door and motioned for me to step in front of her.  "The fish are always a big hit," she said.  I followed her into an office-like room with a very 70s vibe.  The groovy aesthetic went so far that it had one of those conversation pits with an orange plaid couch and bookshelves.  I started reading titles and spotted  I Can't Date Jesus and A Queer and Pleasant Danger.  She stepped down onto the couch, sat down, and started writing notes in a little pad.  

"You can sit," she said, noticing how I was just standing there, my eyes flitting from macrame hanging pots to lava lamps to fabric posters, overwhelmed by all the mustard yellow, avocado, and earthy brown tones everywhere.

I rubbed my sweaty hands together and sat several feet away from her on the same side of the square-shaped couch.  I looked her way and my eyes fixated on her turquoise necklace and the movement of her chest as she breathed.  My eyes travelled up and I searched for a neck pulse, then quickly looked away as soon as I realized what I was doing.  She stopped writing and looked straight at me.  "Whatever you're thinking is ok here," she assured me.  "Nothing to feel self-conscious about."

"Do you see a lot of people like me?" 

"In what way?  Do you mean cardiophiles?  If so, not a lot, but you're not the first."

I let out a long sigh.  "There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about this," I confessed.

"And there's nothing wrong with that.  It's more common than you think, even more so for neurodivergent people like yourself."

"I prefer 'neuro spicy,'" I chuckled.  She smiled, nodded.

"Is your heart beating fast, Vera?" she asked plainly.  It was a simple question, but as soon as she uttered it, the words stretched out in my brain like cold cane syrup.  I stared into her eyes and heard the words "heart" "beating" and "fast" over and over again for several seconds.  I was so entranced that I didn't hear myself say, "Yeah.  It is," until it had already escaped my mouth.

She laughed casually.  "And that's perfectly normal.   The last time we had a cardiophile here, he was an older man, many years ago.  He was recovering from cancer treatment--that was what led him to physical therapy, and then to me.  I started out as a more traditional physical therapist, and in my practice I learned about the more unusual ways that physical intimacy healed--for those who have interests that aren't mainstream, and nonsexual kinks, if you will.  It works in tandem with conventional physical therapy.  I set my own boundaries because I have to, and they are firm, but you might be surprised how much one can do with clothes on, and how gratifying that can be for the client.  I don't have a personal investment in most of the services I provide here, but in my line of work I've become deeply interested in sensuality and the multitude of ways that humans experience it.  The pre-visit chats are designed to help us feel comfortable with each other, and if you're wondering--yes, they are covered under your insurance, as are our in-person appointments.  As long as your therapist and I can justify to the insurance company that you're making progress, they will provide at least partial coverage."

"What if...I no longer need physical therapy but I still want to come here and do this?"

"Many people do, and you can discuss payment plans with Yasmin up front.  She's the barista who served you."

"Oh wow.  Ok, great."

"Do you want to play music?  Since your interest is largely about listening and being listened to, I know that might be a distraction, but I could play it at a low volume.  Also, this is something we ask every client."

I nodded, and she continued, "We have a record player and mostly 70s music to fit with the room's motif, but if you want something else, I should be able to pull it up for you."

I only thought about it for a moment.  "Do you have Fleetwood Mac's Tusk album?"

She nodded, ascended the two steps that led out of the conversation pit, and crossed the room to an refurbished old phonograph with an oak horn.  She flipped through a crate of records and within a minute had retrieved Tusk.  "For the longest time, it was all about Stevie for me," she said.  "And then, I don't know, I was at a party and they were playing Mirage.  Somehow I'd never heard 'Hold Me' and I just thought Christine and Lindsey's voices blended so well.  I love all of Christine's tracks on Mirage now, even the cheesiest."  I smiled at this anecdote, closed my eyes and listened to the soft whine of Lindsey's slide guitar.  Christine's vocals came in as smooth as honey, and I thought about how a song with such insecure lyrics could be so soothing sonically.  The sound mattered much more to me.

She reached into an armoire and pulled out a cardboard box.  She placed it beside me as she stepped back down into the pit.  "You can pick out a stethoscope from there.  Or like I said the other day, you can bring your own.  I just need an extra minute to sanitize it.  Just standard procedure," she shrugged.  I rifled through several stethoscopes and pulled out a Littmann with a rose gold teardrop-shaped chest piece and a pink satin finish. 

"It's like if Glinda had one," I heard myself saying.

"You liked Wicked?" she asked.  "I need to find time to go see it."

"Oh it's sooooo good," I told her.

"Alright, so we have thirty minutes left.  I'll lead the session, but your job is also to let me know if there's anything else you need or if you're uncomfortable.  In the case of the former, I'll see if I can accommodate, and in the case of the latter, we will stop and discuss what needs to change.  Does that make sense?"  I nodded.  "Ok, if you don't mind, I need you to unbutton the second button on the top of your shirt."  I did as she asked, all the while wondering if she could see my heart pounding.  My chest was small, so I wasn't revealing any cleavage, but my thin build almost made it easy to see through.  She slowly placed the palm of her hand over my heart and kept it there for a few seconds.  "I can feel it; it's so fast," she remarked.  The practiced smile on her face really only indicated a passing, and I suppose professional, interest in my heartbeat, but that was enough for me.

By the time she was wearing the binaurals and positioning its chest piece on my bare chest, the frantic, rushed "The Ledge" was playing and my heart pounded along with Lindsey Buckingham's bass.  Unlike any doctor I'd ever seen, Celeste moved the chest piece all around the terrain of my chest, stopping for a bit at each location to hear what my valves would do.  I took deep breaths without realizing it, and I looked down to see the stethoscope rise and fall with my body.  "I haven't listened to a great deal of hearts in my line of work, but this one sounds pretty great to me."  I looked over at her face, the metal tubes peeking out from behind her hair.  There was something so reassuring about looking at someone wearing binaurals like that, knowing they were listening to me.  I saw her eyes on her phone and wondered what she was looking at until she said, "109, how about that?  That's pretty fast for resting.  I'm glad I've gotten your heart to engage with me so fully."  I thought I would melt.  When she was finished listening, "Think About Me" had played and the mercifully short "Save Me a Place" had just ended.  

"Would you like to listen to my heart?" she asked.  "It's a little fast because I think it has reacted to yours.  Just a heads up.  You're welcome to listen if you'd like.  But also know that it's ok with me if you don't want to.  Either way."  

"Can I lay down on the sofa while I'm listening?"

"Absolutely, let me grab one of the throw pillows for your head."

The entirety of "Sara" played while Celeste held the chest piece under her narwhal kaftan and I closed my eyes while facing the ceiling.  I mean I knew that "Sara" was the next cut on the record, but the noise-cancelling feature of the stethoscope worked so well that I couldn't even tell music was playing.  I just heard her fast heartbeat layered with her steady breathing.  For a moment, I wondered how old she was.  At least mid-50s, probably?  Maybe older.  Definitely at least ten years my senior.  And all the while, I thought to myself, she'd had this organ working inside of her all the time.  Unless she'd had a transplant, I reasoned.  But my mind didn't dawdle on those thoughts.  With my eyes closed, I could imagine I was swimming, or hiking, or biking.  I settled on imagining I was floating in a blue lagoon, seeing a waterfall up ahead.  I swam a leisurely breaststroke to the waterfall and let it pour all over my body.  And then my mind just went blank.  There was just nothing--except for the sound.  And the sound was crystal clear and exquisite.  I didn't realize how much time had passed and was surprised to hear "but never have I been a blue calm sea," when I took the stethoscope off.  We were already at the end of "Storms"?

I sat up, turned around, and saw that Celeste was smiling so warmly I could've mistaken this scene for a Hallmark movie.  My brain wanted to stop and take a screenshot of the moment she handed me the other end of the instrument and our hands were both touching it--hers a deep olive, mine rosier.  My hands were unadorned but she wore delicate little rings with tiny rhodolite and hematite stones.  "You can put it on the end table to your left," she indicated.  

"If it was mine it would have a gender and a name and everything," I told her excitedly.

She laughed heartily and I had a revelation that being proud of making your therapist laugh applies to just about all types of therapists.  "How was that?" she asked.

"It was wonderful.  You sound great. It--it was great," I said with the imagination of a Tumblr bot.

"Did you tell me a few weeks ago you have an electronic stethoscope?"

"Yes--an Eko Core 500 named Christine, actually."

"Feel free to bring her next time."  She pulled out her phone.  "I have you down for...this time in two weeks.  Does that still work for you?"

"Yes, that sounds great," I said like a broken record.  I would have more and better words for the experience later.

She asked if I had any questions, and if this was what I'd had in mind.  No and a million times yes.  We exchanged more small talk about weekend plans--work and a hike for me, house cleaning and possibly seeing Wicked with her partner for her.  She walked me back through the labyrinth and I waved goodbye to an indifferent Bert. I made sure to give Yasmin a thumbs up on my drink as I sipped the rest on my way out, and when I stepped out into the chilly December morning, I felt brand new.

[certifiedfreec]

“It seems as though Shelley insists the true monstrosity lies in humanity rather than Frankenstein’s creation.”

“Well, yeah, the monster was left completely alone because the doctor couldn’t bear to look at him after he brought him to life.” You vigorously wipe down one of the tables in the nearly empty coffee shop as you answer the sole guest that’s left. “It upset him a lot. He even says something to him like, ‘I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel.’”

“Hm.” A thoughtful pause. “‘Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and abhorred.’” Grey eyes skim the quote’s faded page, large hands clasping the worn cover. A prized first-edition print he had quietly boasted about earlier that evening. “It’s as if the doctor was so blinded by his need for recognition that he failed to recognize the potential consequences of his experiment. Such hastiness. I’m curious as to what inspired him, or rather pushed him, to play God like that in the first place.”

Tossing the rag into a bucket of cleaning solution, you sigh amusedly. “Probably just entitlement. But anyway, Boss, shop’s closed. I’ll be happy to hear your musings again at 7 o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Truthfully, you didn’t mind this guy’s presence at all; he did this often, at least a couple of times a week when he could, staying for hours on end to delve into his books and pick your brain on their contents while sipping your coffee. It started a good bit ago, and the second he silently breezed through the shop’s door you had an inkling that you’d be seeing him a lot. He made note of a classic piece resting behind the counter that you’d brought from home that day, and the slow parts of your shifts were soon filled with rich discussion about the stories you’ve both read- a welcome break from the monotonous routine of pulling shots, steaming milk, and taking complaints from the middle-aged women who insisted they ordered their drink “extra hot.” Quickly, he grew to become your favorite regular; he had quite the heart for literature and art, and he was fairly easy on the eyes too.

He lets out an appreciative chuckle. “Well, I’ll be sure to remember my alarm, then.” His low voice has the heaviness of sincerity as he teases you, and you could almost swear it was flirting. He carefully closes the book before tucking it under his arm, standing to his full height. Albeit not the tallest, he’s still able to look down at you. “I’d quite like to hear your thoughts on Dr. Frankenstein’s innate motivations.”

You fight the blush that threatens to tinge your cheeks, halfway tempted to keep the doors unlocked just to talk to him some more. However, this could be a double-edged sword for you; you’d be here all night chatting with him if you allowed that discrepancy. Then you’d be too tired to comprehend all his reasonings the next morning when he’d want to debate all over again.

“I mean, I’ll be off in about fifteen minutes,” you blurt out, not fully realizing the forwardness of the unspoken invitation. An invitation that is met with surprise from your normally nonchalant regular.

There’s a small smirk tugging at the corners of his fine lips as his eyebrows raise slightly at you. “Very well. Where do you suggest we take this conversation, then?” He is all too impressed with this turn of events as he sets down his book to collect a few haphazard mugs, bringing them over to the sink for you. The small action, while also being another discrepancy, nearly makes you swoon. “On second thought, don’t answer that. I know just the place.”

Your heartbeat surges when you wonder about his implication, taking the mugs from him and plopping them into the soapy water. His stormy grey eyes watch you with interest as you take care of the nightly closing duties, cleaning the tableware before setting everything in its proper place.

“It better not be Frankenstein’s laboratory,” You halfway joke, curious as to how this night could unfold with the guy you’ve always regarded as the friendly yet handsome customer. Another part of you is wary, but he only shakes his head, sending the choppy black locks that framed his face into a gentle flurry of movement.

“No, nothing like that at all,” is all he answers with a reassuring smile and a chuckle. Concentration lost on what may lie ahead with him, you’re barely able to focus on counting out the register as you lock it up and grab your bag. “If you say so,” you reply with a small smile. With a flick of the light and his chivalrous door-holding, you’re both out of the shop and securing its entrance with your key before you turn to your good-looking regular.

“Where to, Boss?” You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little nervous about venturing somewhere new with him.

“It’s a surprise, but I think you’ll like it.” His tone is genuine as his dark tresses flutter in the night’s breeze, walking beside you and guiding you toward a vibrant ramen joint nestled a couple streets away. “Oh, and don’t feel like you have to call me that. I’m Chrollo.”

Chrollo. What an interesting name- yet it fits him perfectly. You say it aloud, which seems to satisfy him. Moments later, you feel his hand cradle the small of your back with the same tenderness of his beloved book as you reach the restaurant’s doors, and it sends heat along the entirety of your skin. Part of you toys with the thought that this could be the beginning of a story of your own, bound in cloth and published in ink for you two to analyze over coffee later.

This creation might be much more beautiful than Frankenstein’s.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

It’s a lovely evening as expected, and Chrollo drops you off at your doorstep with a warm promise to debate literature outside of your work hours again. He’s everything and then some- charming, collected, unafraid to banter with you, and part of you is honestly disappointed that the evening doesn’t escalate further. Still, you’re vibrating with giddiness, unable to rest as you think about your quasi-date with him, and you’re already imagining what kinds of stories you’ll talk about next.

After a few hours of finally sleeping, you’re awoken by a panicked call from one of your coworkers early that next morning. Something about the store’s register being wiped empty of its change, and that’s all you need to hear to be there in record time. Once you arrive, you scope the scene and the coffee shop is perfectly kept the way it was last night, save for the now desolate register. You inspect it carefully, shocked at how meticulously the cash had been removed, and the results of your search make your heart pound. The only items that surface are your door key along with small slip of paper with some elongated handwriting. It couldn’t be.

Your entire being blanches when you read the familiar words straight out of Shelley’s book:

“I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit.”

[ao3cassandraic]

I'm a little confused, what trouble did the Internet Archive get into exactly?

By this I mean, is it going down? Or is it just dealing with politics behind the scenes?

(I occasionally find the Internet Archive to be useful, so I hope it doesn't disappear)

Okay, so, it helps to have context here. First, IA.

IA has its fingers in several pies:

the Wayback Machine (and allied services such as Archive-It) for website preservation

software (including game) preservation

print digitization, which started (I think) as an add-on to software preservation (because manuals matter!) and expanded to pretty much whatever print IA could get its hands on

a lending system for the above digitized collection, known as the "Open Library"

lately, machine-learning tools intended to operate over its digitized-print collections (it's still building this out, I've seen some of the grant applications) -- nothing generative-AI-like yet that I know of, however

A lot of this work is only dubiously and uncertainly within the scope of US copyright. (N.b. IANAL, IANYL, I am certainly not Internet Archive's lawyer, TINLA.) IA takes refuge largely in audacity, and in the centrality of the Wayback Machine to web preservation generally. So they have been known to pull the "if we lose this legal case totally unrelated to web preservation and have to pay gonzo fines, Wayback is in peril!" ripcord.

Is this true? Hell if I know, I don't audit IA's books. I doubt it, though.

What they're in trouble for -- what an appeals court shot them all the way down for yesterday -- is what they did with their Open Library of digitized print books, many of them in-copyright, during COVID lockdown. And to understand all that, we have to untangle some things about US copyright. Ugh, somebody hand me a read-more link.

Why can libraries lend print books, vinyl, cassettes, CDs, and DVDs in the US? Because of a legal doctrine called "the first sale right," which goes like this: if you have a legally-produced physical object containing copyrighted material, you can do whatever the fuck you want with that physical object with zero copyright implications --other than reproduce/copy or perform it (which does have copyright implications, complex ones).

You can (yes) burn it. You can lend it to a friend, or an enemy, or a random stranger. You can give it away. You can throw it away. You can resell it. You can hang it on your wall or in your window. You can make an art installation with it. And the copyright owner cannot win a copyright-based lawsuit over any of this, even if they hate what you're doing! Even if it competes with them selling new copies (as the resale market absolutely does, and as some jerkfaced copyright owners -- usually corporations, not authors! -- love to complain that libraries do)!

Here's the thing, though, and it's an important thing so I'm gonna big-type it:

The right of first sale does not apply to anything digital ever.

Not ebooks (digitized or born-digital, doesn't matter). Not streaming anything. Not paywalled online news or research.

When libraries offer these to patrons, it's through contracts with publishers or aggregators. Long story short, a lot of these contracts are ridiculously restrictive (not to mention expensive) to the point of cartoonish evil, but it's what we have to work with.

The idea behind Controlled Digital Lending is "if libraries purchased a physical item legally, we should get to lend the item to one person at a time as we always have, and it shouldn't actually matter whether what we lend is the physical item or a digital version of it, as long as only one or the other is out to a patron at a given time."

Which is an untested legal theory! I can't tell you whether it's legal! Nobody can! The case law doesn't exist! Yeah yeah, there's relevant past cases in both directions having to do with accessibility or Google Books or whatever, but a specific precedential ruling on CDL is not a thing that presently exists.

No, not even now. Because what IA did with its Open Library during lockdown, and got slapped down for by the court, is not CDL as defined above. IA didn't hold to one-person-at-a-time-per-book. They tried to make a fair-use argument for what they actually did (that is, not for actual CDL), and the court was not having it.

The thing is, IA's stumblebummed legal fuckup means that actual CDL, as actual libraries (n.b. the IA is not an actual library or an actual archives, I will happily die on this hill, I loathe IA like poison and do not want to admit them to my profession, IA people have dissed me and my work TO MY ACTUAL PHYSICAL FACE and they only love libraries or librarians when trying to hide behind us) were trying to design and implement it, now faces additional legal hurdles. Any court looking at an actual CDL program has to take into account IA getting slapped down. And that's if we can even find a library or library consortium with deep enough pockets and hardcore enough legal representation to even defend such a case.

The thing also is, IA just issued Big Publishing a gilt-edged invitation to use this precedent to sue actual libraries, especially academic libraries, over other things we do. (I'm gonna pass over exactly what in silence because I do not want to give those fuckers ideas, but... there have been past lawsuits, look 'em up.) THANKS, BREWSTER. THANKS EVER SO. Asshole.

For a calmer take than mine, check out Library Futures, which to their credit has not given up all hope for CDL.

This IS the short version of all this nonsense, believe me. I used to teach a whole entire three-credit graduate-level course in the long version. (Which IA would doubtless diss to my face if they knew about it.)

[litrly-justagirl]

Luxury, By US: Luxury Looks Good on Us, Don’t You Think?

Luxury, By Us is a celebration of Black excellence in the luxury space. From fashion and jewelry to beauty and lifestyle, this series is dedicated to showcasing the brilliance, creativity, and opulence of Black-owned brands and designers. It’s not just about aesthetics—it’s about reclaiming luxury as something we’ve always deserved, created, and embodied.

Through this series, I’ll take you on a journey through the best of Black luxury, starting with The Style Sovereign. Whether you’re looking for bold statement pieces, timeless classics, or innovative designs, each post will spotlight brands that redefine what it means to be luxurious, by us and for us.

The Style Sovereign

In this debut edition of Luxury, By Us, we’re honoring the regal artistry of Black-owned brands that redefine luxury, one stitch at a time—starting with The Style Sovereign.

This fashion edit isn’t just about clothes; it’s about power moves, bold statements, and pieces that tell a story. These brands don’t just make fashion—they create moments. Let’s dive into the Black designers who are giving luxury the energy it’s been missing.

Black designers have long been architects of elegance, blending bold creativity with timeless sophistication. This series honors their contributions by spotlighting brands that are not only luxurious but rooted in heritage, excellence, and innovation.

Today, we begin with Fumi The Label—a brand that seamlessly merges modernity with bold, unapologetic style. Known for its impeccable tailoring, vibrant prints, and feminine power, Fumi The Label reminds us that fashion is a form of self-expression, and nothing is more luxurious than owning your narrative.

Fumi The Label

The Story Behind the Brand

Fumi The Label, founded by Toronto-based designer Fumi Egbon, was born from a vision to celebrate strength, femininity, and cultural heritage. The brand fuses modern silhouettes with traditional African textiles, creating a unique blend of contemporary elegance and vibrant storytelling. Known for bold minimalist designs and impeccable craftsmanship, Fumi’s pieces empower women to feel fierce, refined, and effortlessly chic, whether for everyday wear or special occasions.

Signature Aesthetic

Fumi The Label’s aesthetic is a perfect mix of versatility and luxury, designed to transition seamlessly from day to night while keeping comfort at the forefront. With each collection, the brand captures that “understated drama” vibe—pieces that elevate your wardrobe while celebrating your individuality.

My Top Picks!

Fumi Fringe Knit Coat

It's made of super-soft, lofty yarn in a gorgeous, rich burgundy or classic black, accentuated by full fringes down the front, which add texture and complexity.  

Camille Panelled Dress

Crafted with fine knit creating the perfect blend of style and allure. Our Camille Dress highlights your soft side and promises to accentuate your natural beauty.

Ariel Maxi Dress

An ombre ruffled dress, the perfect addition to your special occasion wardrobe. This dress features cascading ruffles and a low-cowl back that beautifully accentuates your silhouette.

Why Fumi The Label Defines Luxury

What makes Fumi The Label truly luxurious is not just the aesthetics, but the deep connection between its designs and the culture it celebrates. The brand's commitment to quality fabrics, ethical production, and attention to detail makes each piece feel like a work of art.

There’s a sense of empowerment that comes with wearing Fumi The Label. It’s not just about the clothes; it’s about the woman who wears them—bold, confident, and unapologetically sovereign in her style. The beauty of Fumi The Label lies in how it allows the wearer to embrace their inner royalty, to step into a world where elegance is not earned, but owned.

Explore the Brand

If you're ready to elevate your wardrobe and step into the world of Black luxury, I highly recommend exploring Fumi The Label. Their collections embody a fusion of modernity and tradition, empowering women to express themselves with elegance, strength, and grace.

Which piece from Fumi The Label speaks to your inner sovereign? Head over to check them out here and discover more of their breathtaking designs.

[peachdues]

So does that mean that all fan merch is in a sense illegal? Kinda sucks that we technically can’t do commissions involving an established character :/ would you (as more of a buddy rather than an attorney, if you’re okay with answering) recommend for artists to stop doing commissions involving existing characters?

(Also thank you for your replies:) it’s an interesting subject)

As a friend and not a lawyer, this is a loaded question.

In short — it depends (the most lawyer answer ever lmao). There are doctrines that come into play that protect certain kinds of merch though to be clear, you can still be sued/fined for not having obtained proper licensing. In theory, you can always be sued at any time.

The issue with fan fiction and fan art — particularly that which involves manga and anime — is that it doesn’t quite fall under any of the carved exceptions under copyright law. It’s not transformative because the thing being copied is a character drawing (manga/anime) or use of the characters in a story (manga). It’s not quite fair use either. DONT get me started on doujinishis of manga/anime that get put behind paywalls oh my GOD And, there’s a whole other host of problems that arise once that stuff is published online (DMCA territory).

The reason there isn’t a lot of case law about this stuff is because (1) case law is slow to develop and (2) even some of these exceptions are relatively recent doctrines in copyright law. The courts haven’t yet had the opportunity to flesh them out. That doesn’t mean they won’t.

Make no mistake — it’s coming (“it” being a huge challenge to fan fiction and its dissemination). Especially with how BOLD people are being with printing/binding and selling fan fiction and promoting it on platforms like Etsy (and advertising on TikTok) — it’s bringing a LOT of attention to fanfiction and the threat it poses to the security of the IP it’s based on.

Many of your favorite creators — authors, showrunners, animators, etc. — do not like fanfiction. The more people start trying to get others to pay for that content, the more incentive they have to prosecute it, and they will. They are.

I’m not here to tell you what or what not to do, ultimately, but I can warn you of the truth potential consequences. I understand that people take their craft seriously and want to be rewarded for their labor — but you cannot do that using someone else’s work and then profit off it. Copyright law is no joke.

[robsheridan]

One last set of 2008 promotional portraits I shot of Trent Reznor for Nine Inch Nails' Ghosts I-IV, which marked its 15th anniversary this year. See part one for the story behind this shoot, and see more photo galleries from Ghosts I-IV here.

I also released some Limited Edition signed/numbered fine art photography prints from this shoot.

This is my sixth collection of Ghosts I-IV photography shared here for its 15th anniversary - see the others here.

Read about my desert photography and the creative process of the Ghosts I-IV artwork

This photo set is part of an ongoing reexamination of my work with Nine Inch Nails and How to Destroy Angels that I've been sharing across social media. For more, follow me here on Tumblr and on Instagram and Facebook. If you enjoy my work and want to dig deeper, consider supporting me on Patreon for frequent exclusive hi-res wallpaper packs, behind-the-scenes features, downloads, events, contests, and an awesome fan community. Direct fan support is what keeps me going as an independent creator, and it means the world to me.

[duckprintspress]

Meet Aether Beyond the Binary Contributors Flore Picard and Alec J. Marsh

We are 57% of the way to our funding goal for AETHER BEYOND THE BINARY, with 19 days to go!! This awesome anthology featuring non-binary and genderqueer characters in aetherpunk settings has been in the works for a year, and we’re optimistic that we’ll reach our funding target so that we can publish the book as an e-book, trade paperback, and hardcover. Slow and steady, race winning, you know the deal. 😀 Things have definitely slowed down, as is normal for this stage of the campaign, so just a note that we’d always appreciate your help with spread the word about this project so that more people will know it exists! You can find our “main” posts about the campaign on different platforms using these links:

Bluesky

Dreamwidth

Facebook

Instagram

LinkedIn

Mastodon

Patreon (public post)

Pillowfort

Tiktok

Tumblr

WordPress

Thanks in advance!!

You can learn all about the campaign, the book, the merch, and the authors, by visiting our Kickstarter campaign page!

And, today we’re introducing two more contributing authors: Flore Picard and Alec J. Marsh!

The Light Organ by Flore Picard

About Flore Picard: I’m a linguist and translator who lives in France and I have been itching to write since I learned how to. I started writing (fan)fiction more regularly when I was procrastinating on my PhD dissertation, and I haven’t looked back since. I’m also an artist who loves drawing both fanart and original art, and I have a passion for patterns and systems, for the beauty at the edge of chaos and the complexity of being human. I tend to write about queer and disabled characters finding themselves and each other and learning to take up space in the world.

Links: Instagram | Twitter

This is Flore’s first publication with Duck Prints Press.

Title: The Light Organ

Tags: angst with a happy ending, capitalism is the real villain, coming out, disabled character, emotional hurt/comfort, family, fraught family dynamics, illusion, in the closet, magic use, mechanic, musician, non-binary, parenthood, present tense, science fiction with magic, teenager, third person limited point of view, transphobia (mentions of) (past)

Excerpt:

“No, no, no—the organ, the light ring—it’s all about the imagination, not the mechanics,” Kas exclaims, gesturing widely to encompass the aether pool behind the glass.

“I’m just here for the tubes,” the tech—Gilbert—says flatly.

His face betrays no emotions, not even annoyance. Kas almost wishes he would yell or be rude, if only for the sake of feeling like they’re having an actual conversation, but Gilbert has always been polite. He just never seems to care.

“Fine,” Kas gives up. “We’ve got glitches. They started about a week ago. It could be a leaking tube, I’m not sure.”

“What kind of glitches?”

“It’s as if… as if the story stops responding to me. I know how that sounds, but I swear that’s what happens. It doesn’t last more than a few seconds, but it’s getting worse. Earlier, I powered everything up to tune it and it kept flickering.”

“Flickering,” Gilbert repeats, mumbling into his neatly trimmed beard.

Kas grabs a cane in each hand and makes their way to the organ’s seat. “I can show you.”

You’re Gonna Get Older by Alec J. Marsh

About Alec J. Marsh: Alec lives in the Pacific Northwest, where they write romantic adult fantasy and self-indulgent fanfiction. They make candles inspired by their favorite characters.

Links: Etsy | Instagram | Twitter

Alec is one of the editors for Aether Beyond the Binary and has also published multiple titles with Duck Prints Press. His novella To Drive the Hundred Miles (modern, f/m, trans male lead) was recently successfully crowdfunded and orders fulfilled. His two erotica stories Heart’s Scaffold (sci-fi, m/m) and Study Hall (modern academia, m/m) are part of the Contributor Short Story Bundle add-on.

Title: You’re Gonna Get Older

Tags: arranged marriage, christian, coming of age, coming out, cults, fraught family dynamics, friends, in the closet, lesbian, midwest, misgendering, non-binary, north dakota, past tense, post-apocalyptic, relationship of convenience, religion, song fic, teenager, third person limited pov, trans man, trans woman, transphobia

Excerpt:

There was a radio in the room, an old two-way they had found on their last visit and hidden in an empty supply closet. It was still there. They slid open the battery pack and snapped in a fresh battery from their aether lantern. Chips of the meteor had been encased in metal tubing to mimic the lithium batteries of the Before, but they were precious and had to be used sparingly. Stardancer knew better than to use precious energy on something this frivolous.

They popped the battery cover in place and pressed the power button. It crackled to life. They cradled it like it was made from glass. The dials made a tak-tak-tak noise as Stardancer scrolled through channels. Music came through softly. It faded in and out, cut through with static, but it was music, and not the kind made on an acoustic guitar. They adjusted the antenna and turned up the volume.

It was like nothing they had heard before, fast paced with a heavy beat. Even over the fuzzy AM connection, it was invigorating. They wanted to dance. They wanted to sing along with words they had never heard before. The singer screamed their triumph, and Stardancer felt invincible.

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[rachelillustrates]

!! Happy International Asexuality Day !!

Hugs and cake and solidarity, my lovely fellow aces, all around the world! 🖤🤍💜

Though it’s taken me a long time to come to terms with who I am, I am proud to be under the asexual umbrella, as much as I am proud I’m queer at all, and as much as I am proud to have gotten through everything that’s happened that got me to this moment. Standing here, writing this post. May we build a world where we can all be free to be who we are, and support each other in love and community, no matter what.

I’ve seen a lot of discourse about aces who had the experience of never thinking that something was wrong with them – thinking that they were the only ones being reasonable about things when A Certain Thing Happened. And whether or not that was the prevailing experience, it wasn’t mine. I absolutely thought something was wrong with me. Maybe part of that is being demisexual, not just asexual, and being (what some would deem) hyper-romantic. But I expected certain things to happen for me, and they kind of do, but apparently on very different terms than what society expects. I feel blessed to know, now, that I am not broken. And I hope that anyone else who’s struggling with the same kind of feelings I did can come to that peace, too (and faster than I did!).

Art above featuring “Tock the Gnome,” as always. Representation matters!! And on that note, in honor of the day, here’s a preview of some bonus story that will be available in full soon:

~

Suddenly she found herself falling backwards – landing flat on her back on the ground, her best friend blinking down at her with his jacket on and a basket at the crook of his arm.

“Tock, by Anosmia’s Keys, WHAT under earth -“

She burst into tears.

To which he looked panicked as ever he had, and reached down to gather her up and get her inside before anyone saw.

“What? What is it?” he demanded – slightly sympathetically, slightly exasperatedly – once he finally had the door shut behind them.

She nursed one newly sore elbow, the tears still flowing, but wouldn’t meet his gaze. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

Sighing again, he put the basket on the nearest countertop, bending to lift the wreath off the floor. “Oh surely. This is beautiful, but not beautiful enough to cry over.”

“You don’t have to give me fearful frights about it,” she snapped.

He glared at her, one eyebrow raised. “That is vulgar. And not fair.”

“FINE. If you must know, it’s over. With Derra.”

“…..Okay.”

“What do you mean, okay?” She turned around in a swirl of bronzey skirts, taking a seat three tables away from him, just to be provoking. “I finally put myself – my heart – out there again, and I couldn’t get crushed over her. I can’t do it. I can’t. Even with Copper, even with Lorna, it took me so much to…. something is WRONG with me.”

“I have heard you don’t have to want to go beyond bundling with every person you set your eyes on, Tock. Maybe it’s just -“

“No, it’s different.” She ran her hands through her hair. “I’m different. It takes me so long to get there, if I ever get there, and that’s not enough for so many people. The legends never talk like this!! In the legends, it’s ALWAYS something fast, that clicks in place, and nobody’s ever confused or waiting.”

He sat down next to her, carefully. The wreath turned a slow circuit in his fingers. “…..You said before, you do not think something is wrong with me, Tock.”

She whirled toward him, aghast. “Of course not!”

“Well – then nothing is wrong with YOU, either. So it takes you a while to make that connection, if you ever do, and that’s all that gets you to the kind of relationship our people seem to expect? So what? It’s YOUR life and YOUR heart.”

He bumped her shoulder with his, putting the wreath back into her lap without looking at her.

“No one gets to tell you how to love.”

~

(And sending so much love, to you all!)

💜

~

Bonus art and stories ~ Prints, comics and more!

[richardmurrayhumblr]

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

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THE SERIES

The 4 Pages 16 Bars: A Visual Mixtape trade paperback series is a celebration of where true diversity exists in this industry. It is a living historical document, the gold standard of independent works from creators of color. It is a sampler for potential fans to enjoy our intellectual properties. It is a showcase for existing and upcoming talent and a source guide for those fans to purchase our books.

The first volume dropped in June 2015 with subsequent volumes released in Fall 2015, Winter 2016, Spring 2016 and Fall 2018. We had three very successful Kickstarters for Volumes 6, 7 and 8, which were released in Spring 2021, Summer 2021, and Spring 2022. The ninth volume coincided with the 50th anniversary of Hip Hop in 2023. We’re looking for content that will make up Volume 10 of the longest running anthology series featuring independent works from creators of color.

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CRITERIA

This is what we are looking for: EXCERPTS FROM EXISTING COMIC BOOKS, GRAPHIC NOVELS, E-COMICS WEBCOMICS AND COMIC STRIPS

Minimum of four pages (or comic strips) of a property that has been published or will be published within the next six months.

ILLUSTRATION AND/OR FINE ART

Minimum of four images, maximum of eight images for our gallery spotlight sections. Renditions of characters from popular culture (i.e. Marvel, DC, Star Wars, Star Trek, anime or any other licensed properties) WILL NOT BE ACCEPTED.

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NO AI-GENERATED IMAGES WILL BE ACCEPTED.

ARTICLES, POEMS OR PROSE

We are looking for articles that speak to the history of creators and/or characters of color in comics. These articles are not advertisements, but more so academic explorations of the sequential art medium and popular culture. Maximum of 1500 words.

We are also looking for short stories, poems or excerpts of speculative fiction. Poem submissions have a maximum limit of five entries. Short stories have a maximum of 2500 words. Excerpts from speculative fiction have a maximum of five pages.

GENRE

We are open to all subgenres of speculative fiction. Superheroes, Sci-Fi, Westerns, Horror, Humor, Fantasy… We like it all! It just has to have soul, flavor and people of color should be the focus either “in front of the camera” (characters and concepts) or “behind the scenes” (creative teams). The works in previous volumes are from creators who are Black, white, Asian, LGBTQ, local and global. Our main concerns are QUALITY and AUTHENTICITY.

We are looking for COMPLETED works. Things that already exist. You shouldn’t have to create new work to be included in this project. We’re looking for creators who have taken destiny in their own hands. What we are looking for is the next level; creators who have unique viewpoints and vision. We are looking for creators who continue to move the needle.

With that said, the anthology is basically PG-13. 4 Pages 16 Bars has been taught in universities and resides in libraries. So no gratuitous nudity, gore, etc. If you are questioning the taste level of your work, chances are it is not appropriate for the anthology.

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BUSINESS

All who are selected must have a professional written biography, minimum of 200 words, for inclusion into the anthology.

All who are selected must have a WEBSITE (not just a social media page) for people to view, purchase products and/or procure services.

DEADLINES

COMICS AND ILLUSTRATION: March 15, 2025.

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ARTICLES, SHORT STORIES AND PROSE: March 15, 2025.

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SUBMISSION REQUIREMENTS

All art must be 300dpi (print resolution)

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All art must be sent in either .JPG, .TIF or .PDF formats

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All comic book, graphic novel and E-comic submissions MUST BE 6.625” X 10.25” (full-bleed 6.875” X 10.5”)

Comic book, graphic novel and E-comic submissions must be a MINIMUM OF FOUR PAGES AND A COVER IMAGE WITHOUT text (i.e. logos, subtitles, company identification, etc.)

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All prose, articles, short stories and poems must be sent in a Word document (.doc, .docx) or shared through Google Drive for document conversion.

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If interested, send us samples of your submission through our CONTACT page or our e-mail address info@griotenterprises.com for consideration. Best of luck!

#rmaalbc