#ink refilling service

[dearhnymn]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

PAIRING ⊱ g. karim × fem!reader WORD COUNT ⊱ 3.5k SUMMARY ⊱ when a late-night research session at the archives turn into an accidental lockdown, you and george are forced to pass the time with banter, more haunted case files, and one jar of questionable pickled onions.

© dearhnymn does not consent to their work being copied, translated, altered, or used by ai in any way possible.

The National Archives exuded the musty scent of old paper mingled with a lemony polish that hinted at long-forgotten tales. The air felt thick with unspoken secrets and the slow death of your patience. You flipped through yet another brittle journal, its pages crackling like dry leaves, filled with outdated Type Two classifications and field notes scrawled in a spidery handwriting that only a corpse could love. Across the long reading table, George was in his element—his glasses slightly askew and his face warm and illuminated by the soft glow of a desk lamp.

He paused, gesturing toward the wooden card catalog drawer he had yanked open just ten minutes prior, like a judge in the courtroom. “This filing system is a war crime,” he declared, indignation lacing his voice.

You didn’t look up, tone bored. “Please don’t start.”

　“I’m just saying,” he continued, pulling out a yellowed index card with a flourish reminiscent of a magician unveiling a rabbit. “No one who organizes specter cases under ‘Slightly Corporeal Floaters’ should be allowed near a label maker.”

　“Maybe they were being poetic,” you retorted, unable to resist the urge to defend the outdated system.

　“They were being wrong,” he shot back, slamming the card back in as though it had personally offended him.

With a resigned sigh, you scribbled a note beside a date, the pen scratching against the paper in a rhythm that matched the growing tension in the room. “We’re supposed to be researching the Wexford case, not verbally eulogizing the Dewey Decimal System,” you said, trying to refocus.

George leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face like sunshine breaking through clouds. “You’re only grumpy because I got the last working pen.”

You glared at your own pen, which was sputtering like a dying beetle, refusing to cooperate. “Give me yours.”

　“No.”

　“George.”

He popped the cap off and pretended to write air-notes with an exaggerated flourish. “Sorry, I need it. In the service of truth.”

Unable to hold back your laughter, you tossed a crumpled scrap of paper at him, and it bounced off his forehead.

Despite the light-hearted banter, a comforting rhythm settled in as you flipped through the journals. You found a promising lead in a 1970s field log—something about inconsistent readings and a ghost that changed its voice mid-manifestation. George perked up, his energy palpable.

　“Mimics aren’t supposed to switch tones that fast. That’s more Type Three-adjacent,” he remarked, excitement threading through his voice.

　“That’s not a real classification, George,” you countered, rolling your eyes.

He held the log up, tapping a line with fervor. “It’s in ink. It’s real enough for me.”

You leaned closer, pointing with a sense of purpose. “That says ‘possibly mimetic residue,’ not ‘Type Three.’ You’re reading what you want to read.”

　“You’re insufferable.”

　“And correct.”

The playful scrutiny continued—snapping back and forth like fencing foils—but there was something undeniably nice about it. The atmosphere was comfortable and familiar. You exchanged journals across the table like a secret language, he refilled your tea without prompting, and you corrected his notes with a red pen, each mark a silent understanding between you.

Then, in a moment that felt charged with electricity, you both reached for the same volume—a thick, battered record bound in cracked leather—and your fingers brushed against each other.

Silence stretched, thick and full of unspoken words.

His fingers paused above yours, and you both looked up simultaneously.

His eyes widened behind his glasses, a spark of surprise mixed with something else. There was a brief pause—more intimate than you expected—before he cleared his throat, pulled away, and muttered, “You can… you can take it.”

And so you did, though you felt your heartbeat quickening slightly, a vivid sense of awareness washing over you as you quietly claimed the book.

Neither of you spoke for what felt like an eternity after that.

The desk lamp flickered twice, a hesitant heartbeat in the quiet, before the overhead lights emitted a loud click and dimmed to half power, casting strange shadows across the room.

You both froze, tension settling over you like a heavy fog.

　“Was that...?” you began, uncertainty creeping into your voice.

A second click followed, more deliberate. Metal echoed in the distance—doors slamming with a heavy finality that sent chills down your spine.

You shifted your posture, sitting up straighter, heart racing as anticipation gnawed at your stomach. George tilted his head like a bloodhound catching a scent, his expression sharpening with awareness.

　“I think that was the front lock,” you said slowly, the realization hitting you.

He stood, urgency coursing through him as he moved toward the main hall. “Yup. Yup. That was the deadbolt.”

You followed closely, dread rising like cold fog enveloping your thoughts. “You said we had until ten.”

George snorted, reflecting your mounting anxiety with a hint of humor. “I said probably ten. Archives policy says nine-thirty. And you didn’t check the clock, did you?”

　'I was busy doing actual research,” you shot back defensively.

　“And flirting with footnotes, clearly.” He reached the door and yanked it hard. Nothing. He rattled the handle once, twice, for good measure, then pressed his forehead against the thick glass, frustration mingling with concern.

　“Well,” he said after a beat, frustratedly running a hand through his hair, “we live here now.”

You stared at him, disbelief washing over you. “We what?”

He turned to face you with a tight-lipped smile. “Welcome to the night shift, partner.”

With a scoff and a dramatic eye roll, you pivot back to the chaotic mountain of yellowed files and timeworn newspapers that cluttered your desk. In the midst of the disarray lay a haphazardly stacked collection of messily scribbled notebooks, their pages crammed with frantic ideas and half-formed thoughts. A plate of biscuits, brought in earlier by George and now nearly emptied, sat temptingly close, their sweet aroma still lingering in the air—a moment of indulgence swallowed in mere minutes.

　“Best get back to it then,” you murmured to yourself, a hint of resignation lacing your tone. You pulled your chair out with a creak that echoed the weariness of the day, sinking into its familiar embrace. With a heavy sigh, you leaned over the journal sprawled open before you, its blank pages seeming to taunt you as you fought against the tide of exhaustion and the daunting task that lay ahead.

With a scoff and a dramatic eye roll, you pivot back to the chaotic mountain of yellowed files and timeworn newspapers that cluttered your desk. In the midst of the disarray lay a haphazardly stacked collection of messily scribbled notebooks, their pages crammed with frantic ideas and half-formed thoughts. A plate of biscuits, brought in earlier by George and now nearly emptied, sat temptingly close, their sweet aroma still lingering in the air—a moment of indulgence swallowed in mere minutes.

Behind you, George let out a soft whistle, his silhouette crossing the dusty spill of moonlight filtering through the tall windows.

　“Locked in with nothing but dusty manuscripts, ghost taxonomy, and my sparkling company,” he said, plopping into the armchair across from you. “Truly, a dream come true.”

You didn’t even look up. “If I vanish tonight, you’re going to be the prime suspect.”

He grinned around a biscuit. “If you vanish, I’m eating the rest of these in your memory.”

You gave him a long look, the corners of your mouth twitching. “You already ate most of them.”

　“Exactly,” he said, raising a brow. “Wouldn’t want them to go stale.”

Despite everything—the flickering lights, the locked doors, the oppressive quiet—you felt the tension ease, just a little. The familiar rhythm returned. You scribbled notes while George mumbled half-formed theories aloud, flipping between sources and occasionally tossing a book your way like you were his very reluctant lab partner.

　“So,” he began, flipping open a journal so worn its spine groaned in protest, “do we think the Wexford ghost is a mimic, a restless residual, or just an unusually noisy radiator?”

You flipped a page. “If it’s a radiator, it’s the first one to whisper children’s lullabies in reverse Latin.”

George blinked. “Touché.”

You smirked behind your notes, and for a few minutes, you both worked in a companionable quiet. Only the occasional sound of paper rustling, a pen scratching, or George mumbling something vaguely intelligent under his breath punctuated the stillness. The library, despite its locked doors and aging woodwork, felt less like a trap and more like an eccentric sleepover—if sleepovers involved crumbling files, mild existential dread, and at least one person who brought an entire pantry in their satchel.

Time lost its edges sometime around the third footnote dispute.

You were half-curled around a cracked volume of Spectral Residue and Other Oddities, fingers smudged with ink and dust, George cross-legged beside a tower of marginally useful witness statements. You’d both settled into that strange, caffeine-fueled rhythm where silence didn’t mean disinterest—it meant concentration, immersion, a truce forged in mutual exhaustion and the shared pursuit of answers.

　“No way this one’s real,” you muttered, nudging a tattered page toward him, the thin paper crinkling under your fingers. “A headless monk and a cursed weathercock? Bit greedy for ghost stories, don’t you think?”

He didn’t even look up, his focus laser-like as he studied the contents. “It’s from the St. Wythorne collection. They added embellishments to everything. One file claims a ghost interrupted tea with Queen Victoria.”

　“Now that’s the haunting I want,” you said, grinning at the absurdity of it. “Imagine getting cursed over chamomile—it’s practically scandalous.”

George flicked a page pointedly, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes, yet he stayed stubbornly silent.

Minutes later, he found himself snorting as he read another witness account—so overwrought it could have been a poorly-written romance novel. He tapped the edge of the page, incredulous. “This woman claims the ghost moaned at her window for ‘fourteen consecutive nights.’”

You leaned in closer, your curiosity piqued, and replied, “Romantic.”

　“She was eighty-three,” he said, incredulous.

You raised both eyebrows, a grin creeping onto your face. “Still romantic! Well, in a way.”

He rolled his eyes, but he didn’t pull away when you leaned closer, your breath stirring the hair near his temple. The small space felt electric, the proximity igniting an unexpected connection between you.

For a little while, the atmosphere shifted. You both fell into a rhythm, the dim light of flashlights illuminating the array of notes, files, and journals scattered around you. He read aloud in exaggerated accents, and you couldn’t help but correct his footnote citations. It was in those moments, as laughter punctuated the silence, that the task transformed into something deeper—a shared experience, strange yet exhilarating.

Then, without warning, your flashlight flickered.

Both of you looked up, the stillness of the room pressing in, curtaining off the outside world. The clocks had long ceased their ticking, leaving an unsettling silence in their wake.

　“Alright, this is unbearable,” You declared, stretching. “We need cushions, snacks, and a morale boost! Preferably in that order.”

　“You mean we need to make a camp,” he replied dryly, looking up from his notebook.

　“Yes, exactly! Every good stakeout has a proper base of operations,” you said, beaming.

Albeit reluctantly, George helped you gather supplies—dragging a few neglected coats and archival binders from a shadowy back corner, rearranging a reading rug and a stack of encyclopedias into something that vaguely resembled a fort. You, as always, pulled more snacks from the cavernous depths of your bag: crisps, boiled sweets, a squashed chocolate bar, and, to your horror, pickled onions.

　“Absolutely not,” George protested, recoiling.

　“You say that now,” You replied smugly, placing the jar beside the biscuits with the reverence of a curator unveiling a masterpiece. “But give it an hour; you’ll understand.”

George didn’t argue.

You both settled cross-legged on opposite sides of the makeshift rug, flashlights propped upright like guardians between stacks of books, casting a soft, warm glow around you. The scent of the biscuits lingered in the air, mingling with the dust and the musty aroma of the old pages. For a moment, time lost its weight, and the quiet felt like a comforting embrace. Your shoulders, once tense from the work and the atmosphere, began to relax. The pages took on a gentle blur, but it was a blur you didn’t mind—one that wrapped you in a sense of calm.

Eventually, the quiet fractured, giving way to scattered conversation. You shared your worst field assignment, a tale of a collapsed root cellar filled with ancient animal bones and a lingering odor that had haunted your coat long after. George responded with a story of nearly falling into a canal during a night stakeout, trying to impress a girl.

　“Did it work?” you asked, your curiosity sparked.

He smiled faintly, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his eyes. “She laughed at me. But I still kind of liked her for it.”

You laughed, the sound mingling with the shadows of the room as you reached to grab another file. Your flashlight caught the edge of one of his open notebooks, and you paused, squinting at the scribbled pages before you.

　“George,” you said slowly, the words lingering between you, “is this… your handwriting?”

　“Allegedly,” he replied flatly.

　“It looks like someone tried to summon a demon using only their left foot,” you snorted, unable to hide your amusement.

　“That’s rude,” he shot back, clearly offended “My left foot has very elegant penmanship, thank you very much.”

You leaned in, the space between you narrowing. “Is this the word ‘lantern’ or ‘lemonade’?” you asked, caught between laughter and curiosity.

He examined it, shrugging with a playful grin. “Yes.”

You burst out laughing, the sound brightening the dimness of the room. George’s expression shifted; he beamed as if winning a small victory, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver of warmth down your spine.

There was something softer about him in this light—no bravado, just the raw and unpolished boy who always had too many thoughts swirling in his head and never enough notebooks to capture them all.

　“Truth is,” he said, almost absently, “I like this part better.”

You looked up, intrigued by the unexpected candor in his voice.

　“This—research. Sitting still. Books don’t shout or disappear through walls or throw things when they’re angry,” he continued, his gaze growing distant as if he were lost in a memory.

You tilted your head, taken off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “Books don’t scream,” he added softer now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. “They just… wait for you.”

The silence that enveloped you felt pregnant with understanding, a shared moment that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

　“I used to be scared of libraries,” you offered after a beat, the vulnerability in your voice surprising you. “Back when I first started. One time, I stayed late to finish filing a report, and the building creaked like it was breathing. I thought I was alone.”

George raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of rapt attention.

　“Then I heard someone say my name. My exact voice. But I hadn’t spoken,” you continued, your heart racing just from the memory.

He didn’t joke, didn’t interrupt. He simply listened, his silence an invitation for you to share more.

　“I didn’t sleep for three nights after that. I never went back in without backup again,” you finished, the lingering fear of that experience weighing in your chest.

There was a pause, his hand shifting a little closer to yours, the warmth of his presence grounding you amidst those memories.

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t need to.

The world outside the windows had succumbed to darkness, the kind of pitch black that pressed against the glass like a wall, isolating you in your little haven. Your limbs ached from being curled up for too long, and George, seeking comfort, had sprawled beside you, close enough that your knees brushed together every time either of you shifted.

At some point, you leaned over to pass him a chocolate biscuit, your fingers grazing his. It was a subtle touch, but it sent a quiet thrill coursing through you, an understanding unspoken, lingering in the air between your hearts.

Eventually, your head found its way to his shoulder, a gentle surrender to the moment. It wasn’t a deliberate choice; it just happened. His shoulder was an unexpected refuge—warm and inviting—his coat soft against your cheek, the fabric a cocoon that shielded you from the world outside. You could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, a calm rhythm that matched the rising and falling of your breath, grounding you in this space between uncertainty and comfort.

George remained motionless, his body relaxing into the shared silence, a quiet acceptance that spoke volumes. It was as if this was the very outcome he had yearned for but never dared to hope would come true. There was an unspoken understanding between you, a thread woven from the moments that had brought you here, binding your fates in a tapestry of emotion both delicate and profound.

Neither of you felt the need to fill the silence with words. It wasn’t that there was nothing to say; instead, the air around you vibrated with unexpressed thoughts and feelings—an intimacy that transformed the quiet into something tangible. It was a soft, full, golden silence, rich with promise and unfulfilled desires. The kind that seems to whisper, stay here a little longer, as if the universe had conspired to suspend time just for the two of you, inviting you to linger in the warmth of each other’s presence.

The first sound that stirred you was the slow creak of the library doors swinging open. Not the phantom sounds you'd imagined all night—the ones you’d half-convinced yourself were ghosts or dreams—but something real. Solid. Morning had arrived with it, golden and certain, spilling into the dusty quiet like it belonged there.

Your eyes blinked open, sluggish and unfocused. The world smelled like old books and fading candle wax, and something warmer—someone warmer. A slow, steady heartbeat not your own, the whisper of shared breath.

Books were everywhere. Notes trailed across the floor like breadcrumbs, mingled with biscuit crumbs and half-drunk tea. You shifted slightly—and that’s when you felt him.

George.

At some point in the long, ink-stained night, he had drifted closer. His head rested gently against yours, as if it had simply found its way there in sleep. His coat was wrapped around both of you, one side slipped over your shoulder like a quiet promise. And his hand—his hand was curled around yours. Soft. Thoughtless. Like it had always been there.

Your breath caught. And across from you, his did too.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moved. The silence between your fingertips was louder than anything you’d ever read in a haunted case file.

Then came the second sound: Lockwood’s voice, far too smug for this hour. “Well, well. Hope we’re not interrupting.”

You jolted upright, heart lurching painfully in your chest. George twitched like he’d been struck, narrowly missing a precarious tower of case files. Your hands tore apart, clumsy and sudden, as if you’d been caught with a spell half-cast.

Lockwood stood in the doorway like it was a stage entrance. Behind him, Lucy held two takeaway coffees and a smile that hovered somewhere between genuine delight and knowing mischief.

“Didn’t know the research division had turned into a sleepover club,” she said sweetly.

“We were—locked in,” you blurted, your voice hoarse with sleep and something else you didn’t want to name.

George ran a hand through his hair, his curls standing on end. “Very haunted door,” he offered. “Wicked personality. Wouldn’t let us out.”

Lockwood gave him a long look. “You’re not assigned to a haunting.”

“No,” you said, too quickly, stumbling to your feet. “Just… archival cross-referencing. For future cases. You know. Standard protocol.”

George stood as well, smoothing his shirt with shaking hands, eyes flicking everywhere but at you. But his ears were pink. So were yours.

Lucy’s gaze drifted over the mess—the blanket-fort of paperwork, the twin mugs gone cold, the trail of sleep-drunken scribbles—and she raised her brows. “Well, this explains why no one answered their phones. I was this close to assuming one of you had fallen into a cursed filing cabinet.”

“Oh, that almost happened,” you said in grinning sarcasm. “Very narrow escape. Tragic.”

Lucy rolled her eyes and stepped in to help as you fumbled through gathering the scattered notebooks and wrappers, your hands clumsy, your thoughts louder than they had any right to be. Lockwood’s grin was sharp, Lucy’s knowing. George joined you wordlessly, his fingers brushing yours again in a moment so fleeting it could’ve been missed.

Neither of you said anything about it.

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed to support your favorite authors! let me know when if you want to be added to the taglist :)

⭐️　taglist: @eeechooo

[ltechofficial]

I kinda wanna see how you’d go about a hypnotized monster. Like a werewolf who was a menace to civilization but now is an absolute doll, like a 7 foot tall monster who rolls over right after refilling the ink on the large office printer. Absolutely golden-retreiverfied

(Hope I’m not being rude by asking in the wrong place)

Hehehe no ur not rude... For a werewolf it would be cute to do a domestication type thing... become the pet and loyal friend to the village you terrorized before. 😇 For that I think having flashes of violent urges and ur old memories but slowly being turned totally puppy. And L-Tech scenario with a large OS is vewy cute. Especially if OS was shy abt their size before and is now serene and moe

If people ever want to commission me for to make a gap moe hypno scenario for your oc I'm at ur service btw.

[chaotic-archaeologist]

First day went great, classroom straightened out. I'm taking cultural anthropology and political science this semester :) I took sociology last semester it's all so fascinating. The intricate process through time and how we've come about...yet humans are still humans everything has changed yet nothing has...sorry did not mean to ramble, tired because 2 of my books are e-books and I get headaches. But I had a question any suggestion on how to take good notes? I can't physically write for long cause hard to hold pen, but I remember better by writing it down

I'm like you in the sense that I remember things much better when I take handwritten notes, and my hand cramps up very quickly. I don't know if this will work for you, but switching to a fountain pen really helped me because you have to apply virtually no pressure to get the pen to write. There might also be some adaptive grips that might be helpful for you?

You can get a great basic pen, a Pilot Metropolitan for about $20 with ink refills for $5, or a package of 12 single use ones for $23 (they're over 40% off right now).

If you can afford some sort of tablet, taking notes on that might help you not strain your hand. I've seen a lot of left-handed students preferring to take notes on a tablet because the writing doesn't get smeared that way.

Check in with your school's disability service office and ask if they have any resources they can connect you with. They might have something you can use too!

Cheers, -Reid

[strictlyfavorites]

A young cashier told an older woman that she should bring her grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment. The woman apologized, "We didn't have this green thing back in my day."

The young clerk said, "Your generation did not care enough to save our environment for future generations." She gave him a firm stare and a hard grin and said “Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles, and beer bottles. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over. They were recycled.

Grocery stores bagged our groceries in brown paper bags, which we reused for numerous things. We walked upstairs because we didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks.

Back then, we washed the baby's diapers because we didn't have the throwaway kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy-gobbling machine burning up 220 volts -- wind and solar power did dry our clothes back in our day. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. The TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief, not a screen the size of the state of Montana. In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used wadded-up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap.

Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades with a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.

Back then, people took a bus and kids rode their bikes instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 23,000 miles in space to find the nearest burger joint. But the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn't have the green thing.”

The cashier stood there still and quiet as the old lady found her wallet to pay. Then lady turned to leave but stepped back and turned toward the cashier. She said “You have a world of knowledge in that little device in your hand. Pity you just use it to gossip, take pictures, and waste time. It would do you good to search a bit of history before you embarrass yourself like this again.

Forward this to another selfish old person who needs a lesson in conservation from a smart-ass young person.

[floridaboiler]

Back in the day!

Anyone age approx 35 or over should read this - copied from a friend ... Checking out at the supermarket recently, the young cashier suggested I should bring my own bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment. I apologised and explained, "We didn't have this green thing back in my earlier days". the cashier responded, "That's our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment for future generations".

She was right about one thing--our generation didn't have the green thing in “Our” day. So what did we have back then? After some reflection and soul-searching on "Our" day here's what I remembered we did have.... Back then, we returned milk bottles, pop bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles repeatedly. So they really were recycled. But we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

We walked up stairs, because we didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks. But she was right. We didn't have the green thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby's nappies because we didn't have the throw-away kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 240 volts -- wind and solar power really did dry our clothes back in our early days. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing. But that young lady is right. We didn't have the green thing back in our day.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the state of Wales. In the kitchen, we blended & stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap. Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn petrol just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity. But she's right. We didn't have the green thing back then.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull. But we didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the bus, and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their mums into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest pizza joint. But isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we older folks were just because we didn't have the green thing back then?

Please post this on your blog so another selfish old person who needs a lesson in conservation from a smarty-pants young person can read this!

[naveenatechnologies]

Naveena Technologies 📷🎥🖨️ Authorised Resellers of Cameras of renowned brands such as SONY , CANON , NIKON , PANASONIC & FUJIFILM and Printers of EPSON , HP , CANON, BROTHER & DNP….. We deal with brands such as SIGMA, GODOX, HOLLYLAND, DJI, ZIESS, LEXAR, VANGUARD, MANFROTTO, NISI, VILTROX, SAMYANG, SIRUI, DIGITEK etc. Photography equipment such as Cameras, DSLRs, Gimbals, Tripods, Memory Cards, Flashes, Continuous Lights, Stick Lights are available with Us. We also deal with Photo Printers, Xerox Printers, Photo Papers of all sizes, Inks, Catridges, Refilling Inks for Printers. We have 12 Years of experience in Printers Business offering Sales and services for renowned brands such as EPSON, CANON, HP, BROTHER & DNP ; NOVA & VMS"

[mahiiimahiiii]

Crocus: snippet!

A/n: here's a snippet from my current wip! It is multi chaptered so I'm trying to give you more of a tasty long form fiction.

The caves themselves were humid, scattered with small waterfalls and clay bricks of faded colors. Ferns, moss and purple flowers grew from spigots of water and areas that drew a lot of moisture. You say down a moment near one of the spigots, refilling your canteen. You wet a cloth under the water and wiped the sweat from your brow. You decided that now, a better time than any, was good for a snack. You pulled out a wedge of cheese, a pack of pickled fish and a chunk of bread. The cheese spread like butter, it was spiced, and tastes like your mother's mephistar cooking. You layered it with chunky and salty pieces of bone-free tuna. A pretty shitty meal at best but one that will keep you going for a while The sound of padded paws and jingling bells graces your ears, a tressym spotted like a tortoiseshell cat came into view, it grimaced at the scent of the fish.

You broke off a bit of the clean bread and offered it to the cat. She scarfed it down and began to kick her leg like a chicken drumstick.

"That fish wont sustain you for much, you know." The cat stated pointedly, her eyes scrunched close in concentration.

The packing supplies rattled slightly as you put them away, doing a small Jump in surprise.

"I'm well aware, this was a snack before I scout out a place to camp."

"Camp?!" The cat scoffed, "my friend runs a small inn nearby, he'll be happy to have guests. We have them more often in the winter during a specific ceremony for worshipers of Silvanus escorting their friends into hibernation. "

"But I'm here to find-"

"Nonsense, a cup of tea will clear your head, whatever you're finding will make sense after a good night sleep."

The cat brushed herself along your legs.

You stood up, following her into the depths of the maze, eventually the cracked and sandy floor turned into a smooth rock brick. The art was newer in the walls, possibly done by previous worshippers. A sign that looked like the same green kettle settled on a beam of a building built into an alcove Your fingers brushes against the wood of the doorframe, the rest of the village that peered off the balcony below into the depths of the underdark bustled and hummed. The cat found a plush cushion at the desk, small keys hung behind her, as well as rows of books. The floor was aged wood, cracks filled in with dark cool clay. The room was open air, with small lanterns filled with enchanted candles filled with spices. The tressym stretches, nipping at an enchanted pen and stamping her own paw in ink, marking down in a book.

"Name?" She asked.

"Uhm.. Li'ia Obbon."

"Your room will be number 6”.

"That is very generous of you " you grasp at the key floating towards you

"First night is free alongside the baths, you will have to pay for food though."

"Oh- that's quite the lovely deal."

The cat herself shrugged, "we have a lot passing through, we simply offer better services for those staying longer- as good will be a more 'on-the house' thing as you're paying for it with room and board."

You Hum in acknowledgement, the tressym cleans her paws in water and dries them on a towel nearby.

"I suggest you have a bath before the master wakes, he takes a while."

"He is nocturnal?" You tilt your head, slightly fascinated.

"Only until recently. Then he had a late-night reading session, and it went downhill from there."

"Thank you for the tip." The keys are heavy in your hand as you hiked up the stairs, your pack weighing heavily on your back. The hall was of the same cool wood, filled with dark clay. The key slotted into the hole and turned, revealing a large room with upwards windows bright beams of the lowering sun flooded the room.

[teaweltzer]

Hello teaweltzer! May I ask what tools/service you use to make your stickers and prints? I’d like to print my own art one day, but I have no idea how it’s done. Thank you!

Hi!

I get my stickers made through Stickerapp (cause hand cutting ouch & I get too mad at my Cricut for accuracy)

Prints I do at home! I have a Canon PIXMA ix6820, off brand ink through Precision Colors with refillable cartridges, paper is Epson premium matte presentation paper (they have an ultra presentation paper if you want thicker too. Plus the Epson website has sales on these papers fairly often).

Hope this is helpful!

[gotviewsco]

A young cashier told an older woman that she should bring her grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment. The woman apologized, "We didn't have this green thing back in my day."

The young clerk said, "Your generation did not care enough to save our environment for future generations." She gave him a firm stare and a hard grin and said “Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles, and beer bottles. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over. They were recycled.

Grocery stores bagged our groceries in brown paper bags, which we reused for numerous things. We walked upstairs because we didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks.

Back then, we washed the baby's diapers because we didn't have the throwaway kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy-gobbling machine burning up 220 volts -- wind and solar power did dry our clothes back in our day. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. The TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief, not a screen the size of the state of Montana. In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used wadded-up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap.

Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades with a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.

Back then, people took a bus and kids rode their bikes instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 23,000 miles in space to find the nearest burger joint. But the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn't have the green thing.”

The cashier stood there still and quiet as the old lady found her wallet to pay. Then lady turned to leave but stepped back and turned toward the cashier. She said “You have a world of knowledge in that little device in your hand. Pity you just use it to gossip, take pictures, and waste time. It would do you good to search a bit of history before you embarrass yourself like this again.

[ssukidesu]

Inextricably Knotted (an Inukag + Jane Eyre AU) [Chapter 8]

Summary: Kagome Higurashi was orphaned as a baby and raised by her cruel aunt until the age of ten, after which she went to school and learned the art of service and self-suppression. Now eighteen, Kagome takes a job as the governess of Shippo, the young ward of the great and mysterious Lord Inuyasha Taisho.

But as Kagome gets to know her bemusing master, a ghost seems to haunt his estate, hinting that there is a long-lost secret hiding on the third floor.

(Read on AO3)

tag list: @heynikkiyousofine @xanthippe-writes

Chapter 8: An Unexpected Guest

Another week passed. Kagome managed to adjust to her subjection to not only the party’s gatherings at night but also its foul glances and slights during the day. Because of her consistent evening presence with them, Kagome could no longer successfully be ignored. Most of their attention came in the form of treating her like a servant. The ladies would ask her to refill their tea and wine, or to deliver letters to the courier, or to bring them their shawls when the fireplace did not offer enough heat. When Mr. Taisho was present to witness it, he would say nothing to deter them or correct the mistake. Just this morning, after Lady Kagura interrupted Kagome’s breakfast to ask her to fetch a quill and ink, the latter lifted her gaze for a brief second to her master across the dining room and found him already looking at her, an expression of quiet curiosity on his face. She could not stifle her look of annoyance toward him, and she could have sworn that his eye twinkled with entertainment in response.

Later that night, before Mr. Taisho joined them all in the drawing room, Kagome ascertained that Lady Yura had witnessed the subtle exchange. The demoness, who currently sat between her sister and Sir Koga, beckoned her over with a sharp smile plastered on her face. 

“Yes ma’am?” said Kagome politely, looking her squarely in the eye. 

“I’ve been wondering something about you. Would you mind satisfying my curiosity?” she purred.

Kagome’s eyes flicked to the two beside her and determined that they were not debriefed of her plot beforehand. Lady Kagura seemed to anticipate her sister’s words excitedly, while Sir Koga seemed more so to dread them, if his tight, cringing smile was any indication.

“If it is within my power, ma’am,” she answered.

Yura reclined in her chair and brought one gloved hand to trace the pearls gracing her pale neck. “How old are you?”

“I’ll be nineteen this autumn.”

The sisters shared a scandalously amused look. 

Lady Yura’s white teeth flashed an antipathetic grin of which only females were capable. “I had an inkling! How strange it is—to be teaching a boy only a couple of years younger than you. I do wonder how old you’ll be once he graduates from your tutelage. What will it take for him to reach adulthood—fifteen, twenty more years?”

Lady Kagura nodded in agreement. Kagome caught Koga staring at her with a look of smothered discomfort. She offered him a small smile, appreciative of his silent sympathy.

Lady Yura continued, “And, oh—how fragile the human constitution is! There are many who do not even make it to thirty five due to sickness. Can you imagine, sister, living only a few decades before being pursued by death?”

Kagome bit the inside of her cheek. “My lot is indeed less agreeable than yours, my Lady. In fact, I probably ought to conclude our conversing this instant to save myself the precious seconds that dwindle away as we speak.”

Her heart pounded at her own insolence. Lady Yura scowled at her, and in the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Koga stifle laughter. She would have flicked her gaze to him, had not another voice risen from behind her.

“Miss Higurashi, surely you know better than to encourage Lady Yura’s playfulness. You speak of precious seconds, but one does not trifle with her without a full hour to spare for the spar.”

Kagome turned at her master’s teasing tone, and had not her jaw already been clenched, it would have fallen open.

Mr. Taisho stood not three feet from her, his silver hair pinned in a simple yet masculine bun at the base of his neck, his braided forelocks draping along his jaw and secured beneath, much like the style she had performed on him months before. He quirked a brow at her speechlessness, a fond, knowing look telling her that he had succeeded in catalyzing the reaction he desired.

“You may return to your seat, Miss Higurashi,” he said.

Kagome gulped in relief at his command, pulling her eyes from his face and to the floor in one movement as she bowed her head once. She resumed her lonely place—Shippo having been sent to bed early due to a mild sickness—and picked up her book again. As her eyes traced the words, her master’s voice sabotaged her focus.

“I’ll be erranding to town early tomorrow. Would that I could stay up gallivanting with you all till dawn, but I must retire if I’m to survive the trip. You can stay up as late as you wish; just tell the servants when you are turning in so they can put the drawing room to rest.” 

Kagome peered up at him curiously, wondering if he had the audacity to expect her to stay until the rest of the party left. Mr. Taisho strode toward the door, which was near her seat, and before she could begin lamenting her charge, he paused, leaned down toward her, and muttered pleasantly, “You can retire whenever you like, as well.” With that, he continued out of the room and to the right. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Was that his way of being subtle? thought Kagome in horror as she felt the weight of the room’s scrutinous eyes. Lady Yura managed to school her features, but Kagome felt the very air between them darken with a new shadow that no doubt spelled future trouble.

As much as Kagome feared the thought that the group saw through his faux dismissal, she did not feel at liberty to play dumb herself. She closed her book, stood, bowed her head once more, and exited the room. She even turned left upon leaving to make it appear like she was not following him; not until the door closed behind her did she timidly spin on her heel to begin her true pursuit.

Which did not take long—for he, too, had only pretended. He was waiting on her, back against the wall and arms crossed. The amused smirk on his face told her that he saw her little ploy to throw off his guests during her exit.

Blood rushed to her face. Careful not to outright stomp, Kagome approached his relaxed form. She was just about to demand an explanation when he held up a shushing finger and kicked off the wall. His back to her, he led them on. 

Once they passed the bend and gathered a safe distance from the parlor, he spoke: “I need you for something.”

“At ten thirty at night?”

“As I said,” he began, turning his head to glance goldenly at her, “I’m leaving early in the morning. I’d rather not wait.”

“And you didn’t see it fit to approach me during my working hours?” she drawled.

“I’ll add a pound to your wages for the trouble,” he said sardonically.

Kagome was curious, yes—but as it became increasingly clear that he was leading them to his bedroom, the pounding of her heart almost became too much to bear.

Upon reaching his door, he stood within the frame and held it open for her. She moved to pass through the narrow path without making eye contact, but he held out his arm just in time to stop her. She peered up at him quizzically and found all evidence of humor gone. “Still think I might be the kind of savage to tear apart unsuspecting humans, do you?”

Kagome opened her mouth to protest, but his glare silenced her. “I could have heard your heartbeat from a mile away. You earnestly think I’ve brought you here to harm you? If that were so, I’d at least raise your salary by five pounds for the trouble,” he teased.

Kagome pouted in defense. “It is strange being beckoned to a man’s quarters so late at night.”

In response, he lowered his arm to allow her passage.

The fireplace and lamps were lit, basking his room in a warm orange glow. Once inside, she stopped after only a few feet, her nerves whispering to stay as far from his couch and bed as possible—not that her logical brain suspected foul intent on his part, but she felt a spirit of wildness that made her jittery and unknowable to herself. 

He passed by her and walked to his desk. He shuffled through papers a moment, scowling at every letter that did not prove the item of interest, until finally he found his prize. She could not see it from where she stood, but once he returned to his place in front of her, she saw that it was a small envelope.

“It came this afternoon. It’s addressed to you,” he stated, extending it.

She did not immediately move to take it, her gaze instead fixed suspiciously on his face. “What is it?” she pressed.

Inuyasha glowered at her hesitance, taking a half step closer to insist her receipt. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not one to intercept others’ mail. It is your business alone, unless you’re feeling talkative.”

Offering him one final tentative glance, Kagome took it. It was addressed to her in an unassuming fashion: To Miss Kagome Higurashi, governess at the residence of Lord Inuyasha Taisho, Judai-Ju Hall. There was no return address.

She peered back up at him and found his eyes wide with interest and ears angled squarely toward her.

“What—was it written in blood or something?” she tittered.

He puffed air from his nose and glared at her, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Forgive me for being curious. You’re most mysterious, with your supposed lack of relations. You’ve never received mail before. I can’t help it.”

“Well, then I suppose I should leave before you do turn savage and rip the envelope apart."

A month before, Kagome never could have imagined that she would feel comfortable enough to joke in such a way. But after listening night after night to the lighthearted humor of his friends, she felt that she could survive something this small. 

But perhaps she was mistaken. Her small grin froze when he clicked his tongue and narrowed his eyes, his chin tilting up to make his downward gaze outright deriding. He took a step toward her, which she mirrored with her own step backwards. He stepped again, and again, until her back was pressing against the door. She had half a mind to turn the knob and flee, but he finally halted, and his hands stayed in his pockets. But he was close enough that she could smell the lingering cigar smoke on his breath. 

His simmering eyes bore into her frightened ones. She sucked in a breath and began to apologize, “Sir, I didn’t mean—”

But then he was smiling. With her return to silence, he began to chuckle. “You say I do not frighten you,” he began lowly, teeth glinting in the firelight. She suddenly recalled the last time they were alone together in this very room—when he was near her quite similar to this. But his look now was far more vicious. He came even closer, lowered his face to her neck, and breathed deeply, the tip of his nose brushing her pulse. He went on, “But when it comes to it, you flee at the littlest things.” He blew a warm stream of air against her throat, as if to prove his point with an experiment. She felt the husk of his voice reverberate throughout her whole body. “Now, show me those wings of yours.”

She had tilted her face to pull away from him—which only served to give him greater access to her skin—and at the sensation of his breath and the command of his voice, she snapped into action, hand finally fumbling for the knob. Once she found it, she yanked it wildly and nearly fell backwards at its immediate opening. The air of the hall was far crisper, and it felt like escaping the entrapment of a dream. She stumbled backwards, eyes glued to his smug face all the while, and managed to stutter a “Goodnight,” before turning to flee. He did not follow.

Upon entering her room, Kagome absentmindedly approached her vanity to undo her hair and found her face and neck glowing crimson. She inspected her neck where he had nuzzled her and found no evidence—not that she thought there would be any—despite the lingering sensation of tingling. 

The envelope, which she had placed on her desk, remained unopened. 

With Mr. Taisho gone the next morning, and with Shippo still ill, Kagome had very little reason to leave her bedroom. She would have stayed all day—if only to avoid encountering the sisters—had not her stomach rumbled its displeasure.

Luckily, it appeared that the master’s absence also gave the others a reason to stay scarce. Kagome only encountered Kaede in the kitchen. 

Upon greeting her, Lady Kaede mused aloud, “Just when I become used to running a nearly vacant house, visitors keep coming from the woodwork…”

“Has someone new come today, ma’am?” asked Kagome while she filled her plate with biscuits from the covered basket on the table. 

“Indeed—one Suikotsu from the continent. He says he is an old acquaintance of Lord Taisho’s, and he insisted this acquaintance permitted his presumption to come and stay unannounced.”

Kagome felt just as doubtful about that as Lady Kaede looked. “I certainly hope so. Is he a demon?”

The old woman shook her head in disapproval. “Human. I just hope that I am not berated for believing him, should it come out that the master does not approve of his residence.”

“Where is the man now?”

“I situated him in a room perhaps thirty minutes ago. I told him he could visit the parlor if he liked, though our other guests whom he confirmed he did not know would likely be there.”

“Do you know when Mr. Taisho will be home?” asked Kagome.

“It will likely be late evening, at best. He told me to anticipate having dinner served without him.”

“I see,” observed Kagome. “Well, let me know if there is any way I can be of use to you in the meantime.”

Kaede smiled tiredly. “Thank you, my dear. I know.”

Kagome wondered as she continued eating if Mr. Taisho would be upset if she abstained from the group tonight. Something about witnessing a human stranger amidst the demonic party seemed unpleasant, on the off chance that the latter felt insulted by his unannounced presence. If Kagome were manager, she likely would have tried her best to prevent his meeting them at all costs.

After breakfast, Kagome paid a visit to Shippo, who was still ill in bed. She suspected he only had a cold, as he had no fever. She read to him for a couple of hours, more for the sake of abating his loneliness than of fulfilling her educational duties. He seemed grateful for the distraction and attention. 

The day otherwise passed without incident—as far as she allowed herself to know. She did not visit the parlor herself to see if this Suikotsu would indeed join the company; if he had, and if something unpleasant had occurred, Kagome decided that ignorance would be the best way to avoid part of the blame. 

Kagome planned to persist in her avoidance the entire night; however, when dinner time approached, Kaede came to her in the library and asked kindly if Kagome wouldn’t mind sitting in on the evening occasion, as Suikotsu had apparently stated his intent to join everyone after dinner to await the arrival of his supposed friend. Kaede, who could not attend due to other business, assured Kagome that her only responsibility would be to call for her if any unpleasantries were exchanged. 

Kagome obeyed, of course. She arrived first, as she always did, and the party filtered in after they finished dining. No unfamiliar face yet marred the group, and Kagome hoped that he had changed his mind. But nearly ten minutes after everyone was settled with their card games and trivial conversations, the door cracked open. 

The man looked unassuming enough; he appeared to be in his mid thirties, his black hair absent of gray but his face absent of youth. His clothes were fashionable enough, his comfortable economic standing made clear by the shine of his buttons and the flawlessness of his shoes.

The room—already quiet for its lack of the master—quieted even further. Kagome held her breath. Their expressions were not surprised, and she figured they were informed of his potential appearance. Suikotsu’s own expression was far easier than Kagome’s would have been in his position. She wondered for a moment if this was confidence or stupidity. 

He bowed his head to the group in greeting. “Good evening,” he began with a voice far more effeminate than his relatively masculine features would have suggested. “I am Suikotsu. Forgive my sudden arrival; I do not suspect I will be at Jidai-Ju Hall long, as I am only here for a matter of business with the master. Do not alter your operations tonight for my sake.”

Lady Yura’s mother took the reins as the makeshift hostess and rose from her seat. “It is no issue—we are happy to make your acquaintance. Help yourself to some tea and wine,” she said. Kagome’s surprise at the woman’s hospitality was humbled immediately when, upon Suikotsu turning his back to shed his coat on the back of the couch, the woman exchanged a look of agitated amusement with her daughters at her side. She made a move to pour him a glass of wine nonetheless.

Suikotsu noticed her and said, “No wine, thank you. The tea is plenty.” He approached the tea tray on the table and served himself.

After Suikotsu settled on the couch, which faced the party amiably but was otherwise isolated, Lady Yura led the way in returning her sanctified acquaintances to their previous activities. The man sat patiently, eyes roaming from person to person as they conversed, though Kagome felt that something in his eyes spoke of aimlessness and absence of true thought. He must have felt her gaze, as he flicked his eyes over to her distant form at the window. Noticing her humanity for the first time, he offered her a soft smile of fraternity, and Kagome returned it. A simpleton he may prove, but she did find a surprising comfort in their shared mortality.

The clock ticked eight o’clock. She suspected the party would retire soon if Lord Taisho did not make an appearance. Kagome had numbed herself to time with a book, which she combed through so ravenously that she was startled by her encounter with the back cover. 

When she lifted her eyes, she noticed that Suikotsu was engaging with Lord Koga. They seemed to be discussing business of some kind, and to her relief, Suikotsu seemed to be both keeping up with the demon and avoiding any unsuitable topics. 

Kagome stood, stretched her back, and returned the book to the shelf. She muttered a pardon to anyone near enough to hear—whom she assumed was all with pointed and uninterested ears—and went to the earth room to relieve herself. Once finished, she considered not returning at all. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, but she supposed she would be remiss to neglect Lady Kaede’s wishes. She directed her steps back to the parlor.

The hallway was gloomy, the long patterned curtains swaying slightly from the window drafts. Candles lit the way, though their light was dim. It was always this way on low moon nights at Jidai-Ju Hall, what with the thickness and height of the surrounding forest muting any natural light that might have traveled from nearby towns. Kagome slowed her steps to passively peer out the windows as she walked. She could barely make out the tree-line. As if suddenly waking from a comatose state, Kagome recalled the nighttime appearance months ago of the bright serpentine spirit that came upon the house from the wood. She had decided back then to not voice this vision to anyone, and she felt this had been the right decision. While asleep or awake, she had not seen the creature since—and she became increasingly convinced that it had been a construct of a mind hovering between dream and reality. 

Yet still, with each step, a part of her tensed when her sight of the wood was interrupted by the dividing walls between the windows. Indeed, every reemergence of that dark forest was preceded by a vague concern that it would not now appear as dark as it had a second before. 

“Proving a truant, are you?” 

This was the deep voice of her master from behind, equally frightful and soothing. 

Unable to help herself, Kagome smiled at his playfulness. She was glad he was in a good mood—perhaps he would take the news of Suikotsu better. She halted her steps but did not turn. “I could say the same to you, sir. Your poor guests have found your absence most distressing.”

His voice was closer now, though not quite over her shoulder. “I hope they’ve gone to no great pains to entertain themselves.”

“I assure you they, on the contrary, are all but wallowing in their boredom. They will be happy to hear of your arrival.”

“It is a shame that they won’t ,” he said mysteriously. She thought it peculiar that he should not wish to see his apparent beloved and her family—even if his affections were performative. He stepped forward to take the place by her left side. When her eyes beheld him, she found his expression peaked with interest. His hair was pinned back the same way as before.

“Are you wishing to retire undisturbed?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Then you are out of luck,” she began, reveling in her own opportunity to vex him. 

He quirked a brow, his smile unwavering. “Oh? And who are you to tell me what I cannot do?”

“It isn’t about who I am,” she rejoined. “Who are you to neglect the arrival of an unsolicited visitor?”

To her dismay, though not to her surprise, his expression fell into a quick scowl—one of his more natural and habitual looks. “What’s the meaning of this? Someone has come unannounced?”

Kagome couldn’t suppress her cringe. “Yes, sir. He is in the parlor now—but do not blame the widow, as she did try to dissuade him. Out of fear of you, she did not outright reject him of the right.”

Inuyasha found this part of the news most bothersome, if his rolling eyes and clenching fists were any indication. “Who is the man?”

“One Suikotsu, sir. I believe he came from the continent.”

As soon as the name left her lips, Inuyasha’s body froze, eyes widening and jaw clenching shut. Then, in one motion, Inuyasha lunged to grasp her hand and tug her wordlessly down the hall a ways until they reached one of the offices. His grip was firm, the peaks of his claws digging in slightly. He released her once inside and briskly shut the door with both hands. He did not lock it, but his sudden desire to hide them fretted her all the same.

“What is the matter? Is he dangerous? Why’ve you hidden us?” she quavered, clutching her arms to her breast.

His back was still to her, his hands still pressed to the door. His voice was low—both with rugged emotion and with obvious desire to remain quiet. “He is a danger to none but me.”

“What do you mean, sir? Has he come to harm you?”

Inuyasha laughed bitterly at that, and he finally turned to face her, though his head was downtrodden. “He would never dream of harming me. He is… ignorant of his power.”

Kagome furrowed her brow, heart no longer pounding like a drum. “I don’t understand, sir.”

He did not seek to remedy her confusion. “Were you with them all the time until just recently?”

“Yes.”

“And he did not say anything peculiar?”

“No, sir. Nothing that stirred any trouble.”

Inuyasha seemed to relax his shoulders at that, if only slightly. But, as anxiety left him, it seemed to be replaced ounce by ounce with despair. He walked over to the desk and braced his hands on the wood, hanging his head. He was still for a full moment, during which Kagome observed him with quiet intensity. A brisk curse left his lips, and a hand came up to rub his eyes. He muttered so lowly she almost could not hear, “I wish I were on a deserted island someplace, and that you were my only company.”

Kagome felt a thrill cover her skin, but she suppressed her shiver. She approached him and timidly laid a hand on his shoulder. She craned her head to meet his gaze, only to find his eyes clenched shut.

“Sir, let me help you. I hate seeing you distressed. Surely there is something I can do?” Her own voice crumbled until it was only a whisper.

He looked up at her then, eyes level with hers for his depressed posture over the desk. His golden irises flicked between hers for a moment, and Kagome fought the simultaneous urges to shrink back—and to lean forward.

His breathless voice startled her. “Go and fetch me a glass of wine from the parlor. Inspect their faces and conversations for anything amiss, and then return to me here.”

Broken out of her fancy, she felt happy to be given an errand. Kagome bowed her head in acceptance. 

As Kagome walked briskly back down the hall, she prayed that the party had miraculously retired in the short amount of time that had passed since her leave. But they had not.

She reentered with a single knock and found everyone still present, though almost no one conversed. Suikotsu was sipping his tea and occupying himself with a newspaper. The others were exactly as she had left them.

She walked coolly over to the wine pitcher and prayed no one would notice her; her wish was more or less granted, as all but Lady Yura kept their sights settled on whatever book, paper, or card they held. This lady did, however, offer her the distasteful look of someone who thought she was taking a liberty by pouring wine. But Lady Yura said nothing.

Kagome filled the glass and escaped the room without incident once again—though on her way out the door, she had the keen sensation of a shadow gnashing at her heels. She ignored it.

Kagome returned to the office and saw Inuyasha still standing, his front no longer braced over the desk but rather his back now against it, no doubt watching the door for her arrival. She approached, apparently looking less confident than he hitherto wished.

“Well?” he pressed.

“There appeared no incident, sir. Everyone was easy.”

Kagome could tell he was fighting to keep his expression neutral and unbothered—a silly attempt, in her view, as he had already bared his fears to her a couple minutes before.

“I see,” he said. “And they appeared no closer to finishing the night?”

Kagome hummed. “I could not tell. They seem to have run out of conversations, so it may not prove long.”

“I see.”

Inuyasha abandoned the desk and took a seat upon the bench that pressed flush against the wall beside her. She held her breath, his newfound apathetic silence nearly as unbearable as his prior anxious questioning. She would not ask to be excused; if she could help it, she would stay by his side all night if it meant the grip of melancholy loosened even slightly.

Inuyasha leaned forward to place his forearms against his thighs. His eyes remained stuck to the floor. His voice was reticent. “What would you do if every person in that room came in a unit and spat at me?”

After recovering from initial confusion, Kagome’s face hardened. “I would turn them out of the room,” she said simply.

“And if we were to join them in the parlor only to be met with cold silence as all of them rose to leave me one by one? Would you leave with them?”

“No, sir—I’d much rather stay with you.”

His smile was wormwood, his eyes now inspecting his clawed hands, which were pressed together in contemplation. “And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me?”

Kagome disliked his line of questioning, but she did not flee from it. She could tell he needed her honesty, and she would be remiss to neglect him now. “I doubt I would hear of their ban at all—and it would be no concern of mine what people think of me outside these walls.”

Inuyasha finally lifted his gaze to her, and he stared unblinking for a moment. Then, he stood and stepped toward her, keeping their eyes locked. His voice trembled slightly—so slightly that a stranger would know no difference. “So you could dare censure for my sake?”

Kagome was lost in gold—lost in the furrowed desperation of his brow and in the weak frown of his lips—but she could still feel the tattered rope in her hand, her lifeline. She tugged it. “For the sake of any friend who deserved it.”

He had apparently shifted his eyes downward at some point, but his eyes lifted back to hers at that. “I see,” he said in a strange voice.

“Is there anything else I can do, sir? Do you wish me to tell him you will meet with him in the morning?”

“No,” he said quickly, almost harshly. He soothed his tone and hooked a finger around hers where it hung at her side, bringing it close to trace his thumbs over the back of her hand’s skin. “No, little bird. I will meet with him tonight. There is nothing left for you to do.”

Kagome blushed at the treatment, but worry still hardened her stomach. “If anything arises that could benefit from my help, please tell me. You can wake me, if needed.”

He smiled down at her. “If I need help, I promise you that I will seek it from your hand.”

Kagome bowed, deciding after all to interpret this as a dismissal, though his subsequent expression implied he didn’t mean it as one. But he allowed her to go without another word, and released her hand.

She came to her room and readied for bed, heart pounding all the while—for her master, for Suikotsu, and for the coming revelation of what the latter came to do here.

She laid still in her bed for an imperceptible amount of time. But eventually, in her half-conscious state, Kagome heard distantly the voice of Mr. Taisho say amiably, “I’m glad you’ve been well, Suikotsu. Let me know if there is anything else I can do to make you feel welcome.”

The muffled sound of thanks pleased her ears, and she resigned herself to a pleasant night’s rest. It did not take long before a dream enraptured her—a sweet dream that began with the sound of her door creaking open after a soft knocking. Even in her dream, her eyes remained closed—but she knew her visitor to be her master. Something in her could sense him, as if her soul knew the hum and affect of his own. She could almost see him through her closed lids, see the imprint of his spirit as he approached her bed with a light foot. She felt the weight of his hands on both sides of her head, felt the slow approach of his breath. Felt the softness of lips on her own, slow and feather-light, then deep and firm. The smell of him was nearly enough to convince her it was real. 

But when stirred from her dormancy, he was gone, both body and soul, too fast and silent for any resident of flesh to manage—human or demon. She was indeed alone.

But she was happy.

The near absolute darkness of the world outside her window resolidified her unconsciousness. Her eyelids calmed their fluttering, and she permitted herself the liberty of remembering Inuyasha’s closeness, of imagining his touch, of pretending his affection. She fancied a vision of him coming to her room to simply lay with her, the both of them wearing the egalitarian attire of sleep and seeking the universal desire of warmth. In her mind, her master did not have to be her master: he could simply be her Inuyasha—a man who was free to locate his love wherever he wished. And in her mind, the idea that she could be the recipient of such love proved a delusion believable enough to be the subject of a hopeful dream.

Her fantasy did not last long, as sleep came upon her with yet another soft and sweet kiss. It is for this reason that Kagome did not notice the pale light growing beyond the glass of her window—growing, growing, growing, and then disappearing instantly, as if it was swallowed by the house in one motionless gulp.

[trumpetnista]

An early birthday present to me! I'm 31 on the 25th and I'm damned happy to be here. Also, this is yet another stride forward in my ongoing deprogramming journey! The bison on my right side is a BI-SON because I love bison and puns plus now that I'm Free and Out, I want everyone to know what I'm about. The Hello Kitty Gingerbread Cookie is a Memorial tat for my Daddy and for my Sara. When I was born, Daddy said I looked just like a gingerbread cookie which led to the nickname that was just for him: Cookie. Sara Elizabeth was stolen from us by an evil and rare brain tumor (DIPG) and she adored Hello Kitty. The icing and bow are their favorite colors: purple and pink, respectively.

The Cult I escaped from is the Jehovah's Witnesses and two of the main Rules they had was no Ink and no celebrating your birthday.

I SAY FUCK THAT AND FUCK THEM. I have reclaimed my time and my life from them and I'm never going back. I've always wanted tattoos and since my sheet music orchid healed beautifully, I returned to the same parlor and got the same excellent service and fair price.

They also helped me plan my next tattoos after my Caged Bird Free on my right tricep.

My right thigh is going to have a mural of an owl holding Medusa's head because Medusa got fucked over and I always felt bad for her. That and I'm a huge Mythology nerd. After tigers, bison, and cows, the owl is my favorite animal and it's a long time symbol of wisdom. I plan on returning to the artist who did my Orchid, although everyone in the parlor is very good.

My left tricep is going to have Venusaur with its flower in the bisexual flag colors. Bulbasaur has been my favorite Pokemon since I was a kid back in the day when there were only 150 and all its evolutions are awesome. The reason I came up with the idea is because my tattoo parlor is a station for Pokemon GO, adding bonus points to how much I love it. Plus, it's literally down the street from my house. Support your local businesses, folks!

I have some transparent waterproof bandages on the way and I have plenty of Shea butter to tend to them as I heal. I have to go out and get a travel size for when I'm at the gym and I'll probably do that while I get some more extra strength Tylenol and Gatorade for the gym.

My Fibromyalgia has been kicking my ass for the last 2 months but I'm already putting my doctors on the case and 2 new pain management docs are on standby if they can't help me. I have an appointment with my surgeon to talk about more nerve ablations and to get my weight loss supplement refilled or replaced because since I haven't been able to get refills, I gained everything I lost back and then some. Thankfully, I have a consistent gym routine and I've adjusted my diet so I know the weight gain is because of that because before I ran out, I was dropping weight slowly but steadily.

I am LIVING for The Ones Who Live. It's literally a Richonne fanfic novel come to life and it's doing 2016, Pre Negan numbers so hopefully, we'll get a Season 2 and/or a movie. It's literally leaving money on the table if they don't! Plus, Andy and Danai are in the writer's room and it shows on and off camera. They understand and love their characters as much as we do and it's just refreshing! The Walking Dead is exciting AND sensible again, LMAO!

ALSO, I saw that The Admiral has joined the original Law and Order as Jack McCoy's successor. The only actor I love more than Andrew Lincoln is Tony Goldwyn so I might pull up. My main Law and Order has always been SVU and now Organized Crime since their Leads are just as entwined as the shows buuttt, I love Tony. He's a sweetheart and can you guys imagine if they put Kerry on as a guest star linked to him??? I know she's got her own projects going on but an Olitz reunion would be so cool, especially since Elliot and Olivia ARE STILL NOT TOGETHER! Jeez, just let them fuck and love each other fully! God-DAMN!

Anyway, that's what I've been doing. I'm still working on my fanfics, I promise but I gotta take care of IRL business before I can really get back in action. I AM live tweeting The Ones Who Live (my handle is Trumpetnista) so if you wanna hang out and get more updates regularly, that's where I am.

Peace and Chicken Grease, ~*Trump*~

[acornsalessealsstamps]

MaxLight Premium Pre-Inked Ohio Notary Stamp

When it comes to fulfilling your responsibilities as a notary public in Ohio, having a high-quality, reliable stamp is essential. The MaxLight Premium Pre-Inked Ohio Notary Stamp stands out in the market for its exceptional performance, clean impressions, and long-lasting design. Whether you're a newly commissioned notary or a seasoned professional looking to upgrade your supplies, this stamp delivers unmatched convenience and professionalism.

Key Features of the MaxLight Premium Pre-Inked Ohio Notary Stamp

Ohio-Compliant Design The MaxLight stamp is fully compliant with Ohio notary requirements, including all mandated elements such as your name, commission expiration date, and the state seal. It ensures your notarizations meet legal standards every time.

Premium Pre-Inked Technology Unlike traditional rubber stamps, MaxLight uses advanced pre-inked technology that produces sharp, smudge-free impressions with minimal effort. It’s ready to use straight out of the box—no messy ink pads required.

Long-Lasting and Cost-Effective Each MaxLight stamp is capable of delivering up to 50,000 clear impressions before needing a refill. This durability makes it a cost-effective choice for notaries who perform frequent notarizations.

Compact, Ergonomic Design With a sleek, ergonomic body, the MaxLight stamp is easy to handle and fits comfortably in your hand. Its compact size makes it perfect for mobile notaries who need a reliable tool on the go.

Eco-Friendly and Refillable The MaxLight stamp is made using environmentally responsible materials and is designed to be refillable—supporting sustainability while reducing long-term supply costs.

Why Choose MaxLight Over Other Notary Stamps?

MaxLight has a reputation for producing some of the most durable and professional-grade stamps on the market. Compared to traditional self-inking or manual stamps, MaxLight offers:

Cleaner impressions

No ink bleed-through

Quieter operation

Greater efficiency in high-volume situations

Additionally, the stamp's sleek design projects a more professional image during document signings—important for building trust and credibility with clients.

Conclusion

The MaxLight Premium Pre-Inked Ohio Notary Stamp is more than just a tool—it's an investment in quality, efficiency, and professionalism. With its long lifespan, legal compliance, and effortless performance, this stamp empowers Ohio notaries to perform their duties with confidence and precision. Whether you work in an office, operate as a mobile notary, or run a full-service notarial business, MaxLight is the smart choice to support your practice.

[montblancnear15]

Montblanc Pens Near Me

Luxury is often defined by craftsmanship, heritage, and the ability to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. In the world of fine writing instruments, Montblanc pens stand as a symbol of all three. With their unmistakable design, smooth ink flow, and the aura of prestige they carry, these pens have become more than just writing tools—they are statements of style, status, and legacy. For collectors, professionals, and aficionados alike, the search for Montblanc Pens Near Me is not simply about acquiring a pen—it’s about connecting with a deeper tradition of excellence.

The Legacy of Montblanc Pens

Montblanc’s journey into the world of writing began in the early 20th century, and since then, it has earned a reputation for meticulous craftsmanship and enduring design. Each pen is not just assembled; it is engineered with precision and finished by hand. From the signature snowcap emblem to the perfectly balanced barrels and refined nibs, Montblanc pens reflect the mastery of artisans who treat every writing instrument as a piece of art.

Montblanc’s legacy also includes its commitment to heritage. These pens have long been associated with notable figures in politics, literature, business, and the arts. Whether signing historic agreements or penning bestselling novels, many have turned to Montblanc for its reliability and symbolism. That lineage is part of what fuels the interest in locating Montblanc Pens Near Me—the desire to own something that is not only beautiful but also rich in history.

Understanding the Value of a Montblanc Pen

A Montblanc pen is more than a luxury—it’s an investment. Unlike disposable or mass-produced pens, Montblanc pens are built to last. The materials used range from precious resins and platinum to gold and even diamonds in some limited editions. The writing experience is smooth, consistent, and tailored, especially with their iconic fountain pens, which offer a tactile connection to the act of writing.

For those who appreciate the finer details of design, Montblanc offers a range of styles and sizes, each with its own distinct personality. From the timeless Meisterstück to the innovative StarWalker or Heritage collections, every pen caters to different tastes and writing needs. Owning one isn’t just about function—it’s about identity. When someone begins searching for Montblanc Pens Near Me, they’re often looking to express themselves through the tool they use to create, sign, or communicate.

Why People Search for Montblanc Pens Locally

There’s something special about seeing and holding a Montblanc pen before buying it. Photos and videos can only go so far in capturing the weight, texture, and feel of a pen. That's why so many enthusiasts begin their journey with a search for Montblanc Pens Near Me. It’s a way to interact with the product in person—to test how it feels in the hand, how it glides across paper, and how the nib responds to individual pressure and angle.

Furthermore, shopping locally often includes personalized service. Knowledgeable staff can provide insight into care, maintenance, ink refills, and the differences between models. This experience is especially valuable for first-time buyers who want to understand what makes Montblanc stand apart from other luxury brands. It’s also important for collectors looking for authenticity, special editions, or discontinued models that may be difficult to find online.

The Role of Montblanc Pens in Professional Life

A Montblanc pen is more than a tool for writing—it is a powerful professional accessory. In industries where first impressions matter, a Montblanc pen communicates confidence, sophistication, and success. Whether used in a high-stakes business meeting, legal setting, or client consultation, it subtly reinforces the image of someone who values precision and quality.

Beyond its aesthetic appeal, the pen itself encourages intentionality. In an age where most communication is typed and sent instantly, taking the time to write with a Montblanc pen brings thoughtfulness back into the equation. Whether jotting down notes, signing a deal, or writing a thank-you note, the use of a fine pen invites mindfulness and meaning into daily business routines.

The Collectability and Customization of Montblanc Pens

Montblanc pens are highly collectible, with many limited editions celebrating historical figures, cultural icons, and milestones in literature and art. These pens often feature intricate engravings, unique materials, and stories that make them even more desirable. For serious collectors, owning a rare Montblanc pen is about more than prestige—it’s about preserving a piece of cultural history.

Customization is another aspect that makes the search for Montblanc Pens Near Me so popular. Many enthusiasts want engraving services, special nib fittings, or personalized packaging—all of which are more accessible when dealing with a local retailer or boutique. This allows individuals to make their Montblanc pen truly their own, whether it’s for a milestone achievement, a meaningful gift, or a commemorative piece.

Care and Maintenance of Montblanc Pens

Owning a Montblanc pen comes with a responsibility to care for it properly. These are not pens to be tossed into the bottom of a drawer or left to dry out. Regular cleaning, proper ink storage, and careful handling help ensure the pen continues to perform at its best for years—or even decades.

Local sources for Montblanc pens often provide care kits, refills, and professional cleaning services. This adds another layer to the appeal of searching for Montblanc Pens Near Me. It’s not just about buying the pen—it’s about maintaining it in pristine condition, understanding how to use it correctly, and accessing help when needed. This relationship between the owner and the pen is part of what makes Montblanc a lifestyle, not just a product.

Gifting Montblanc Pens: A Timeless Gesture

Montblanc pens make extraordinary gifts. Whether for graduations, promotions, retirements, or special occasions, giving a Montblanc pen communicates deep respect and admiration. It's not just a pen—it's a token of significance, a way to celebrate milestones with elegance.

When searching for Montblanc Pens Near Me as a gift option, people often want to see the pen themselves, select the perfect box, and sometimes even add an engraving to make the gesture personal. The act of gifting a Montblanc pen is inherently ceremonial, making the experience of selecting one in person all the more meaningful.

Conclusion: More Than a Pen—A Legacy in Hand

The fascination with Montblanc Pens Near Me isn’t about trends or temporary desire. It’s about timelessness, quality, and the pursuit of something greater than function. Owning a Montblanc pen connects the past to the present, offering an experience that digital communication simply can’t replicate.

Whether you’re a collector, a professional, or someone who simply values craftsmanship, the search for the right Montblanc pen is an invitation into a world of refinement and heritage. It’s not just about writing—it’s about how you choose to write your story.

[masterxuanshen]

Everything You Need to Know About a UV DTF Printer: The Future of Custom Printing

In today’s fast-evolving printing industry, UV DTF printers are making a bold statement. With the ability to print directly on a wide variety of surfaces without the need for heat transfer or weeding, these innovative machines are revolutionizing how we think about custom design and branding. If you're a business owner, designer, or print enthusiast, learning about UV DTF printers could be your next big step forward.

What is a UV DTF Printer? A UV DTF (Direct to Film) printer is a cutting-edge printing device that uses ultraviolet (UV) light to instantly cure ink printed onto a special film. The printed film is then transferred directly to hard or irregular surfaces like glass, wood, metal, acrylic, ceramics, leather, and plastic. Unlike traditional DTF printing used mostly for fabric, UV DTF printers cater to more rigid and varied surfaces, making them ideal for personalized items and promotional products.

How Does a UV DTF Printer Work? The UV DTF printing process typically involves three layers:

Color Ink Layer – The design is first printed in CMYK colors.

White Ink Layer – A white ink layer follows to enhance vibrancy and allow printing on dark or transparent surfaces.

Gloss or Varnish Layer – This layer gives your design a polished and durable finish.

Once printed, the film is applied with transfer adhesive and peeled off, leaving the design cleanly adhered to the target surface.

Key Features of UV DTF Printers Instant UV curing: No drying time needed.

Versatile Surface Compatibility: From mugs and phone cases to glass and wood.

No Weeding: Unlike vinyl cutting, there's no need to weed excess material.

High Durability: Scratch-resistant, waterproof, and UV-resistant.

High-Resolution Output: Excellent print clarity and color saturation.

Benefits of Using a UV DTF Printer

Expand Your Product Line

With a UV DTF printer, businesses can offer personalized products that were previously hard to customize. This includes:

Customized tumblers and mugs

Acrylic keychains

Personalized phone cases

Wooden plaques and gifts

Branded glassware

Cost-Effective for Small Runs

Traditional screen printing or pad printing is expensive for small quantities. A UV DTF printer allows you to do one-off prints or small batch runs with minimal waste and setup.

No Heat Required

One of the standout features is the no-heat application. Unlike sublimation or standard DTF printing that requires heat presses, UV DTF relies on UV light and adhesive, making it safer and faster.

Environmentally Friendly

UV-curable inks are more eco-friendly than solvent-based inks, producing fewer VOCs and requiring no water for cleanup.

Who Can Benefit from a UV DTF Printer?

Small Businesses & Entrepreneurs Etsy sellers, custom gift shops, and local printing services can all benefit from the versatility and low-cost operation of a UV DTF printer.

Branding Agencies Create branded promotional items such as logo-printed merchandise without needing multiple machines.

Artists & Designers Print unique artwork on unconventional surfaces like wood blocks or acrylic sheets for home décor and art installations.

Industrial Applications Even industries like automotive, packaging, and signage find UV DTF useful for labeling and customization on curved or textured surfaces.

UV DTF Printer vs. Other Printing Technologies Technology Best For Requires Heat Weeding Surface Types UV DTF Printer Hard & irregular items No No Glass, wood, plastic Regular DTF T-shirts & fabrics Yes No Soft materials Sublimation Polyester fabrics Yes No Fabric, coated items Vinyl Cutting Stickers & labels Sometimes Yes Limited

Things to Consider Before Buying a UV DTF Printer

Print Size Capacity Choose a printer based on the size of items you plan to print. Some models support A4 or A3 sizes, while industrial-grade printers can handle much larger surfaces.

Ink System and Refills Make sure the printer uses reliable and readily available UV inks. Some printers come with bulk ink systems that are more economical over time.

Software Compatibility Check whether the printer is compatible with your design software like Adobe Illustrator or CorelDRAW, and supports common file formats like PNG, SVG, or PDF.

Maintenance Requirements Like all printers, UV DTF machines need regular maintenance. Look for models that offer easy access to parts and have available technical support.

Top UV DTF Printer Brands in the Market Here are a few reliable brands known for UV DTF printing:

Lopo UV DTF Printers – Ideal for small businesses with beginner-friendly features.

A3 Pro UV DTF Printer – Offers high resolution and built-in laminating.

ComColor UV DTF Machines – Industrial grade, suitable for bulk production.

Final Thoughts The UV DTF printer is a game-changer for the world of customized printing. Whether you're starting a new business or expanding your current product offerings, this technology offers flexibility, affordability, and high-quality output that traditional methods simply can't match.

As demand for personalization grows across industries, investing in a UV DTF printer can help you stay ahead of the curve—and create products that wow your customers.

[blesketcanada]

Discover Premium Writing Instruments at Blesket Canada

At Blesket Canada, we believe that writing is more than just putting words on paper—it's a personal experience, a creative outlet, and often, a statement of style. Whether you're a seasoned collector or someone looking for the perfect everyday writing tool, our selection of high-quality pens is curated to meet your needs with elegance and precision.

As a trusted pen store Canada has relied on for years, we offer a wide variety of writing instruments that cater to different preferences, from fountain pens and rollerballs to gel and ballpoint pens. We carry globally recognized brands such as LAMY, Parker, Waterman, Faber-Castell, and more, ensuring that every customer finds a pen that speaks to their taste and purpose.

Our online store is designed to provide a seamless shopping experience. With detailed product descriptions, expert recommendations, and responsive customer service, we help guide you toward the perfect writing instrument—whether you’re buying a gift, restocking your office supplies, or upgrading your personal collection. We also offer accessories like pen cases, inks, converters, and refills to complement your writing setup.

What makes us stand out is our commitment to quality and customer satisfaction. Every product featured on Blesket is handpicked for its craftsmanship, design, and performance. That’s why we’re proud to be home to some of the top rated pen models available on the market today. Our customers consistently praise the superior feel, balance, and durability of our offerings—qualities that make writing a joy rather than a task.

In addition to individual pens, we also cater to enthusiasts with exclusive limited-edition releases and hard-to-find pieces. For those passionate about the art of writing, our blog and newsletter offer insights, reviews, and tips to help you make informed choices and elevate your writing experience.

Experience the joy of writing again. Explore our collection and discover why Blesket Canada is the go-to destination for pen lovers across the country.

[howzitsa]

HP 935 Cyan Ink Cartridge Original HP inks are formulated to consistently produce vibrant color documents at a great value. Count on outstanding prints from cartridges specially designed to work with your HP printer. Want more pages, great reliability, and amazing value? You want original HP inks. Why buy original HP ink? Get up to twice as many pages vs. with refills¹Ensure that your printing is right the first time and every time.¹Based on a SpencerLab 2018 study commissioned by HP for the on-average performance of 12 brands of remanufactured cartridges, refilled cartridges from leading refill service providers, and refill kits compared to Original HP ink cartridges (61XL, 62XL, 63XL, 564XL, 950XL, 951XL, 970XL & 971XL) sold in North America. See http://www.spencerlab.com/reports/HPInkReliability-NA-2018.pdf. Consistent business printing you can count on Rely on Original HP ink cartridges for outstanding prints page after page—they're engineered for reliable printing. Better together—choose Original HP ink cartridges specially designed to work with your printer. Count on a better value for frequent printing with optional Original HP high-yield individual ink cartridges. Get your business noticed Represent your business best with Original HP inks—designed to consistently deliver standout color. Prints on plain papers using HP pigment black ink for HP OfficeJet printers stay legible for many years. [1] Preserve your work. Rely on Original HP inks for durable [2] prints that resist water and last for decades. Count on eye-catching, professional results that last, [2] with ColorLok® papers designed for the office. Get back to business Get the complete package. Pick and choose the right Original HP ink cartridges that fit your printing needs. Return Original HP ink cartridges through HP Planet Partners for free, easy recycling. [3] Return Original HP ink cartridges through HP Planet Partners for free, easy recycling. Get back to business Get the complete package. Pick and choose the right Original HP ink cartridges that fit your printing needs. The right supplies—fast. Order cartridges quickly with HP SureSupply Express—and stay focused on business. [5] Return Original HP ink cartridges through HP Planet Partners for free, easy recycling. Product specifications: Color(s) of print cartridges: Cyan Page yield (colour): ~400 pages Page yield footnote: Tested in HP Officejet Pro 6830. Approximate average based on ISO/IEC 24711 or HP testing methodology and continuous printing. Actual yield varies considerably based on content of printed pages and other factors. For details see http://www.hp.com/go/learnaboutsupplies. Ink drop 8.25 pl Compatible ink types Pigment-based Compatible Printers: HP Officejet Pro 6830 (E3E02A#B1H) ; HP OfficeJet Pro 6230 (E3E03A#B1H) Operating temperature range 59 to 95°F Storage temperature range 32 to 113°F Operating humidity range 5 to 80% RH Storage humidity 5 to 80% RH Package dimensions (W x D x H) 4.52 x 0.94 x 3.94 in Package weight 0.10 lb Warranty: HP’s ink cartridges and printheads are warranted to be free from defects in materials and workmanship during the period of the warranty. What's in the box 1 Cartridge