#Kraft Paper Notebook

[boxyfont]

Creative Ways to Use Your Premium Notebook Beyond Note-Taking

A stylish journal for work can be a powerful tool for setting and tracking your goals. You can write down your objectives, short-term and long-term, breaking them down into manageable tasks. The act of physically writing your goals in a stylish notepad down can enhance focus and clarity, helping you to stay on track. You can also use your premium notebook for personal reflection, writing about your progress, challenges, and successes.

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[happydappybits]

Our First Year Together Journals are such a cute idea for a paper anniversary gift (1 year), I recently added a larger A5 size handprinted version with stitched binding with lots of fun choices for heart color to my shop. Yay! Also, these include a full size pencil with gold foil text "Write it Down" stamped on them. So cute!

Features my own lettering handprinted in my studio onto recycled materials using water based inks. Available with personalized initials in 2 font choice options.

These A5 journal & pencil sets are made to order from my studio in NY and I can't tell you how much I love creating them! They are totally unique with all the customization options, you can find all the deets in my shop. Happy Thursday!

xo Janie

[tnestationery71]

Kraft Paper Replacement Traveler’s Notebook

[peterfields]

Sunday essentials, today with...

.

-Vintage Material Drawstring Bag, Shoe Last Door Stopper and Giant Brass Safety Pin by #puebco

-Leather Gym Bag in Brown by #johnwoodbridge

-Le Short „Cargo Denim Selvedge“ and Le Tricot Basic natural by #fleursdebagne

-Brick Shape Box in Wood - Original by #peterfields

-Small Budget and Loadstar Keyhook by #thesuperiorlabor

-TRC Template Bookmark Number and Spiral Ring Notebook Blank DW Kraft Paper B6 by #travelerscompany

[ninoochat]

@metropoliswhite quick and dirty bookbinding lol. had some paper I cut and punched for my filofax but then ended up not using it all so I made a neapolitan notebook with kraft/white/black pages 🥰

[owlishfuncrafts]

I'm kind of stupid happy about how these came out!

I wanted to do a simple print onto the display cards I'm going to start putting my necklaces on. Just to, you know, make them look nicer than plain kraft paper. Decided to colour march the little green paper bags I have for sales, and close match the brown of the kraft card, and I could not be more pleased with the results.

They're not perfect prints but they don't have to be. Also printed onto some notebooks and greeting cards, plus a trial print onto wood (promising results with some more experimentation).

I've set up a self inking stamp with the Etsy store account name on it I'll stamp onto the backs, and have little adhesive pockets to tuck the necklace chains into. Pretty excited to roll the spinner out next market with them on it!

Next market will be the Calmar Market on Main, on Friday 4pm-8pm. If your in the area come by and let me know you came from Tumblr for a little gift!

[princevinenzo]

A little to do list from last Friday. And I covered my books with some black Kraft paper, as we can see on the little notebook.

Of which, is no longer a field trips notebook (because I bought a hobonichi cousin for next year), this notebook is now a kind of work book for making my first zine. I’ll probably post some pictures at some point.

My favourite thing about all the paper covers (under clear covers) is that they each have their own unique point in which of my stickers i use and where I put them.

The last picture is some spooky black velvet cupcakes that I made last week. This week I made some very tasty flapjack.

[passengerpigeons]

i love using a fountain pen partially because it's one pen and a bottle of ink will literally last me years of near constant long form writing and note-taking (like fuck I think my daily driver bottle has lasted 2 or 3 years?) but also. it makes your pen into a doohicky you fiddle with and tinker at when something is wrong instead of just throwing it away because a spring jammed. i have a couple pages where i was actively trying to sort out an ink flow issue mid-excerpt and there's tiny blotches and a note saying "fixed it" at the last blotch, along with very charismatic stains between the outside covers of two cheap kraft paper-covered notebooks and a fingerprint ink wipe from said tinkering

[philtstone]

Ok but I’d die for 37 Bucky and Sam. Platonic or otherwise I’m die

#37 -- you know you're still holding hands, right?

this prompt is so old and this prompt fill is so unhinged i have to genuinely apologize. @firstelevens the worm paper is dedicated to you but more importantly @foolgobi65 the rest of the fic is dedicated to you. the KD featured in is hot cheetos flavoured just so everyone knows. inspired by life events. love yall

1.

They cross paths at like two a.m. when Sam has long since stopped being able to read the words on the university website in front of him. He's reading through legal jargon and policy that no one wants him or any other student to understand, so he can bring that exact fact up with devastating accuracy at the next interdepartmental mental health policy seminar. He's interrupted when the alarm goes off from bedroom number two and Bucky shuffles out of its depths with an awful wrenching noise. His door sticks, because their building is old and decrepit. Sam watches as his roommate walks wordlessly into the kitchen, digs out an ancient pack of kraft dinner and mangles the plastic covering the top before he sticks it in the microwave. Bucky's pulled the hood of his sweater up to cover his hair and has wrapped their rattiest grey bath towel around his shoulders like he's an ailing king in one of those sci fi fantasy novels he keeps on the shelf. It flaps lopsidedly on the side where he's not wearing his prosthetic, because it's two a-fucking-m.

He notices Sam while taking the KD out of the microwave, and stands there in silence to stare at him in faint but not quite concerned bafflement for a good minute in the half dark, like he forgot something important.

"Sup," says Sam.

Bucky blinks. A tuft of dark hair pokes out of his hoodie, flattened downwards to point towards his nose.

"Worm paper," Bucky says, sounding like he hasn't slept in twelve years.

"Ah," says Sam.

Bucky nods, and disappears whence he came.

"Take the garbage out tomorrow!" Sam calls after him.

He's rewarded by a loud knocking noise from upstairs, as if those fuckers aren't already wake too, trying to tell them to be quiet.

2.

The third year sitting with her arms crossed in front of him looks as overtly suspicious as it is possible for one person to look. Her eyes, which are narrowed, keep pinging between the people in the room. Sam sighs. He hates wrangling undergrads, sometimes.

"Kate, put your notebook away, you're weirding her out."

Kate does, looking sheepish. She volunteered with them so she could learn more about trauma-informed organizing, and Sam's not sure if he's doing much of a good job teaching her anything, but Clint recommended her and even baby steps are good. Parker, who is their other undergraduate member, the only one of them who's a real live actual science student, is at the end of the table working on the graphics for Sam's upcoming presentation to the faculty board, which Sam is not dreading at all. It didn't help that when he told Sharon about it last week, she laughed in his face. Then again, Sharon is getting a business degree; Sam's not sure what he should've expected.

"My aunt passed," says the third year. "Student services fucked me over for a final because they didn't process my accommodation. I had to have pictures proving she'd died."

Bastards, thinks Sam.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Sam says. "We're here to help. When did she die?"

Her eyes narrow another four degrees. It would be kind of intimidating if she wasn't like, eighteen, with the worlds biggest bush of red hair and freckles literally up to her ears. She's trying to hide it all under a ratty hoodie but it's mostly unsuccessful.

"Look, kid," says Sam. "This is a safe space. I wanna help you, but you gotta help me out first, okay? Everything you say stays in this room."

Beside Sam, Kate nods enthusiastically.

"What about him?" asks the girl.

They all look over at the lanky figure sitting on the couch. Bucky is deeply embedded; he's almost horizontal and his legs are extended all the way to the table, which wouldn't be so bad only it puts the giant hole in the toe of one of his socks on display. The Social Work department's cat is sitting on his head. Sam thinks she's fully betrayed them for Geological Sciences at this point. Or whateverthefuck department Bucky's with -- none of them quite know. Bucky's wearing the same hoodie from the other night, which is still in hood-up mode. He's been staring so intently at his laptop without writing anything for the last ten minutes that Sam is impressed the poor electronic hasn't combusted.

"That's just his process," Sam says.

Bucky reaches a hand out and types one single letter. Then very slowly he reaches out again and deletes it.

"You said I'd get to talk to you alone," the girl grumbles.

"Is this the worm paper?" asks Kate tentatively, from Sam's other side.

Sam thinks of the many paragraphs of his thesis he's been neglecting. He rubs at the bridge of his nose and sighs.

3.

"No, you are absolutely not moving in with us next term," Sam says into his phone. He writes down another note for Chapter 1b, Theoretical Underpinnings and then writes himself a reminder to email Todd from the ombudsperson's office. And also that lady with the student mental health alliance. And -- fuck, Professor Bradley too, probably. Sam was supposed to answer that email like a week ago.

"Why the hell not?" says Sarah. "It's economical. It's close to campus. Undergrad dorms are disgusting, it's safe, Mr. Big Brother who was worried some chad white boy would get me last year, and I know for a fact y'all need a roommate."

Okay. So maybe Steve fucked off to finish his degree in Boston so he could be with his perfectly wonderful girlfriend, whom they all love, but that's not really the point and they still haven't found a third roommate who can. Like. Put up with them. Bucky glares at the empty room whenever he passes it. It's really not that dramatic. But also,

"And even with all of that, you ain't moving in here. There are -- principles."

"For the twelve hundredth time Sam, your sad roommate is not gonna secretly seduce me."

Sam wouldn't put money on that.

"You could definitely seduce him, though."

"Oh my God! Forreal, Sam --"

"We just got a lot going on!" His frustrated attempts at organizing the mental health policy council under the umbrella of the social work department, for example. Bucky's term paper on prehistoric worms.

"Is Bucky there?" Sarah demands.

"He's in the middle of something."

Bucky is talking at the voice to type software on his laptop in the next room and sounds like he is five minutes away from flinging said laptop out of the window. Still, Sam feels fondness in his chest; Bucky used to put towels under the door to stop the noise from travelling before. There's no embarrassment involved anymore. Not for disability accommodating paper writing practices or for playing Taylor Swift songs out loud on a fucking vintage record player, which was bequeathed to them by the great betrayer himself.

Steve left a really nice note with it and everything.

"Tell B to force feed you a granola bar," Sarah says. Then, "I could always get myself a sexy boyfriend and move in with him."

She hangs up to the sound of Sam spluttering loudly. To calm himself, he checks off talk to Sarah from his notes app to do list anyway, then sends Bucky a text.

We got any granola bars left?

The door to the second bedroom opens -- it sticks, because their building is old and decrepit -- and a box of granola bars is flung out with shockingly precise aim to land skidding on the kitchen table in front of Sam.

"Thanks, man!" Sam calls.

"FUCK!" Bucky yells at top volume, and slams the door shut again.

The phone rings a second time; Sam has to pick up, legally, because it's his mom. She wants to know if he talked to Sarah, and also how things are.

"You know how grad school is," Sam says. He opens a granola bar. It is extremely stale. "Yeah. Uh huh. No. Just my presentation next week. Well, we'll see if it'll actually make any difference ... No, mama, I have not been forgetting to shower. Whatever Sarah tells you, don't listen to her. I'm a grown assed man, okay?"

4.

Sam sits in the industrial flickering lights of the MHPC's reserved library room and lets a modicum of peace soak in while the undergrads chatter.

"Well, at least the board presentation went well. It was like, fruitful discussion, right?"

"It was pretty badass. I liked the bit where Sam lost his shit and yelled at the dean."

"He didn't yell at the dean ..."

"You know you guys are still holding hands, right? It's been like, an hour."

Sam doesn't respond right away, because he's trying to figure out why the hell the sentence in front of him doesn't read like a sentence.

"They're exchanging long protein strands," says Parker. "Like in the Simpsons."

"No one watches Simpsons anymore," says Kate's girlfriend, who seems to be eating a pack of lunchables with a pocket knife.

"Well --"

"I'm holding his elbow," Bucky mumbles, which might be the longest string of words he's spoken for two weeks. He's swapped his hoodie out for a clean one, at least.

"Emotional support," Sam agrees, still with his eyes narrowed at the screen. They are actually holding hands, but semantics become irrelevant after the month they've had. "Man, what the fuck is this supposed to say?"

"You're the editor," says Bucky.

"You're the writer! It's due in two minutes!"

"It's about the genealogy," Bucky says, levelling his free, prosthetic hand in front of him for emphasis.

"Of the worm?" Parker asks, in a whisper.

"Just let me submit the fucking paper, Sam!"

"No! This is degree defining!"

"Says the guy who's neglected his thesis for three weeks -- gimme the laptop --"

"No -- ow!"

"I don't think I ever wanna do grad school," Kate says solemnly, to the room at large, while somehow, despite the tangled heap they make on the couch, Sam and Bucky are still holding elbows. But then, who else would they hold elbows with, in such a moment?

Sam gently raises this topic with the next struggling undergrad who comes to them for accommodation help; in many ways, that's really all you need to make it through college.

[pretendcottagelady]

Weekly Journal Spread

A simpler journal set up than I did the past week because again, I just needed to be quicker about this. So using a paler colour to indicate where the lines to write are makes it easier than drawing borders. There’s also less decoration, but that’s because I’m planning to decorate it with teddy journal stickers as I journal.

Though I did put a journal and snack tray in the corner because my page tore a bit when I was trying to lift up some of the washi tape. I’ve mentioned this before, but kraft paper used in journals, or at least this journal is not my favourite. I’ve worked with kraft paper before (primarily for cards) and never had this issue before, but working in this journal has been kind of difficult because I have to do my cutting before I lay down the tape and once I put it down, I have to commit because it will damage the page lifting it up.

I don’t know if this is an issue with the Notebook Therapy journals or if it's just a general journal thing, but it’s kind of irritating.

[faunandfl0ra]

TIMING: Today LOCATION: Conor’s flower shop PARTIES: Conor @faunandfl0ra & Owen @apaininyourneck SUMMARY: Conor’s most annoying customer has a new name. /nofaenonsense CONTENT WARNINGS: none

As tempting as it was to head straight home and blow off some steam after a whole afternoon spent dealing with nerds dressed in medieval gear, Owen was almost out of smokes. He had been one dumb question away from stabbing one of the young men just to get them out of the damn store but as Chet generally was, mutilating his loyal yet horribly depressing regulars would probably lose Owen the job. As he walked the streets of Downtown, a tingle of a shop bell dragged his attention to a store front he hadn’t cared to notice before. Or maybe it was new. He didn’t exactly keep up with the turn over on local florists but after a recent conversation online, the slayer found himself crossing the street to check out the store. 

A glance through the window found a single customer inside and, lo and behold, a single employee wearing an apron with plenty of pockets. Wicked’s Rest wasn’t too small, the odds of there being two male apron wearing florists weren’t none, but Owen intended to find out. If only because he had nothing better to do and if he couldn’t mess with customers when he was the one working, at least he could be an annoying customer to someone else. 

Strolling into the store, he busied himself with looking over the flowers, wondering what the hell compelled people to spend money on these. The closest he’d come to buying flowers was his father buying a bouquet on mother’s day and writing Owen’s name on the gift tag. 

_

“Good evening” he raised his nose from the counter, a piece of twine wrapped between his fingers as he tied a neatly folded sheet of kraft paper around the wildflower bouquet in front of him. Returning his attention toward his current customer, Conor picked up a sticker that read get well soon from beneath the counter, and a matching card for them to write on. “You can use one of my pens,” he pointed toward a sunflower patterned cup and picked up his notebook from the side of the counter and his calculator. 

“Plus 3, plus 2, plus 3.25, …” Mumbling under his breath, he added up the flowers he picked out for her. She explained to him earlier that this was for her brother who had broken his leg hiking in the woods. Or maybe she said he got attacked by a wolf. He hadn’t been paying too much attention. Why did people do that? He didn’t care for their life story. “Alright, 40 dollars and 25 cents. Barely above your budget,” he could have stayed under, but the bouquet would have lacked a little something. She was beaming, he offered a light smile in return. There weren’t many things that made him feel that way, but he loved recognition for certain. 

She left a moment later. Wiping down his workspace, the florist tilted his head up to look for the other person in the room. “Can I help you?” 

—

The only other customer left, leaving Owen alone in the store with the florist, whose name was sadly still a mystery. A few moments passed until the slayer was finally addressed. Letting go of the flower stem he’d been fiddling with, he turned to the man, finally sizing him up properly and for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. Faint splotches of dirt coated his hands and apron, tattoos visible on his arm and snaking up under his shirt sleeves, a very generic expression on his face. Customer service mode most likely turned to the max, provided that this was the easily annoyed florist with the colorful vocabulary from online. “Sure hope so,” Owen replied, grinning wide. 

“Looking for something for a friend. Something that says…” Owen strolled towards another set up of flowers, fingers running over a few of the petals as he put on an expression of deep thought. “Just admit you like me and please remove that giant stick from your ass.” Whether or not this was the correct person or not, Owen didn’t much care. Even if this turned out to just be some random florist with a penchant for aprons with plentiful pockets, he wasn’t unattractive so some teasing wouldn’t hurt. 

—

And there it was again. Why did people need a reason to buy flowers? “Just admit you like me and remove the giant stick from your ass,” he probably meant a proverbial one. For once, Conor had to stop and wonder what the message was behind such a prompt. You didn't build the same bouquet for someone you hated and someone you liked. You generally didn't buy the former bouquets but he could get behind sending someone a bouquet that read fuck you. Not literally of course. That would be tacky.

"Alright. Well, we would want some geranium for that," he pursed his lips to the side. Yellow was the color of betrayal, so that could be a good angle. It was his favorite color, so Conor would have been personally delighted with such a bouquet. "Foxgloves. Some orange lillies," Conor scratched on the tip of his nose with one of his knuckles. His eyes finally fell toward the other's hands. Could he fucking stop touching everything. "Let's keep our hands off the flowers, shall we?" He didn't smile this time, and instead took a few steps to stand on the same side of the counter as his client. "What's your budget for your… friend?" 

—-

There was only a short pause at the request before the man seemed to simply take the suggestion in stride, starting to pick out flowers. Owen watched the look of concentration deepen on the other man’s face as he started picking up various things, naming them as he went and honestly, he could have been making up the names for all Owen knew. If he was the type to buy flowers, at least whatever the man was mixing together looked a hell of a lot nicer than the generic bouquets that filled every store in February. His intrigue in the man’s thought process was cut short by what was essentially scolding and Owen’s lips jerked into a crooked smile, hands raising in a dramatic display of innocence. “My bad,” he replied without a hint of regret.

“Ah, spare no expense. And let’s go with ‘soon to be friend’,” Owen replied, even though he had a feeling the florist couldn’t give two shits, “since he’s still on the fence but I’m sure he’ll come around.” With the opportunity provided since the man now stood next to Owen, he bumped his shoulder into the other’s with an obnoxious smile. Owen strolled away, fingers dragging along the edges of pots and counters, pointedly touching everything except the flowers. “You know, I think he’s a bit sour because I made fun of his apron. Even though it has, like, a bunch of pockets for holding stuff.” His back was facing the man as he spoke, wondering if it would ever sink in. 

—-

“Spare no expense,” Conor mumbled the words to himself. It was one bouquet. Even if he made it as large as possible, Conor could already tell that it wouldn’t go over a hundred dollars. Anything over that price tag would look ridiculous, and good luck finding a vase that complimented such a dense mass of flowers. Absolutely not. The clarification regarding the man’s oh-so-complicated relationship with his stuck up non friend flew right over his head. He did not care. 

He glanced up at the other, then down at his shoulder. Whatever meaning there was behind the other’s gesture, Conor couldn’t have been more confused about it. His eyebrows arched up in wonder, but the other was walking around the shop, this time making it a point of putting his fingers everywhere but on his flowers. His hand hovered over candytufts for a moment, while he considered the other’s words. That was stupid. “You shouldn’t have done that. Aprons should have more pockets than they usually do,” he commented, then motioned toward his own. “Mine was custom made. I keep losing my pair of scissors, my favorite sheers…” He let his voice die down. “It’s a life savior, really.”

—-

So apparently this man was much more easily riled up online than in person. At least while on the job. Or maybe he was just dumb as bricks, not a stretch considering the status of his computer knowledge. There he went off again, explaining to Owen just how amazing aprons were. To a man that would rather have quit the decently cushy job at The Wormhole than be forced to wear an apron if the choice had been presented. “Wow, custom made, huh?” Owen turned back to the florist and the ever growing bouquet. Wondering if he should just let things lie now and walk out - leave the man to put back the flowers. When had he ever let things lie, though?

“Yeah… poor fucker’s Irish, too. Probably shouldn’t be picking on him for the apron kink since he doesn’t have much else going for him. Bastard can’t even use Google translate,” Owen sighed, finally seizing his incessant touching of most things in the store in order to cross his arms over his chest. Staring pointedly at the florist, he wondered if the guy would continue to stand up for himself in the third person or finally get the hint. Judging from how this conversation had been going, the slayer’s bets were currently on the first option. 

__

“Looks good to you?” Conor asked, stopping in his tracks to present a bouquet that was already quite generously sized. “I could add more to it, but I think it’ll look better with a bit of foliage thrown into the mix,” and while he sold flowers for a living, he preferred harmony over money, happy customers tended to come back, not those that felt like they were scammed. 

He was glad to see the other take such interest into his aprons. Most people wouldn’t have felt this way. With a rare smile, he nodded along. “Maybe you could apologize to him. I think that once you’ve tried these, you can’t go back.” Putting things in your pockets was fun, but Conor was blessed with legs that could only wear loose trousers or kilts. He most often opted for the latter, though he had an ever growing collection of large legged pants, some dating back to the 60s.

“You think you’re fucking funny, don’t you?” His gaze fell to the bouquet in his hand. Well he could just wrap it and wait for someone to buy it tomorrow, considering it was closing time soon. With a sigh, he grabbed a piece of twine in his apron, wrapping it where his fist met the stems. “You’re a fucking prick. A big, sizable, fucking dickhead,” he tied a knot, then with a glare, went to pick up a vase from underneath the counter. “Well you’ve had your laugh. Haha, téigh ag gnéas le logáil isteach... Cad... Fucking,” he groaned. “Whatever the fuck happened to going for drinks? Did ya chicken out?”

—

There it was. The flash of recognition was delightful, especially combined with the genuine annoyance. “I have my moments,” Owen mused, following the gaze to the nice bunch of flowers being wrapped up. Accompanied by some very impressive cursing that only made the slayer’s smile wider. “Yeah, yeah, we’ve already established that I annoy you, nothing new there,” he waved him off. Sauntering up towards the counter, he side eyed the vase and pulled it towards himself before the florist had a chance to put the flowers away. 

“Nah, no chickening out, just wanted to see this apron for myself before I drink you under the table.” Owen let go of the vase for a moment to dig into his pockets, pulling out his wallet. “Come on, unclench your butt and tell me what I owe you.”

__

“Fuck off, you’re fucking un… not… You’re not funny,” he finally said, matter of factly, each of his words tainted with a special kind of disappointment. He didn't like a waste of time, and there was this guy, doing just that. Conor could have been working on closing the store now, but instead he had to be the butt of this guy's joke. Fan-fuckin-tastic. 

He was about to tell him to get the fuck out of his air when the annoyance pulled the bouquet back to himself. He wasn't gonna buy it, was he? 

Conor crossed his arms over his chest, expecting some sort of turn of situation that would make him once again the subject of a private one man show. Instead, he offered to pay, and the faun had no other choice than to tell the truth. He wouldn't be getting another stomach ache for this asshole. "And you couldn't just ask me ? You had to be fucking dramatic about it?" He tried to remember the subject of the bouquet. Something about sticks up one's arse and admitting to liking him. Right. "You're not as charming as you think you are," he flatly stated, then turning his back on him to tidy up his workstation, he said. "Sixty-two dollars and seventy five cents," he'd leave the other to do the math on a proper tip.

—

There were so many emotions flashing across the other man’s face that it was almost hard to keep track. Pure, unfiltered annoyance had been very obvious when the guy had thought Owen wasn’t going to finalize the purchase. It would have been funny to have the bouquet made for nothing but that made the odds of the aforementioned drinks seem very slim so the slayer held back. If he annoyed the guy too much now, there was no way to get to know him better. See if he was worth keeping around to mildly annoy every once in a while. And thankfully, the anger seemed to fade slightly when Owen asked to pay. 

“Bringing the drama is the curse I’m forced to live with,” he sighed, starting to count out bills and watching the other’s very tense back. “And I’m actually more charming than I give myself credit for,” Owen added, placing seventy dollars on the counter and reaching for a blank note and a pen while the florist’s back was turned. He quickly scribbled down a message onto the note and stuck it into the flowers, moving wordlessly for the door and only turning once one foot was already on the pavement outside. “Don’t wait too long to call. I know where you work.” And with that, he left, resuming his previous mission of buying cigarettes with a grin on his face. 

—

The other’s words were greeted with an eye roll. Given the context, it was perhaps a good thing only Conor’s wall of shears could see the look upon his face. Wiping the last pair of shears clean with a chlorophyll stained rag, he placed it back with the others and turned to look at Owen, who was walking out of the store without Conor’s bouquet. While he attempted to recall the last time he was ever given a present, the faun rubbed at the back of his neck in embarrassment. Maybe he should have been a bit nicer with Owen. A voice at the back of his head was opposed to that thought : he didn’t like aprons, he was dramatic and he wanted to see Conor piss drunk all to prove what? That he was superior at drinking? Conor didn’t like that, because he didn’t like losing, he very much liked his apron, and he didn’t like drama. When did anyone ever have a good time being dramatic? 

“You’re really not,” he retorted, turning around at last to watch him leave the store. At long last. The faun sighed. “Alright. Bye,” he couldn’t have sounded colder had he tried, yet, as he picked up the note from the bouquet, a warmth came to tint his cheeks Armeria maritima ‘Bloodstone’ pink. 

[boxyfont]

The Perfect Gift: Why Handmade Diaries for Corporates Are a Timeless Treasure

Handmade diaries for corporates are perfect professional gifts that offer a personal touch as well. More than just functional writing tools, these diaries are creative outlets, memory keepers, and thoughtful gifts. Unlike tech gadgets or trendy items that may lose their relevance, a well-crafted journal or diary has timeless appeal.

Read More:

[mythrilthread]

A Rock Lee notebook for @lootthecoyote <3

My first coptic style binding, so of course I had to include French link stitching. It turned out to be pretty fun to do, but I completely understand why one might need curved needles now.

84 leafs of Kraft paper with printed dot grid;

Cover has a manga scan drawn on the cover with a marker. Had a lot of fun matching my materials to the colors of Rock Lee’s outfit!

[ayeehwritesxyz]

Leather Leaf String Bound Blank Kraft Paper Diary Journal Notebook is now on sale with 50% off. -Write your plans -Taking notes -Make it your diary Colors available: Black, Red, Pink, Maroon, Purple, Dark, and Light blue, Brown, Green, and Dark Green. Get yours now: https://c.lazada.com.ph/t/c.YKkitP

[peterfields]

Get inspired! Today with...

-Le Cardigan L’enfant du Malheur and Submariner Pant Corduroy in Khaki by #fleursdebagne

-Socks Wool Bungalow - smoke by #chupsocks

-Report Business Bag in brown by #bleudechauffe

-Vintage Leather Baseball 1920 and Leather Toiletry Box by #johnwoodbridge

-Leather Pen Case - brown, Brass Ballpoint Pen and Brass Ruler by #thesuperiorlabor

-Spiral Ring Notebook Blank DW Kraft Paper A6 and TRC Airplane Clip by #travelerscompany

-Linen Teatowel Piano in Moss by #charveteditions

-Vulcano Egg Cup and Ovo Ball Spoon by #cositabellini

[3rishin]

Late Night Studies

Late night studies for y/n isn’t something new. Last week it was chemistry, today psychology specifically foundations of behaviour. As the led light of lamp illuminated her table filled with books, notebooks and scattered paper’s of nonsense scribbles of words slowly overflowing onto the floor. Y/n’s head grew heavier with each word she read, suddenly her attention was redirected with a chirp of her phone. Quickly uncovering from under the pile of papers, the message simply read 3 words.

Jason 11:34 pm

“You are watched”

Staring at the message for a second or two thinking ‘What does that mean’ she put her phone down and is about to return to her previous activity when

*thump*

A sudden noise comes from her window and a strange yellow square is all of a sudden on her window. ‘Did he just slap a sticky note on my window’ she thinks looking close up at the thing that’s sticking to her window. Upon closer inspection turns out it’s not a sticky note but a Kraft singles slice of cheese that is now on her window.

Did Jason really just climb up the fire escape stair at 11 o’clock at night to throw cheese at her window, In hindsight that doesn’t seem too impossible. Quickly standing up and opening the window next to her desk, she’s suddenly met with three figures staring back at her.

“Hey y/n, how’s the studying?” Yells Jason from bellow, as Tim and Dick wave her Hello. “What are you guys doing? Are you throwing cheese at my windows? Why are you doing that?” As more questions fill her head the three misquoters simply giggle and throw cheese in her direction. “I’m giving you guys a warning” she looks back at her window still “If you throw more cheese at me, I will throw my glass jug of water on you!” The three exchange a look and proceed with their cheese throwing but y/n wasn’t playing either, grabbing the jug of water and downing on the three below. As she runs out of water to pour, they continue their attack and seemingly in an attempt to distract her flash black light into her eyes to quickly make their escape.

As y/n is trying to regain her vision all she can hear is the three of them stomping down the fire escape stairs, seemingly forgetting how old and brittle they are and that they themselves aren’t the lightest, as the last one makes the run for it the breaking of a metal stair and a thud of someone hitting the ground echoes through the alley. An echo of laughter erupts as a meek “Sorry y/n” escapes Tim’s lips, rubbing her eyes from the blinding light she sees the three waving her goodbye and quickly disappearing on the corner of the building.

Shutting her window closed and getting back into her apartment she stares back at the permanent stain of the square cheese that is now left on the only window that doesn’t open. She sighs in defeat, now filling two jugs of water because this time she will be ready if they strike again.