#Mont blanc pen

[i-am-a-product-of-my-imagination]

[oxfords---notbrogues]

Mont Blanc

[gentlenmensarts]

[thealanwrightblog]

Any excuse will do!

Today is International Fountain Pen Day. Just by coincidence I got myself a Hongdian M2 in midnight blue off Amazon for 22 euros. Fine nib. Arrived yesterday.

Very nice pen, can’t fault it. Currently filled with Mont Blanc Cool Grey ink.

[mechazushi]

Concerning the past Kn8 Relax Comic...

Has anyone else considered remaking the "I sleep / REAL SHIT" meme, but with panels from the most recent chapter about Hoshina and the trials and tribulations of trying to get a photo of his eyes open?

Hold on, let me try something.....

Hoshina at a bakery:

I sleep

Hoshina seeing a Mont Blanc

REAL SHIT?

(Yeah I know, they're not the panels from the relax comic. There's no cropped ones on Google Images.)

[lartenascosta]

Monblanc Meisterstuck 149

[havithreatendub4]

📸 Dave M. Benett

Johnny Depp attends 100th Anniversary gala celebration in a fantastic recreation on the summit of Mont Blanc at the World famous Watch Fair in #Geneva, Switzerland on #April 05, 2006 #pen

[msclaritea]

Jesus fucking Christ.

[penelopemiles]

Most upsetting thing about Gotham Knights so far is that they didn’t give Harvey Dent a fountain pen

[tsukana]

fountain pens is such a deep pit of a hobby and vice stay away from me take my credit card away

[shouyuus]

ceo!tobio who inherited his company from his grandfather at a young age and was a little too eager to prove himself so he alienated a lot of board members in the beginning by coming on too strong with his own opinions, but is now trying to learn how to work better with others. who's terrible with paperwork but is fantastic with strategies, who's constantly frowning but will light up when he's discussing specifics to a project that he's front-lining.

who always shows up in an impeccable suit, but never anything too ostentatious -- black jacket and matching tie, a pristine white shirt, the collars pressed to perfection. occasionally, he'll pop the top button of his shirt during the summer months, drape his jacket over one shoulder as he scrolls through his phone or listens to someone babble on about a current proposal. who tugs on his tie during meetings that go on too long and absently rolls up the sleeves to his shirt when he's redlining a document, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he flips his weighted mont blanc pens this way and that.

ceo!tobio who owns a collection of fancy watches, all gifted to him by investors hoping to buy a few more shares of the company from him, but he never wears them. instead, he keeps the dinged up old watch his grandfather gave him, cleans it meticulously, gets it polished and fixed up as often as he can spare, only ever entrusting it to you, his secretary, to handle it but with strict instructions to let no one else touch it, and to make sure that the horologist cleans/repairs it in front of you so they don't mess with it, no matter how many times you've assured him that no one's going to try and steal an old, no-name watch from him when he's got a whole drawer full of patek philips at home.

ceo!tobio who's really not great at social functions and is terrible with names, so he brings you to every event as his date, if only so you can whisper the names and titles of the people he's about to meet into his ear right before he meets them, who keeps you so close to him that rumors start to spread about the pair of you, but doesn't bat an eyelash when people ask him about it, telling them in no uncertain terms that his private life, and yours, is none of their damn business, and that if they don't keep their noses out of it, they can say goodbye to whatever business they might've wanted to do with him and his company.

ceo!tobio who apologizes for staying so late sometimes and keeping you there with him, who offers to order whatever you want for dinner on the company card, but you end up having taco bell on the floor of his massive office, sitting cross-legged like a pair of teens at the park, him leaning back against his work desk, watching you with soft eyes as you tell him about the meetings he has tomorrow, who they're with, and the agendas you'd drawn up. he tells you he doesn't know what he'd do without you, and his voice is so honest that for a second you don't know what to say except to tell him that he doesn't have to worry about that for a while yet since you're not planning on going anywhere.

ceo!tobio who knows about the strict company policy on fraternization and kind of agonizes over it bc he's pretty sure whatever the hell he's feeling for you isn't just platonic, but he has your career to worry about -- he knew what he was getting into when he took over for his grandfather, but he doesn't want to drag you into the mess as well, and he thinks it might be better to nip it in the bud, but when he tries, you glare at him and say that he's being childish and is just using this as a scapegoat for not facing his feelings, and he knows you're right but he doesn't know what to do about it until you remind him, much more gently this time, that as the ceo, he does in fact have the power to change the specific wording of the fraternization policy to allow for relationships as long as work boundaries remain professional and there are no direct conflicts of interest.

ceo!tobio who doesn't know how he'd manage without you and trusts you more than he trusts himself, but he doesn't want to be the kind of ceo who bends the rules to suit his own wants and needs so he takes it to the board and gets it pushed through properly, and when it finally comes out that you two are kind of a thing... no one is rly surprised, bc c'mon anyone with eyes could've seen the way he was looking at you, and you back at him. did he think he was being discreet?

but ceo!tobio who tells you whole-heartedly that he'll take care of you if you don't want to be his secretary anymore, and that you'll be impossible to replace, but it's equally impossible for him to get rid of the thought of you and him living together, of him coming home to you every day, of him waking up to you every morning, so if you'll let him... he'd love to give you his everything for the rest of his life, all you have to do is say the word.

tagging tobio nation: @hiraethwa @hiraethwrote @yogurtkags @mcdonaldsnumberone

taglist: @yaoduriaa @ominouslywritinginmyhead @naomihatake @cheesypuffkins87 @crispynutella @dira333 @stunies @fennecnco - join the taglist

[i-am-a-product-of-my-imagination]

[oxfords---notbrogues]

Rolex

[thealanwrightblog]

When I left France I left behind a lot of pens and writing instruments that I didn’t think I would ever need. I brought three with me and have added two since.

On reflection I would have brought more with me but never mind.

1. Mont Blanc Meisterstuck 149 bought second hand. The nib needs some attention. They are 1000 euros new. Gulp!

2. Lamy Al-Star (new) with EF nib which I plan to change. Converter fitted.

3. Lamy Studio (new) with broad nib + converter.

4. Schon Pocket 6 (from America) with medium nib. Writes broader than medium, nice pen.

5. Brass pocket pen whose name I forget but it’s the best writer of the lot. Smooth, broad and wet. My current favourite.

Not planning on getting any more, although there are plenty I can think of. Don’t want to get the label of a fountain pen collector - that was never the point.

I like black pens :-)

[0bticeo]

elias bouchard | bloodied hands may mend the flesh

summary:

“i’m fine, elias.”

“you pulled your stitches two streets after coming out of the hospital.”

“yes, because you wanted to see me.”

tw: blood, hurt/comfort, elias being somewhat manipulative, one (1) kiss, reader's french and done with life, non graphic descriptions of stitching up wounds, the mummy returns (2001) references bc why not.

wc. 1.3k

silence.

you stand in elias bouchard’s office, heeled boots digging uncomfortably in a decadently expensive carpet. persian. a deep green.

tick; tack.

you’re watched. 

before you is a lone silhouette sitting at his desk, framed by an oval window. it stretches and stretches in the shape of an eye and stares at you.

hello, Big Brother.

you stare back.

tick; tack.

you breathe in.

tick; tack.

your fist unclenches, fingers smoothing out the pleats of your skirt. you wince at the small motion. breathing's hard. huh.

elias barely acknowledges you, fountain pen scribbling away in neat, impeccable cursive on what you know is his precious scheduling. you find yourself detailing him. taking him in, tracing his features with a tired gaze. 

behold, the head of the magnus institute, with his perfect posture and crisp black suit. 

behold, the olive skin and long, slender fingers fishing a sheet of paper out of a neat little pile on his side. 

behold, he’s staring back at you, green-grey eyes sharp behind his glasses.

“i was wondering when you’d come back.”

you scoff.

“apologies, i was busy rescuing my godson from being kidnapped by a mummy-ressurrecting cult.”

“i know.”

you consider punching him. him and his stupidly perfect face. you wonder how you’d go at it. maybe you’d slam your knuckles against the sharp edge of his jawline, where he’s defined the contours of his goatee. maybe you’d go for the gut. see if he’s as toned as you think he is. 

“your thoughts are loud today.”

“don’t turn your gaze upon me if it bothers you that much.” 

a beat. he has set aside his fountain pen. a mont blanc. how cliché. he’s watching you, hands neatly folded in front of him. waiting.

“well?”

you sigh. there’s a headache building behind your poor, poor ocular globes, and by the looks of it, your cerebrum might decide to liquefy and run down your ear.

“why am i here, if you already Know where i’ve been?”

silence. you want to scream. you might be, actually. a long, low, guttural thing, exhaustion dripping down its jagged edges.

as it is, you know you’re silent, so it dies down in your throat and scrapes your tongue bloody. you stay still. you stay still, and your nails dig in your palms, mind reeling.

you’re feeling dizzy. why are you feeling dizzy?

you startle. 

a wide palm has settled on your shoulder, broad and comforting. you haven’t seen him move. he’s standing in front of you, something like concern flashing in his depthless eyes. there’s a pinprick pressure at the back of your neck, bearing down on your senses.

“were you hurt?”

“i don’t- what?”

“miss leblanc. were you hurt?”

you open your mouth when his hand comes up to cradle your head and his thumb presses against your temple, hard, and he Sees.

(you, stepping out in the dark, cigarette a molten dot in the cold london night. something flickering in the corner of your eye. metal slamming upon your skull.

hands closing on your throat, old, old, older than the sands surrounding you, dirty, chipped nails scraping the skin, scraping and scraping until you bled, until you slammed your torch upon an eyeless skull.

a khopesh slicing the air, the fabric of your shirt, your flesh.

a temple rising from aeons of sands, glorious, glorious until it collapses, until you have to run-)

“reckless, reckless you,” he tuts. 

you look up at him, leaning in his touch, his palm warm, so warm and safe. his eyes are narrowed, and in the velvet quiet of the sunset, they seem to glow a soft green.

“i’m fine, elias.”

“you pulled your stitches two streets after coming out of the hospital.”

“yes, because you wanted to see me.”

a beat. then, he chuckles, the sound deep and warm, melting over your ears. you feel the rumble of it against your chest and realize with a start that you’re pressed up against him, his arm wrapped around your waist to support you. 

he’s cradling you against the warmth of him, and you don’t know when your vision started to blur at the edges to the point you can only see him. 

“’you give me no choice but to stitch you up myself.”

“you don’t need-”

“and you don’t want to go back to that hospital lest they ask questions.”

“fine.��

you settle on his desk, shuffling around so that you don’t mess up his neatly organized workspace. your knuckles dig in the wood, whirling fibers printing themselves in the pad of your fingertips. 

breathing hurts, actually. the painkillers must be wearing off. you feel a trickle of blood sliding down your side. ah, there goes your white shirt. blood’s a pain to clean up, so it’s pretty much ruined. 

shuffling. elias is behind his desk, palm pressing down on a spreadsheet a few words away from your hand as he opens a drawer. you can feel his warmth. you decide you must be having a fever.

“take your shirt off.”

heat creeps up your cheek.

“not even treating me to dinner? where are your manners, monsieur bouchard?”

his last name rolls off your tongue à la française, with the rasp of the “r” and the final “d” left silent, melting under the weight of his gaze. in there, even through the gauze-veil of exhaustion shrouding your vision, you glimpse a hint of fond exasperation as he pulls out a first aid kit.

with a low hiss, you unbutton the blasted thing, slowly revealing the bruises beneath, and the gauze wrapped tight around your chest. blood spreads there, clings to you, uncomfortably viscous. there’s enough of it that you have to peel off your shirt, shed it off, fabric coming away like old skin.

when his hand brushes your side, you almost scream.

“broken ribs, too,” he mutters. “what happened?”

you’re not usually this sloppy.

you take in a sharp inhale.

“what, do you want me to make a statement?”

“nothing so formal, no.”

a beat.

depthless green-grey eyes focus on you, and you alone, and you feel the weight of his gaze in your very marrow, burrowing and burrowing until it reaches your psyche.

it’s like having someone standing at your front door, elias knocking at the forefront of your mind, waiting for you to tell him. he could pry it out of you. he doesn’t.

there’s silence, for a while. stretching, stretching, only troubled by the sound of hands brushing against one another because of course elias bouchard would have hydroalcoholic gel in his first aid kit. absently, you watch, eyes following his long, clever fingers twining and intertwining as he sanitizes his hands. 

he takes a pair of scissors and starts cutting away the soiled gauze. the blade is cold on your flushed skin. you shiver. slowly, he peels the bandages away and reveals the bloody, bruised mess beneath. out of the fourteen stitches, eight remain untouched. 

he sighs.

“this will hurt.”

“i know.”

so he sets to work, bending at the waist to clean up the bleeding wound, gently, so gently you might break under the careful press of the cotton slab on your skin. 

your breathing is uneven, sharp, irregular intakes of air like shards digging in your lungs - it hurts. 

the worst has yet to come.

when he presses the next slab on the wound itself, you cry out, hand clutching at his forearm, teeth gritted in agony. he continues, unrelenting, your grip on his forearm tightening. you think you might tear at his expansive shirt - egyptian cotton. oh, irony…

finally, he withdraws.

your lower lip is bleeding with how hard you’ve bitten down on it. 

“i got sloppy,” you mutter.

“tell me.”

you do. your eyes focus on the needle in his hand, on the blood clinging to his fingertips, crimson droplets highlighting the contours of his veins. in the quiet sunset light, they're golden.

“it was two weeks ago. evelynn o’connell, an egyptologist who so happens to be a very good friend of mine, called, in tears, while i was recording a statement. her son had been kidnapped, and she was begging me to help. so i did.”

a sharp inhale as his hand cradles your hip, fingers splayed on your lower belly as he steadies himself, sharp gaze narrowing down.

“turns out, the kidnappers were a cult of sorts. they knew enough of me and my work at the institute to deem i was a threat.”

“so they kidnapped you.”

“yes. but hey. i found alex, safe and sound.” 

the needle penetrates the flesh. you exhale, strained, knuckles turning white where you’re gripping the edges of his desk.

“tell me about the mummy they unearthed for the second time.”

“imhotep. high priest of seti I. condemned to the worst of punishments for having an affair with pharaoh’s wife to be. mummified alive and left to rot.” 

two stitches done.

he’s close, elias. closer than you expected, the sunset framing the sharp angles in his face like a modern masterpiece. there’s a strand of graying hair falling in front of his eyes, unkempt. you want to push it back and run your fingers through his hair.

“i don’t know all the details. they had knocked me out hard enough to give me a mild concussion - i think. i…”

a beat. four stitches. elias’ thumb traces abstract patterns on the low dip of your hip. when he speaks, his breath is warm, brushing against your ear.

“take your time.”

“i was dead weight, elias.” your head presses against his shoulder, pinprick pain burning, stinging your eyelids. “couldn’t even protect my godson, couldn’t even get him back home in one piece alone, the o'connells had to come.”

six stitches. all done, all bandaged up, and you’re still talking, so, so very fast.

“that temple crumbled upon us and i had Seen it coming, but i didn’t even have the time to act, it all went down so fast-”

your name is sharp on his tongue. you raise your head, and it’s heavy, and you’re all raw nerves exposed under his ceaseless gaze, with tears streaming down your face and god, why are you crying-

“are they dead?”

“what?”

“the o’connells. are any of them dead?”

“no, but-” 

“are your enemies dealt with?”

there’s a pernicious voice, little screaming thing, that burns the words across your mind. death is only the beginning. you think of imhotep falling down in the duat and nod, slowly.

“then why do you keep worrying?"

“because the mere thought of losing the people i cherish ruins me.” you raise your head, and you’re exhausted, and the small space between his arms looks so very inviting. “because if i slip up, they die.”

“they didn’t.”

“no, they didn’t. not then. but, gods, elias, i’ve Seen them die, death waiting at every corner of this damned temple-”

his lips press down on yours. slow, soft, and so very warm. you let out a muffled sigh, hands digging in the collar of his shirt as he leans in closer, as he breathes you in. with a teasing nip at your lower lip, he withdraws, licking away the blood coating his lips.

you look up at him, eyes widening.

“you need to get better at Seeing. i can teach you.” a glance at his watch. “how about i treat you to dinner?”

you can only stare at him, mouth agape in shock.

“dear?”

“oh. oh, um. yes, that’ll be lovely. seven tonight?”

a low chuckle as he wraps his suit jacket around your shoulders.

“eager, aren’t we?”

“oh, you unsufferable-”

he shuts you up with a kiss and sends you on your way, hand settling on what little part on the small of your back is left without bruises.

“take the rest of the week off. i’ll pick you up at seven.” a beat, as he holds the door open for you. “do try to get some rest, dear.”

a beat. you peck his lips and smile.

"will do, boss."

[havithreatendub4]

Johnny Depp attends 100th #Anniversary gala celebration in a fantastic recreation on the summit of #Mont Blanc at the World famous #Watch Fair in #Geneva, Switzerland on #April 05, 2006 #pen #Vanessa