#brass anchors | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

soliloquiss · 2 years

Text

( THE MOVIE OR ME ? ) LUXIEM X AFAB! READER 18+

❥ getting freaky in the cinemas with the luxiem boys

❥ WARNING: NSFW, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (V LONG POST AGAIN BYE)

VOX 👹 — it was unanticipated for the movie having several r18 scenes happening left and right, causing you to get irked and sexually frustrated at the same time. meanwhile vox beside you isn't saying anything nor his expressions seem to change. if anything, he looks intrigued and interested, opposedly to you. you try to shift your attention back once again to the movie playing on the big screen.

as of the moment, the story actually seems to progress but a little while after, another bed scene was occurring. "just how much does this movie have porn?" you ask vox with a disgruntled face. "i didn't see it coming too." he responds in a low voice, attention still anchored at the movie. you sigh and decided to try bearing with the scenes for a little while. focusing again, seeing the couple in the movie caress each other's body and showering each other with passionate kisses, the libido in your body increases rapidly. your breath deepens as they undress each other, until your vision gets blurry and you start to envision yourself with vox doing those things instead. "vox . . ." you whip your head to the right again and place your hand on his thighs. he notices how you're acting unusual as confusion paints his pretty face, eyebrows furrowed. you begin to reach for his bulge and palm it from his white trousers, and vox bites his lips in an attempt to suppress the gasp about to slip out of his mouth. "you're surprisingly bold today." he whispers on your neck, his hot breath ghost on your sensitive skin. you no longer hesitated to zip his pants down to feel more of his bulging dick, the warmth it emanates from your touch is enough to drive you crazier than ever. "i want it inside me." you tell him as your dominant hand reaches out to his head, pulling him closer to your face. vox immediately understood what you were trying to do, so he follows suit with your wish. he licks your sweet skin, following with light nibbling with his teeth leaving sloppy yet silent kisses all over your neck. you cover your mouth with a free hand and continue to stroke vox's dick. you feel it twitch everytime you'd glide your fingers underneath the tip of his dick. "you know i can't resist you." he says sternly as he carries your body and makes you sit atop him quickly to avoid suspicion from the other people, a whimper escapes your lips. "you know what to do." vox says as he strips his boxers down and lets his cock free of confinements, standing tall and warm, begging to be inserted in. you slowly stand up from his lap and rake your flowy yet short skirt up, showing vox your burgundy colored thongs that hugs the plush of your ass perfectly. "my fucking god, what a view." he cusses under his breath and wastes no time by putting his dick into your sopping hole right away with a light push. he supports your position by grabbing ahold of your arms and continues to pound in and out, making sure you're feeling him all the way in. "fuck vox . . my pussy really loves your dick i can't do anything about it." you tell him as you look back, seeing him smirk at your pleading, desperate face as he thrusts into your hole. "and that's just how it should be. if you were to be this crazy about others, i might just act up."

MYSTA 🦊 — "this shit is boring." he complains with no regard if he's heard by the other people or not with how loud his voice was. you try to silence him from talking shit any further by putting a finger on his lips but to your surprise, he opens his mouth and sucks on it instead, tongue so warm and slick, playing with your skin. he looks at you, gaze as bold as brass, licking every part of your index. "m-mysta!" you freak out but still managed to keep it in low tones. he decides to cut it out and laugh it off, "i'd rather play with your tits than being forced to watch this bs." your face crumples up, "my brother in christ you're horny." he nods and agrees, "yeah yeah, because you wore the easy access type and now i'm so tempted to do you." he pertains to the bodycon dress you're wearing as you try to pull down the hem to your knees. a hand immediately stops you from doing so, none other than mysta rias. this time, he puts a finger on his lips and whisper "shh. come with me to the restroom." his cerulean eyes glimmer from the movie lighting but then fading away as he stands up and casually descends from the series of theater seatings. your heart pounds faster the longer it took for him to disappear, but as you notice that his presence was gone, you do the same too and exit the cinema room. the bright white lights then welcome your vision, and a tall figure from your left awaits you. he approaches your slightly trembling body and holds your cold, sweating palms, "this is gonna be fun, trust me." he leads you to the restroom reserved for pwds, the spacious place is enough for you to have sex with him. "this is the dress that i bought for you, right?" mysta queries as he leans towards you, arms snaking around your waist and bringing your body closer to his.

you could feel the broad plane of his chest pressing against you, as well as his painful dick easing some attention from your hands down below. you hum in response, although something boggles your mind. "we can do it in a standard bathroom, why this one?" mysta pauses for a second but then goes back in track to tease you physically, he lifts up your tight dress and says, "relax, there are three restrooms of the same type. plus, our sex will be something different for now. today, i want you to move and lavish my dick completely." in a flash, your panties were stripped by his long fingers, a juicy wet surface seeps out of your naked folds. "i know you wanted to do something like this long ago, so here it is now. enjoy my dick~" he coos and sits on the toilet, his clothing stripped down as well. his cock twitches while he waits for you to come and sit on him like a good girl would. his brazen gaze at your figure felt as if he was ready to eat you up and his conceited grin was the cherry on top. you finally get on top of him and held his dick with your hands, lubricating it with your saliva you saved up earlier. you stroke it up and down to keep it in its full glory and hard like a metal rod, you look straight at mysta's eyes as you insert in in your hole. the both of you mewls from the feeling, you rock your head back from the immense pleasure you got upon the first step of riding him. you try to buck your hips to get used to the feeling and slowly hold onto the metal railings on both sides of the toilet as support to keep you sitting atop mysta's lap. "ah— i can't stop myself anymore." he chuckles in response, "you don't have to. we have thirty minutes left to have fun in here."

LUCA 🦁 — the more luca buried himself in the crook of your neck the more you could smell the scent of booze in your nose. you comb his blond locks with your fingers carefully, earning a hum from him in approval. "luca, are you drunk?" you ask right of the bat as you watch the scenes playing in front, getting cozy with luca to combat the cold atmosphere in the cinema. "drunk, hmm, no. tipsy, maybe?" he says, words uttered sloppily and with a strong accent. you almost snickered at how different his voice was but at the same time, aroused at how raspy and rough his voice chimed into your ears. "why didn't you tell me? we could've watched other movies in your house instead so you'll be comfortable." luca weakly shakes his head in opposition to your idea, "i had to something special for the stream a little while—" his explaining was cut off with a hic, "do you need some water?" you ask as you hand him a bottle of water when all of a sudden, he opens his mouths and crashes his lips on yours. caught off guard, you widened your eyes but couldn't do anything as luca was already stopping you with hise bulked up arms; the latex texture of his gloves brushing on your skin was eerily cold. he twirls his tongue and lightly sucks on yours, lavender eyes fluttered close, enjoying the momentum. you try to break the deep kiss by pulling away but to your surprise, your body reclines and fall down on the vacant seats beside you. luca as an opportunist, pins you down on the cushions still not stopping from giving you heated kisses. when he finally does so, a trail of saliva connects your lips to his pink ones, you try to catch your breath from how quick and heated the kisses were. "luca, we're in the cinemas. we're outside." the blond male hums in acknowledgment of your point "oh yes, you're right— i'm sorry." he withdraws from your figure. naturally, you were shocked at how he stopped just like that. really? just like that? truth to be told, the moment you feel him press his itching dick against your clothed region, it made you yearn for more so you were a little disappointed at how quickly he gave up.

"wait actually . ." you crawl back to him and lean in his face, "i kinda want more." you murmured. luca's cheeks instantly heats up at your words as he was left with no choice but to stand up and strip his slacks down in an instant. "i want to feel you inside me so badly right now." a satisfied smile creeps up on your lips as you remove your clothing as well and bend over on the cinema seat, ass perked up— the perfect position to insert himself in. "you look so pretty tonight." he says as he hastily pushes his cock inside your heating pussy, a pretty moan bubbles from your throat. thankfully, the movie you wanted to watch was the underrated type and so many people wouldn't attend to watch it. another bonus factor is: the timings. it was 7 in the evening and if you remember correctly, only seven people including you and luca availed for the tickets. you let yourself rock back and forth from how rough luca was pounding your hole, strings of endless mewls slip out of your mouth— almost drooling from how good it is for your feelings. "ahh— drunk you hits different."

SHU ☯️ — shu and you agreed to do naughty things in the theaters just for shits and giggles but in all honesty, it was because you won from an uno game you played yesterday and this was his punishment (although not really, but still, a punishment). it was receiving a blowjob from you but in the cinemas, a crowded one at that. you've always been a little adventurous, ready to risk things for added zeal and excitement altogether. you made sure to wear the prettiest, skimpiest and tightest clothing you can wear to seduce him and it was working. you were gliding your hands up and down his sturdy chest as you two tried to focus on the movie before you. every time you'd attempt to play with his nipples, he'd grab your hand and try to bear with the tantalizing feeling. it was all foreplay, even going as far as planting shortlived kisses on his neck, ending each one with slight sucking that his pale skin turned reddish violet. "god, your skin is so sensitive." you tell him, snickering at the end of your sentence. "i know i know, please carry on with it already and finish my suffering." he whimpers, eyebrows furrowed from the multiple sensations he'd been receiving. "if shu asks so, then i shall give." you finally get down on your knees to level yourself with shu's bulging pants. you strip him down with swift and ease, letting his lonely dick finally spring free. you lick your lips in anticipation and kiss the tip, slowly working your way down— at the same time spitting saliva you saved up earlier.

you bobble your head up and down as you take him in, mouth widened as much as possible because his cock was just too girthy for you to take lightly. it felt sloppy but good in a different kind of way, the more you deepened his cock in your mouth, the hornier you got just imagining his dick inside you. shu's hips buck up and down to create more friction and to pick up the pace while you gladly obliged. he was starting to feel better than the 'suffering' side, and immediately craved for more. "[name], how come you're so good at this?" he whines as he looks down on you, lilac eyes admiring such view. you decide to make him feel better as you deepened the blowjob, taking him all the way in, until his tip eventually reaches the deepest part of your throat. you feel tears in your eyes form yet you try to show him a caring, comforting smile— in order to make the experience one of a kind for him. "i-i'm cumming!" he says as he rocks his head back, overwhelmed all in all. you continue on sucking his dick and stroking it at the same time until you feel the taste of his cum splash in your mouth. carefully taking it out, you show him his liquid that you accumulated through dedication and hard work and swallowed it all. "looks like shu enjoyed the so-called punishment huh?"

IKE 🖋 — you've awaited this moment your whole life, and finally, ike agrees on a movie date. all tensed up from the waiting game guessing whether he'll reject it or not, an answer finally arises. he said yes. and now here you are, arm linked with his, enjoying his presence as you got to watch the movie you both wanted to see. apparently a couple of minutes later, the sound effects from the show silences and clapping noises reverberate inside from a distance. who in their right mind would even have sex at a horror movie? or perhaps you're imagining things? you turn to ike and shoot him a question, "ike— do you hear that?" he responds, "ah yes. it's normal in this country apparently. do you want to join in the fun too? i'm here anyways." in an unfazed tone, let alone his voice soft and low. you look at him, doubt and shock painting your expression. and most importantly, he said the last part as if it was something out of the norm? "i'm fine, it's okay." you shrug off the tempting desire to see the male feel good from your body, and also to make him absolutely whipped for you as you planned to. the movie continues, whoever may be doing the deed in the theaters are still on a roll and jump scares come minute by minute, your vocal chords nearing to surrendering every time you'd get spooked. "this movie is the creepiest and the scariest i've seen in a while!" you tell him and even though you used to love this genre of films and shows, you've never been this balls scared of one. "yeah true, the build up of suspense in this one is amazing." he laughs quietly but notices how you're barely watching the movie with two hands on your eyes. "actually— there is a trick i learned on how to be less scared of movies like these." he shares and it piques your interest. "just spread your legs and allow me to do the pleasure, alright?" your mind was already clouded from the brewing temptation of carnal desire from earlier and now that being scared shitless is added to the mix, you were unable to think thoroughly and let ike take the wheel. his hands snake up to your clothed region, fingers brushing up and down your clit.

you moan from the sensation, while ike's lush green eyes squint into two crescents, enjoying the noises that you're making. you heave a deep breath as you hold tightly on his arm, heart pounding against your chest. "go watch now, you won't be jump scared anymore in this way, no?" you bite your lower lip to try and restrain yourself from being noisy. you anchor your attention back to the movie while focusing heavily on not to let out any loud moans or else you'll be banned from the mall. ike pushes your panties aside and inserts three fingers all the way in, your back arches, pleasure and lust coursing through your veins. at the same time, a jump scare pops up in the frame and was ike right. you were too occupied from feeling the pleasure than focusing on the horror movie playing. little did you know, the same applies for him too. apparently, he was too busy making you feel good and indulging in the pretty noises you're making.

#luxiem smut #luxiem x reader #shu yamino #shu yamino smut #mysta rias #mysta rias smut #ike eveland #ike eveland smut #luca kaneshiro #luca kaneshiro smut #vox akuma #vox akuma smut #luxiem #nijisanji en

2K notes · View notes

genderbinaryisforlosers · 2 years

Text

i’m actually obsessed with cerrit. he’s the odd one out. he’s the only member of the brass ring without magic. he’s the only one not hiding anything. he’s the sole survivor.

he is always watching but he does not press his friends about the secrets they keep until it’s too late. he is the anchor that counterbalances their hubris. the ring of brass is destroying itself each other in pvp ten minutes after he leaves because the sightwarden of the eyes of avalir is their sense of fucking perspective.

thinking about how the hoarding of magic itself became hostile as the age of arcanum came crashing down. trying to keep the magic from the calix results in disaster. everybody’s magical items explode. if they don’t spend their highest spell slots quick they’re going to be weaponised against them.

thinking about the sole survivor of the ring of brass being the one without magic. all he has are his own two wings and a promise to keep.

#cerrit agrupnin #exu calamity #critical role #calamity spoilers #riley rambles

688 notes · View notes

kaizenmetals · 7 months

Text

We hold a reputation for being a reputable manufacturer, exporter, and supplier of a large selection of Brass Anchors.

This is made in accordance with global quality standards utilizing premium brass and cutting-edge technologies.

Many diverse sectors, like the pharmaceutical, petrochemical, chemical, and textile ones, employ the anchor we offer.

To meet the needs of our esteemed clients, this anchor is offered at market-beating costs in a wide range of forms, sizes, and patterns.

These are highly regarded by our clients as a result of its key qualities, such as precise design, simplicity of installation, tough construction, high strength, low maintenance requirements, and longevity.

We provide our product line in a variety of parameters to satisfy the needs of the plastic and automotive industries. We export our goods to places like Southeast Asia, South America, and North America.

· We have in house facilities for productions such as Extrusion, Casting, Forging & Machining, CNC – VMC Products.

· We have German spectrometer for perfect results and also can share the Material Test Certificate

· We can share the best quote in the industry.

· We have capacity of manufacturing as per customer drawing or samples provided

· We can supply the components with best quality and services

0 notes

tiyoin · 2 years

Text

Tho this is a different account, I’ll always be a whore for sagau 🫦

ft alhaitham🙈

Kaveh, out and about doing whatever he does- Alhatiham was lucky to have his alone time.

His chest still as he peered down at the capsule. Its brass chill subsided into a comforting warmth as it lay heavy in his palm.

There was a temptation to it. An impulse to just have a tiny peek inside.

Just a singular blurb of information wouldn’t hurt...

He scoffed, throwing the capsule onto his bed.

What a riot. Him? Tempted by some forbidden fruit? Ha! As if!

He paced his room, hands perched on his hips as the sun started to set in the west. Fragments of golden rays slipped through his window and illuminated his room, occasionally getting in his eye. Though that didn’t break him from his thoughts.

He wasn’t like those foolish scholars or that idiotic eremite! He was a scribe- a member of the havarat for crying out loud!

Yet the simmering amber never failed to catch his eye. The sun only added to its brilliance. Its usual crimson shimmer was only enhanced in the light as it glew on his emerald bedsheets.

It looked like a ruby…

He was no idiot. The street vendors knew as much, so they never tried to scam or rip him off. His peers and co-workers knew as much, so they found it useless to engage in small talk with him

But the academy deemed him one. Promising him a look inside as a reward for doing the dirty work for them.

He knew what they were planning- they wanted to get dispose of him. Discard all loose ends and throw him to Aaru village, making a fool of him and his name.

He chuckled.

Was forbidden knowledge really worth the risk? Was it worth losing his mind- his sanity over? To know things only the dead knew?

Like those archons, Khaneri’ha, the scarlet king. Was knowing their secrets worth the price?

His mind felt like lead, the same with his limbs from the impromptu battle with that crazed eremite.

He was no way out of shape, yet he felt like he had just run a marathon without any food or water.

He’s tired, that's all...

The sun dimmed under his windowsill, the capsule back to its usual mixture of shimmering red and ambers. Its casing was still warm. He placed it on his bedside table, shed his coat, and simply laid done, arms supporting his head as his mind still raced with questions; Why did the Akademiya assign him this mission? What were the `sage's plans? Who stole the knowledge capsule in the first place, and why? The Scarlet King…

Whatever. He’ll just worry about those in the morning...

Like an anchor being cast into the sea, his eyes closed. His mind was still a mess as he tried to control his breathing. There wasn’t much he could do besides let those itching thoughts pass and control his breathing. To not grab onto a theory and spend the rest of the night dissecting it. To not grab his coat and snoop in some dark alley.

No, he needed his energy for tomorrow, he convinced himself.

His body slowly relaxed, sinking further into his made bed as his breathing finally stabilized.

There was a quick flash of red. So quick that he almost missed it. Then there was another quick burst, this time of green. Then of silver, then blue, more greens, pinks, maroons, and teals, all until they started bleeding together in a perverted rainbow, constantly moving, changing like a roaring river.

It stopped.

It’s black. Pitch black.

Something you’d only experience in a torture chamber to deprive you of your senses. To drive you insane.

He didn’t move, nor breathe, not knowing what was happening, or what was to come.

“Greater lord Rukkhadvata! You mustn’t kneel like that” a voice? Whipping his head to the direction heard the voice, the abyss only stared back at him as he inched his hand towards the hilt of his blade.

“Nonsense. Only a fool wouldn't bow in your presence or honor” unlike the other voice, this one wasn’t as panicked, instead, held a calming sense of maturity and elegance.

Almost like an Akademiya student. Then again, this was Greater Lord Rukkhadata he was talking about.

Though he wondered. 'Who had Sumeru’s great archon on her knees bowing?'

The voice continued bantering as the stream of colors started again.

“Please, you know that I don’t like you doing that”

“But your grace, it would be-“

“It wouldn't be damaging if I told you not to! You’re my friend, not my servant. Now c’mon.”

The colors stopped as he was now in a throne room. Though this- this wasn’t like anything he’s seen before. He knows all of Sumeru’s buildings and architecture like the back of his hand… yet he's never seen such a building before in his life.

Not in the world, especially not in the textbooks he's burned into his brain

Tall marble walls that were shaped pointing up, like a Zaytun peach sprout. The insides were contradictory to the Akademiya’s buildings. Instead of white with green, they were gold and white. Everything was white, accented with the colors gold and crimson.

It was breathtaking. Truly.

Never before had he imagined such craftsmanship. Marble statues of each archon `stood tall on columned shelves, where natural light spilled from the windows above them.

But that was what he was worried about, no. Instead, he could help but stare at the big golden statue in the center of the room where it was in the middle of a pool of water.

Stepping closer, he drank up every crook and crevice of the statute. Their flowy cloth clothing, the natural pose of them holding an orb.. no. It looked more like a star. A star so shiny it looks like it was just plucked from the night sky.

They were stunning. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Anyone young or old, art critic or janitor could tell how much love and care was put into this statue. How much blood sweat and tears the artist took to make sure they got it in the image of this… god?

Slowly, his eyes trailed up towards their arm and to their face.

That’s odd.

“Sit down, please”

His eyes followed his head as he couldn't tear himself away from the statue's face. He was entranced.

Something was nipping at the back of his brain telling him that he’s seen them before. That they aren’t just a mysterious god, but someone he knew

It was like he got burnt, his brain panicked as his eyes widened in shock.

You

You were on the couch in front of Greater Lord Rukkhadavata, who was still on her knees in front of you, though she looked more comfortable than anything.

Leaning down, your hands were in hers as you gently guided her up towards the couch.

He assumed he was invisible, as neither of you batted an eye at him. Continuing your interaction like you were in a play. Lines delivered flawlessly. You both really complimented each other.

Why was he here? How did he get there?

Must have been the knowledge capsule… did it automatically connect to his akksha terminal? Shaking his head to clear up the jumbling thoughts. He decided to ask questions later and just observe.

You two were both now seated next to each other, knees touching and shoulders mushing into one. Anyone could tell that there was a closeness to you. That you'd been friends for a while. But it looked like greater lord Rukkhadvata was trying to merge with you. Her body squished more and more into yours as she listened to you intently. The small smile and intense look on her face showed that she was either drinking up every word you said, or she was doing what he did before; memorizing every pore on your face, watching every muscle twitch as you rambled, slowly getting lost in your own little world- she was enthralled.

“Your grace, why did you stop talking?”

A chill ran up his spine as you made eye contact with him. He must be at least 12-15 meters away, yet he could see every color, every pattern in your eye. It startled him, thinking that it might have been a mistake, and you just spaced out like you usually do. But you were blinking, breathing, conscious.

“Your grace?”

“Why does she call you that?” he blurted out on instinct.

“You shouldn’t be here”

“I- your grace-“

“Then let me go”

“That is not my choice to make, you are in the capsule's memories. When there is everything you need to know, it will bring you back”

“What more do I need to know?”

Your counterpart huffed, leaning back comfortably as Greater Lord Rukkahadvata stared at him, or the vicinity he was in with an obviously stressed face.

“That’s for you to figure out” you broke wow contact, turning back to Greater Lord Rukkahadvata and continuing your previous conversation like you weren’t just talking to thin air

This wasn’t you. It’s not possible. You had such a dignified grace to you. Speaking beautifully and with purpose, yet the real you would stutter and make weird noises when inconvenienced.

This was over 300 hundred years, yet you're alive and breathing now- you couldn’t be an archon or from Khaenri'ah

Yet Greater Lord Rukkahadvata kept calling you ‘your grace’ and there was a gold statue of you, surrounded by a gleaming gold fountain with water so clear it looked like air.

“You’re the creator, aren’t you”

Your eyes met his before you dusted your lap and got up. Greater lord… should he even be calling her that with how dependent she was to you? She was following you like a puppy, babbling about how you should sit down and let her get whatever you need.

“Nonsense” you grew closer to him, eyes never once wavering. “I am simply the person you know as ‘y/n’ “

Like slow motion you walked past him, the wind behind you whispering in his ear as he got punched in the face- huh

That’s what it felt like as the changing stream of color engulfed him again, though, unlike last time, there was a feeling of lightness in the pit of his stomach. His limbs stiff through the harsh windows of the tunnel. Though the wind was pushing him, he couldn't breathe well. Or he had to breathe consciously or else he’d probably die. Never before had he experienced something like this from a knowledge capsule.

The capsules usually show or just insert information into one's terminal- yet this causes him to have an allusion of the past. Nothing he’s ever seen before.

With a startling gasp, he woke up. He was sweating bullets yet it felt like someone (Kaveh) had poured a gallon of ice water over him. Everything hurt. His body won’t listen to him, to get away from that damned thing, the risk that something like that will happen again.

“Fuck” he drawled out, chest heaving as he gave up on moving.

His body and mind were in overdrive, trying to figure out what happened. Images of you, a companion of the traveler, were playing on repeat in his mind as questions upon questions flooded his brain, each one he tried to solve would only make 5 more pop up.

Who the fuck were you

hehe i hop y’all like this 🤭🤭

#genshin x reader #sagau #sagau x reader #al haitham #alhaitham x reader #sumeru #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #alhaitham genshin

474 notes · View notes

ltwilliammowett · 4 months

Text

Prisoner of War Model of the brig Joan D’Arc, 18 guns, 1800-1806

The hull is carved from a solid piece of wood to which the bone planks are secured with brass pins. The masts tops, caps, crosstrees, deadeyes and blocks are made in bone whilst the stunsail yards look as if they are goose quill. The deck is fully equipped with the anchors and their handling gear, the turned brass cannon are mounted on bone carriages and there is a glazed skylight at the stern just forward of the tiller.

This beautiful model is a commissioned work. To realise a good price at market, the models were often named after famous ships of the time, whilst some models included spring-loaded guns operated by cords. It is thought that the name is fictitious as has not been possible to identify the model with a particular vessel.

#naval artifacts #pow #bone ship model #half bone ship #early 19th century #age of sail

72 notes · View notes

peterfieldsberlin · 2 years

Photo

This solid brass Dee Karabiner by Smoky Sumi's Store is perfect to have your keys always at hand. In combination with the X Chopper Pouch by Eat Dust, the light version of a wallet, and you are ready to go. #smokysumistore #madeinjapan #accessories #edcgear #pocketdump #keyholder #pouch #leatherpouch #leathergoods #brass #anchor #berlin #peterfieldsberlin (hier: Peter Fields) https://www.instagram.com/p/CgOL_7RjlTq/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#smokysumistore #madeinjapan #accessories #edcgear #pocketdump #keyholder #pouch #leatherpouch #leathergoods #brass #anchor #berlin #peterfieldsberlin

6 notes · View notes

coeurdalene · 10 months

Text

looking for some light

masterlist | ao3

summary: he tells raleigh, “i want to come back from this mission, ‘cause i quite like my life.” he means, there’s still so much i want to do, so much i have to do. (aka chuck wants to make it through this goddamn war so he can finally live a normal life, even if he doesn’t really know what that means.)

pairing: chuck hansen x reader

warning(s): character death (sorry), swearing, mentions of canon-typical violence.

word count: 3.86k

a/n: i meant to have this finished by the ten year anniversary of the movie but uh… anyways, here it is now! this is my love letter to chuck hansen and also a projection of my want for a beach house.

The universe gifts Chuck an unwanted Christmas present in the form of a memorandum. He swears under his breath when you trudge into the Mission Control Center that morning with a dejected frown on your face and shove the crisp paper into his hands. His eyes fall on the letterhead, embossed with the familiar spread-winged eagle, and he already knows what it contains. He’d been expecting it for months. He resists the urge to scream, to crumple the paper into a ball and hurl it at the trash bin with every ounce of remaining strength in his body. He doesn’t envy you when you announce the bad news to everyone else, fulfilling your final duty as Sydney’s Chief LOCCENT Officer.

Days later, not even twenty-four hours after the Shatterdome decommissioning and right at the beginning of the new year, the universe offers him—and the rest of Sydney—another unwanted gift.

Mutavore is an ugly thing. Nearly ninety meters tall and weighing over two thousand tons, it’s hunched over as if struggling to support its own weight, blade-like plates protruding from its head and back.

“I don’t care how many eyes it has,” he says after you read out its classification and measurements, “I’m gonna kick its ass.”

(Six. It has six eyes. Just because he doesn’t care doesn’t mean he won’t pay attention.)

The category four Kaiju plows through the coastal wall like a knife cutting through warm butter and tramps into Sydney Harbour, stopping only to raise its head and let out a guttural screech, as if barging through a metal barrier hadn't been enough to announce its presence. He wonders how many millions of dollars have now been reduced to rubble at the bottom of the bay and how many weeks were spent welding together beams that took only a few seconds to destroy.

Then, its beady eyes—all six of them—focus on Striker Eureka and her brass knuckles glinting in the sun. It screeches again before charging headfirst into Striker’s swinging fist.

Mutavore dies as quickly as it breached the wall, lying motionless in the bay, blood-soaked missiles lodged in its chest and Kaiju blue staining the water.

“That’s Striker Eureka’s tenth kill to date. It’s a new record,” he boasts to the reporter in the aftermath. He ignores the questions about the decommissioning and brushes off the look his father gives him. Don’t get too cocky, he looks like he wants to say.

When they return to the Shatterdome, the J-Tech crew cleans Striker, polishing her knuckles and wiping Kaiju remains from the Conn-Pod. Chuck takes a long hot shower. Then, the move to Hong Kong begins.

The Anchorage Shatterdome—the cold and stalwart Icebox—had been the first to close. He remembers how you had stared blankly at the official PPDC statement for hours while he watched the newscaster on the television read it out loud. The Marshal had been on the broadcast, too, brought on for further questioning. When the anchor asked about the future of the Jaeger Program, he had assured her that, as long as the Kaiju kept coming, the Jaegers would keep fighting. Chuck had laughed dryly at that. The dwindling funding from the U.N. would say otherwise and whispers of better opportunities at the wall hung in the air, getting louder with every passing day.

The closure of the Icebox set off a string of shutdowns: Lima and Tokyo later that month, Panama City in November, Vladivostok and Los Angeles a few weeks after. The clock was ticking and it was only a matter of time before that damned memorandum arrived in Sydney, his fate dictated by its contents.

His beloved Sydney Shatterdome closes at the turn of the year, leaving behind its only remaining sibling in Hong Kong. What had once been a robust network of PPDC hubs was now reduced to one.

And the clock continues to tick.

“We don’t need a stupid wall,” Chuck declares on the flight to Hong Kong, glaring at the news broadcast replaying footage of the Sydney attack. “We need better pilots.”

He’d expressed the same sentiment to the reporter who interviewed him after Mutavore’s attack, too, blaming the fall of the Jaeger program on the mediocrity of those involved. He isn’t sure if it’s that simple—you had explained something to him about politics and funding and morale, government nonsense he didn’t understand—but he sure as hell knows that the Jaegers would be winning if pilots stopped letting the Kaiju kick their asses.

“Have some respect,” his father chides. “Every pilot has fought tooth and nail to protect the people they love.”

And perhaps that’s the truth—it sure is for him. His days consist of sore muscles from training, never getting enough sleep, and always anticipating another fight. He does it for his father, who has been a soldier for as long as he can remember. For his mother, whose untimely death lingers in the back of his mind every time he sets his eyes on a Kaiju. For you, who frequently pulls all-nighters and agonizes over details to make sure the Shatterdome stays running. And for Max, of course. (Silly little dog probably has no idea what a Kaiju is.)

So, yeah, perhaps it is the truth. But it doesn’t change the fact that they only have eight months left of funding, or that the U.N. thinks a wall will fare better than a Jaeger.

“We won’t be getting more pilots. All we can do is work with what we still have,” you chime in, pulling Chuck out of his thoughts. “But, on the bright side, our remaining pilots are some of the best in program history.”

“Including me?” he smirks. You laugh, cheerful and bright, punching his arm lightly. Max shifts in his sleep at the sudden noise. His father gives him that look again. Don’t get too cocky.

He spends the rest of the flight listening to you read briefing notes on “Operation Pitfall,” the Marshal’s shiny new plan to end the war by detonating a bomb at the throat of the Breach. Somehow, the PPDC had procured a thermonuclear warhead from the Russians, entrusting Striker Eureka to carry it while the remaining Jaegers played defense.

Chuck is cynical about this plan. They had already tried (and failed) to drop things into the Breach. A bomb would only bounce back at them and kill anything in range.

He quips sarcastically if the Marshal had thought of that. You respond only by flipping through the file again for an explanation. He knows you won’t find one.

As he steps off the plane and onto the landing pad, he’s met with a grinning Tendo Choi shouting over the patter of heavy rain, “Welcome to Hong Kong!”

The man, wearing a grey suit jacket too wide around the shoulders shakes their hands in greeting before ushering them out of the rain and into the Shatterdome. Chuck sidesteps some J-Techs as he enters, surveying his surroundings.

He had been much younger the last time he visited Hong Kong and much less invested in all the inner workings of the PPDC. He remembers mechanics and pilots shouting and running about, dirt and scuff marks on the floor, and his father reminding him to keep a tight grip on Max’s leash. It had felt unfamiliar then, but he realizes now that it isn’t too different from Sydney. Same high ceiling, same metal catwalks, and almost the same arsenal of Jaegers towering over him. It’s a little older, a little grittier, and a little more worn down, but no longer foreign.

He spots Cherno Alpha in one of the bays, its stalwart form hunkering and heavy. The Kaidanovskys stand at its feet, engaged in conversation. Crimson Typhoon stands opposite it, brilliant red and regal. J-Techs gather around her three arms, inspecting and cleaning the rotating saw blades.

“Striker arrived a few minutes before you did,” Tendo gestures to the shiny silver Jaeger standing in the far bay, metal glinting under the bright lights of the hangar. “The crew is getting her settled in.”

Then, Chuck’s eyes fall on the fourth and final Jaeger. That last he had heard of Gipsy Danger was that she had been decommissioned, damaged beyond repair from a mission gone wrong. But here she stands—untarnished metallic blue, left arm intact, and definitely not lying forgotten in Oblivion Bay.

“What’s that old rustbucket doing here?” he leers, very aware that there isn’t a single speck of rust on her.

“She looks brand new,” you remark.

“She is, sorta,” Tendo replies, “We’ve been fixing her up: a new fluid synapse system, new engine blocks, and a new hull. She’ll be holding the defensive perimeter for you in Operation Pitfall, along with Cherno Alpha and Crimson Typhoon.”

“Does she have pilots?” you inquire.

“Not yet,” Tendo grins. “But she will.”

Chuck hopes that these pilots won’t be incompetent idiots, whoever they might be.

The peaceful moments are rare, but cherished and so welcomed. In these instances, he lets his guard down, breathes deeply, and allows himself to think of anything other than training or fighting.

One of his favorites is somewhere in between Striker’s fourth and fifth kills: a lazy afternoon in bed with your back against the headboard and his head in your lap, sunlight streaming in through the windows with your fingers carding lightly through his hair.

“After this war is over,” he declares, imagining a life without the chaos and destruction that comes with being a Jaeger pilot, “we’ll buy a nice house in the suburbs where we’ll live blissfully for the rest of our lives.”

“The suburbs are nice,” you contend, “but how about a beach house on the Gold Coast? Or Port Douglas?”

He chuckles at that, picturing what living by the ocean without the fear of a Kaiju attack would be like. He would spend his mornings engulfed in the soothing murmur of the sea, gazing out at the unbroken horizon. His afternoons basking in the warmth of the sun, feet buried in the soft sand. His evenings surrounded by music and your melodious laughter, trying not to step on your toes while you lead him through a dance in your living room.

Quiet, he thinks. Serene. The only unrest would be the waves at high tide or the gulls swooping down to steal his food.

“Wherever you want, as long as it’s you and me. And Max. Right, bud?” he grins at the bulldog lying at the foot of the bed. Max lets out a little grunt. Chuck takes that as a sign of agreement.

“Sounds lovely,” you reply, your hand moving to rest against his cheek. He turns his head to kiss your palm, heart soaring at the way you smile softly down at him.

All Chuck knows about Raleigh Becket is that he quit the Jaeger Program. That information alone is enough for him to dislike the guy. He doesn’t trust some washed-up pilot to run defense for him while he carries a 2400-pound bomb on the back of his Jaeger. Doesn’t care that his father fought alongside the guy in Manila or that he single-handedly piloted his Jaeger back to shore. Doesn’t bother to hold back a grimace when Raleigh tells him that he’d been working on the wall for the past five years.

“If you slow me down, I'm gonna drop you like a sack of Kaiju shit,” he hisses at him in the mess hall. He ignores the way his father watches him with disapproval as he stalks away.

His bad mood turns worse when Mako Mori is named Raleigh’s copilot.

He has known Mako for years. They had grown up in Shatterdomes together, met a few times when the Marshal had brought her to Sydney, and briefly bonded over their love of dogs. He’s close enough to her to know that she can fight well and that she has one of the best simulator scores he’s ever seen. (Better than his, although he’d never admit that.) But, she has no experience in a Jaeger and no understanding of what a drift is actually like, which, in his eyes, makes her no better than Raleigh. He isn’t surprised when they’re both out of alignment during their test run, your concerned tone alerting the rest of LOCCENT of the deviation, or when Mako begins chasing the RABIT, raising apprehensive murmurs from the crowd of onlookers. Or when it ends in Tendo pulling the plug on Gipsy’s power.

“Worse mistakes have happened,” Tendo sighs as Gipsy’s plasma cannon goes offline. Chuck scowls. There is no space for even a single mistake in the plan to attack the Breach, especially amateur ones like chasing RABITs. He knows that the Marshal understands this, too.

Later, as he paces in the Marshal’s office, still brimming with anger from Raleigh and Mako’s failure of a test run, he snaps, “He's a has-been. She’s a rookie. I don’t want them protecting my bomb run. sir.”

His father stands across the room, arms crossed and mouth set tightly in a frown. In the corner, you and Tendo are huddled over a tablet, discussing the drift results in hushed voices. The Marshal warns him to watch his tone. Chuck rolls his eyes in response and thinks to himself, He knows I’m right.

He finds Raleigh and Mako standing silently in the hall outside after his father kicks him out of the room. He rounds on the former, seething and jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest, “I want to come back from this mission, ‘cause I quite like my life.”

He turns to Mako, sneering and spitting out some distasteful things, ignoring the feeling that he’ll regret it later.

When Raleigh’s fist makes contact with his jaw, Chuck sees red.

On bad nights, he wakes up in a cold sweat, plagued by nightmares of being painfully ripped to shreds by sharp claws and teeth. Some nights he wakes up angry, frustrated with himself after overanalyzing his fights. Other nights, he relives the moment when he found out about his mother’s death, shaking with body-wracking sobs and shuddering with each intake of breath. But you hold him through it, your soothing hands on his back and comforting words in his ear. He focuses on your voice, steady and calm, and syncs his breathing with yours.

“You’re okay,” you murmur. “They’re just nightmares. You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” he repeats.

On bad nights, you confess your fear that the war will never end, or that you’ll burn out before it does. Some nights, you feel that you’re not doing enough, that you need to get back to work even though it’s past midnight. Other nights, you worry that you’ll spend your entire life fighting, that you’ll never be able to rest. But he holds you through it, his calloused fingers on your cheeks wiping away your tears. You focus on his touch, firm and resolute, and rest your hands on top of his.

“It’s okay,” you contend, voice shaky but certain. “I have you. This is enough.”

“This is enough,” he repeats.

Yet, he can’t help but want more. He wants the beach house instead of the cold metal walls of the Shatterdome. Wants to wake up to the sun, your smile, and Max’s whining for food instead of doomsday alarms and Kaiju attacks. Wants you to be able to sleep in for once. Wants to spend his days sunbathing and learning to surf instead of training in combat drills and preparing for another attack. Wants to give you some peace, and to find some of his own.

He tells Raleigh, “I want to come back from this mission, ‘cause I quite like my life.”

He means, There’s still so much I want to do, so much I have to do.

Chuck has only felt true fear a few times in his life. Standing on top of his disabled Jaeger with only a flare gun in his hands is one of them. In the moment, he tells himself that he isn’t afraid, that a double event isn’t any different from any other Kaiju attack, and that Striker will come back online in just a second. The adrenaline coursing through his veins overpowers the feeling of impending doom anyway. But, later, as he reflects on the feeling of relief that had washed over when Gipsy’s fog lights enveloped him, he admits that he had been scared shitless. And, he admits (only to himself) that he’s thankful for Raleigh and Mako, even if they’re has-beens or rookies.

He holds you closer that night and knows that you’ve already picked up on all the details of his uneasy expression. Still, he musters up the strength to confess aloud, “I thought we were gonna die.”

You’re silent, responding only by rubbing your hand across his back and hugging him a little tighter. The heavy weight of his lingering fear sits in his chest as he continues, “Dad had injured his arm, our comms were out, Cherno and Crimson were gone, and there was a fucking Kaiju ready to swallow us whole. Shooting that flare at it made it even more pissed off.”

“Not your best idea,” you remark playfully. “You’d think all that training to prepare you for situations like this would help you keep calm and think of something rational to do.”

“It was Dad’s idea, not mine,” he shrugs.

“Well, I’m glad the flare managed to keep it occupied long enough for Gipsy to get there,” you reply, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “And I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Me, too,” he sighs, the weight in his chest lightening slightly.

When he drifts off to sleep, he dreams of the war ending and a house overlooking the shore.

If, a year ago, you had told Chuck that he would be piloting a Jaeger with the Marshal Stacker Pentecost, he would have laughed in your face and asked why the Marshal wasn’t off doing better things (like convincing world leaders to keep funding the Jaeger Program or figuring out ways to increase pilot recruitment). And, if you had told him that he would hear the phrase “there’s a third signature emerging from the Breach,” he would have rolled his eyes and declared the situation impossible. (“I’d still kick its ass, though,” he would have probably said.)

Yet, here he is, strapped into Striker with the Marshal as his copilot, only three hundred meters from the Breach, watching a category five Kaiju materialize in front of him. He feels his stomach drop as he lays eyes on Slattern’s angular head and the sharp spike protruding from its chest. When it roars, the water around them ripples, and the ground beneath shakes. He barely has any time to think before the massive beast rears its head and charges, swinging its heavy leathery tail directly at them.

The hit knocks Striker off her feet and sends her crashing into a nearby hydrothermal vent. He winces and swears, body aching and head beginning to throb as streams of water push and jostle the Jaeger. Slattern prepares to charge again just as Striker regains her footing and he easily falls into a fighting stance along with the Marshal, fists clenched and ready to strike. This time, when it attacks, they’re ready—dealing out swift punches that send the Kaiju reeling.

He isn’t sure how much of it is the Marshal and how much of it is himself, but the exhilaration that rushes through him as one of Striker’s sting blades slices across Slattern’s throat reinvigorates him. The other blade cuts into its arms, blue blood spilling from deep gashes. It screeches, and he expects it to rush at them again, but it swims away, blood trailing eerily in the water.

He takes the moment of respite to breathe, and to survey the damage. The harsh red light of the many, many warning messages flashes across his vision. He fiddles with some controls, watches as the Marshal does the same, and sighs heavily when neither of their attempts fixes anything. He resigns himself to hoping that Striker can hold on a little longer. She had gotten him this far, surely she could see him through to the end of this war—and to the beginning of his life at peace.

But–

“The attack jammed the bomb release,” he notices. “We’ll have to manually override–”

A yell from LOCCENT cuts him off. Chuck’s stomach drops even further when he hears someone say, “Striker, you have two Kaiju converging on you fast!”

He curses loudly and immediately knows, There’s no time for a manual override.

The Marshal is on the intercom before Chuck can even begin to formulate a plan, shouting to Raleigh and Mako.

“You know exactly what you have to do,” he declares. “Gipsy is nuclear, take her to the Breach.”

“What can we do, sir?” Chuck asks, bracing for the hit.

“We can clear a path,” the Marshal answers firmly, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “for the lady.”

Even without the drift connecting their thoughts, Chuck understands.

“Well, my father always said, ‘If you have a shot, you take it,’” he remarks, knowing that, on the other end, his father is listening with pride. Chuck can admit that he was an arrogant dickhead with no respect for any of the pilots around him and that he never bothered to hide his resentment for his old man, never gave him a reason to like the man his son had become. Yet, he knows—and has always known—that his father is proud of him. (He is proud of his father, too, for what it’s worth.)

In the final moments, his thoughts drift to you: swathed in blankets and gathered in his arms on cold winter nights, perched on the seat of a stationary bike and reading reports while keeping him company in the gym, wrapped in his brown leather jacket with Max’s leash in your hand while accompanying him for walks around the Shatterdome. He recalls your bright laughter when he’d crack stupid jokes, your serious voice you’d use only over the intercom, and the mischievous glint in your eyes when you’d pretend you hadn’t given Max extra treats.

“I love you,” he had said before entering the Conn-Pod, so quietly that only you could hear him, holding you tightly and kissing away your concerned frown. The warmth of your hands against his cheeks had lingered as he had stepped away.

“I love you,” he says now, loud enough for you to hear him over all the noise, swallowing the lump in his throat and blinking away the tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry we’ll never get that beach house.”

“But, I had you,” he says. “It was enough.”

When the bomb detonates, he’s surrounded by blinding light and a deafening boom. And, finally, peace.

In his dreams, he can’t tell where he is, only that Max is sitting at his feet, his father is somewhere in the distance, and you’re next to him with your hand in his, fingers intertwined.

#pacrim #pacific rim #chuck hansen #chuck hansen x reader #chuck hansen x you #chuck hansen imagine #my writing

83 notes · View notes

quotidianish · 5 months

Text

“Where’s Winter?” he whispered, nudging Ostrich with his elbow. She sat up and looked around with blurry confusion.

“I don’t know,” she said. “He was here a moment ago.”

Qibli twisted in a frantic circle and spotted a shadow flitting through the pear orchard. He couldn’t shout for Winter lest he alert the whole compound. Qibli groaned internally.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Ostrich. “Stay as hidden as you can. We’ll be right back.”

She nodded, strutting back into the shadows.

Qibli hurried after the Icewing prince and realized that he was aiming for the courtyard, separated from the orchard with a wall. It was enormous, surrounded with buildings and a partial bailey, blocking his view of the inside. The bricks were painted in a turquoise and amber mosaic of snakes and lizards chasing one another endlessly.

Before even seeing where Winter was headed, Qibli knew all too well what he was planning to do. The courtyard was noisy with birds and other pest-like creatures, alongside the distinct growl of a dragon.

Arrrrgh, Winter, you obsessed ninny.

He caught up as Winter was tinkering with the lock of the metal gate. It stretched up to an arch at the doorway, where the mud had begun to crumble, smelling of spoiled food, live pigs, and dates.

“Are you serious?” he said, and Winter jumped a mile, which was almost hilarious enough to make this side excursion worthwhile.

“Shhhhh!” Winter hissed.

“What are you thinking?” Qibli whispered.

“I’m thinking your horrifying grandfather will make this poor dragon into tomorrow’s buffet,” Winter whispered back. “Unless I save it.”

“Right now?” Qibli asked. “In the middle of our own precarious escape?”

“Well, I’m not planning on coming back!” Winter said, tugging on the lock again. “Hey, you’re a street thug. Can you pick this lock for me?”

“An Outclaw is not the same thing as a criminal,” Qibli protested. “Oh, fine, move over.” He studied the lock for a moment, unsheathing his kirpan and inserting it into the mechanism, wiggling it around until he heard a click.

“Now what?” he asked Winter as he nudged at the gate, careful not to open it too wide so the hinges wouldn’t creak. “We shove it in a bag and carry it off into the desert with us? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed this, but dragons aren’t exactly travel-sized.”

“We’ll just let it out,” Winter said, pacing past him into the moonlit quadrangle. “It’s smart enough to fend for itself after that.”

Qibli decided not to point out that it hadn’t been smart enough not to get caught in the first place.

Winter crouched beside a large chain, bound against the beige dragon’s hind leg and anchored into the ground with weights. Despite having thrashed helplessly a moment ago, this time it peered curiously down at them.

“Don’t be afraid,” Winter said softly. He looked around for the small alcohol lamp by the window they’d seen earlier, and carefully reached for its shackle. Upon bringing the flame close to the brass chains, the heat thawed through the metal like snow. They both stepped back and waited.

Slowly, the levitation-esque creature raised its head, tearing its obsidian black eyes from the two humans and towards the night sky. A plume of smoke shot through the air as it flapped its enormous wings once, then twice, then lifting itself off the ground, sending a whirlwind of sand flying into Qibli’s face, before swiftly gliding away to freedom.

#Sorry I CANNOT draw today #Wings of fire #Hwof #wings of fire au #wof au #Based off I think page 122-123 of darkness of dragons #I read a digital copy so that number might be off #wof qibli #wof ostrich #Wof winter #wof fanfic #sort of?#quotidianish

35 notes · View notes

theoutcastrogue · 2 months

Text

8 Fancy Pocket Knives

Etched pocket knife from Eskilstuna, Sweden

Silver / mother of pearl Victorian fruit knife, England

Damascene Toledo knife, Spain

Inlaid Toledo knife, Germany

Silver-plated fruit knife, USA

Damascene Toledo knife, Spain

Etched pocket knife from Eskilstuna, Sweden

Mother of pearl pocket knife from Eskilstuna, Sweden

@victoriansword [details after the cut]

1) Swedish pocket knife by EKA (Eskilstuna Kniffabriks AB), c. 1980-2000. Model 6 GS (1967-2010), with main blade, bottle opener/screwdriver, pen blade, and nail file. Tang stamp "EKA / SWEDEN" (from 1967), etched handle, 7 cm closed.

These were very popular in the 2nd half of the 20th century as gift knives or advertising knives. They were manufactured by many cutlers in Eskilstuna, and widely exported. The decorative pattern appears, with variations, on Swedish knives from at least the 19th century, and is inspired by Norse / Viking art, which often features twisted serpents/dragons. The interlacing perhaps also borrows from Celtic knots.

2) English fruit knife by Martin Bros & Co, 1848. Silver blade with 4 hallmarks (for Queen Victoria, the year, sterling silver, and Sheffield) and maker's mark, mother of pearl scales, 9.5 cm closed.

This is the posh version of what used to be an incredibly useful tool, a knife (and sometimes a multi-tool knife and fork) for eating on the road. The fancier ones were also status symbols, and very popular gifts – millions of silver fruit knives were manufactured in Britain from the 18th to the 20th century, mostly in Sheffield, Birmingham, and Edinburgh.

3) Spanish Toledo knife, as it's sometimes called, a damascened penknife of recent manufacture. Two pen blades, tang stamp "TOLEDO", 6.7 cm closed.

Not to be confused with Damascus blades! The handle is damascened – decorated with gold inlaid into oxidized steel (see here for details). Reminder that gold is a highly ductile metal (you can stretch it real thin before it breaks), so that impressive aesthetic result comes from a tiny amount of gold. It's a cheap knife, is what I'm saying, for tourists basically.

4) German pocket knife, confusingly also called Toledo, by Hartkopf. With main blade, pen blade and nail file. Brass handle inlaid with oxidised steel. Tang stamp "Hartkopf&Co / Solingen", 8cm closed.

It's "damascened" in the broad sense of inlaying, hence the name "Toledo": it supposedly emulates the Spanish style, and perhaps pretends to be Spanish, but both the metals and the geometric patterns are different. Knives of this type were popular in Germany all through the 20th century as gifts and advertising knives.

5) American fruit knife by William Rogers Mfg, made in Hartford, Connecticut c.1865-1898. Main blade, seedpick [also called nut-pick or nut-picker *snickers*], silver-plated nickel silver, decorated with flowers and apples. Tang stamp: an anchor logo and "Wm ROGERS & SON AA", 8.2 cm closed.

Sometimes fruit knives like this were bought by fruit shops/groceries (relatively fancy ones, presumably) in bulk, and sold or given to customers as gifts.

6) Spanish Toledo penknife (another one). With pen blade and damascened handle, different pattern, probably a bit older. Tang stamp again "TOLEDO", 6.8 cm closed.

7) Swedish pocket knife by Emil Olsson, c. 1920-1950. Blade, pen blade and corkscrew. Tang stamp "EMIL OLSSON / [star logo] / ESKILSTUNA", 9.2 cm closed.

Another etched serpent pattern on the handle, though by now you have to squint to see it. This knife has seen some shit. Until ~1940, pocket knives were widely sold and used in Sweden because they came with corkscrews, and all the bottles had corks, and everyone needed to open bottles. After the war, bottle caps replaced corks for everything except wine, and the pocket knife's utility plummeted, and cutleries started closing. There used to be hundreds, and by now only EKA's left. So statistically, if it's from before ~1950 it saw a lot of use, and if it's after ~1950 it did not, it was a gift or something.

8) Swedish pocket knife by EKA, c.1935-1965. Model 38 PB, with blade, pen blade, flat screwdriver, and corkscrew. Handle with mother of pearl scales and nickel silver bolsters, tang stamp "E.K.A. / ESKILSTUNA / SWEDEN", 8.3 cm closed.

The corkscrew is a quirky one, known as Gottlieb Hammesfahr patent: it pivots on the pin and opens perpendicular to the handle, not pulled downwards as in most pocket knives.

#tools of the trade #folding knife #sweden #sheffield #spain #germany #toledo #eskilstuna #solingen #usa #trs #trp #trc #how to stab #<- the knife nerd tag

24 notes · View notes