#best Drop In Anchor Bolt

[weaponizedvirtue]

The Face I Hide Behind, Pt. 2 {Peaky Blinders}

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Summary: You met Thomas Shelby as Eli Carter, your hair shorn short, your chest bound, the Royal Engineers crest proudly adorning your uniform. You find him again as discarded Marie Tillerson, a woman shamed but remembered.

Warnings: PTSD, panic attacks

Notes: Thank you all for your lovely reception of this fic. The amount of views and kind comments are so incredibly encouraging. Hope you enjoy part two just as much as you did part one.

Part one can be found here.

Tagged: @everythingelseisextra, @ce1iat, @morrigan-crowmwell, @running-outof-time

*

Tick.

The sound wakes you immediately. Your eyes snap open and you wait for another. It arrives a moment later just as you expect, soft but sharp. There’s a rhythm to it, a timing that matches the second it takes to pull a pickaxe down and drive it into rock.

Your breath catches in your throat and you sit up sharply, your nerves instantly engaged for a fight. Your eyes sweep over the room, searching desperately for the source of the sound as it continues. Not real, you tell yourself. It’s not real, just an echo of bad memories demanding an encore. Your limbs ache at the thought and you suck air in through your nose, willing the oxygen to clear your head of the fog. You remind yourself that your time in the tunnels is long past, that you walk above the dirt and the mud and the dust and not beneath it. You remind yourself that the air hasn’t smelled of blood in almost a year now. 

Tick.

Swallowing hard, you slowly lower yourself back to the bed. Tom is warm beside you, a thrumming anchor, and you focus on the slow rise and fall of his chest, desperate for an easy distraction. His eyelashes flutter for a moment, his own dreams careening about in his head, and then the ticking comes back for a fifth round, a sixth, a seventh. You narrow your attention as best you can to the deep black of each of Thomas’s lashes as they graze against his cheeks.

Tick. It's louder now, chipping through the plaster. Tick. You wait for the burst of dust and curl your fingernails into your palms.

Something moves in the wall to your right.

You swallow a yelp, bolting up from the bed again, sure that the moment you gain your feet, you’ll be back in a hole, buried and gasping and never having left at all. But better to face the enemy on your feet than cowering in a corner.

As you land with a soft thump on the carpet, it feels for a moment as if the whole world has gone silent. The room tips momentarily around you and you lean your hands into the bedside table, swallowing back a wave of nausea.

Tick.

Tock.

You blink at the small gadget sitting inches from your hand and your arms begin to tremble. Adrenaline speeds through your bloodstream, a shouted order to move faster, run farther, hit harder, even now as the threat reveals itself to be nothing.

“Goddamn clock.”

Plucking the device from atop the table, you march into the kitchen, desperately fighting the urge to chuck it through the window. It’s not yours, something in the back of your thoughts says, so throwing the thing out or bashing it to pieces wouldn’t be right. You can be civil, even in the throes of panic.

You turn the clock over in your hands and the pulse of the second hand seems to smack against your palm through the glass. The sound of its ticking still sends a rocket down your eardrums, despite knowing now that it comes from a regular, everyday tool and not a person and you drop the clock to the counter with a hiss. Panic rises into your throat again as each second ticks by like a stab in the gut, hammering incessantly at your earderums.

You step back for just a moment, swaying with anxiety, and you listen hard for it, that soft voice nestled right below the din of sound bouncing around in your head. 

“Keep that brain busy.”

Tom had dropped a rolled-up newspaper into your hands once- some new puzzle an American had brought over with him, he’d said later when you found him to demand the origin of the game. 

“Did it work?”

It had, though you hadn’t expected it. Giving yourself something to do with your hands had been enough to bring you out of the long nights of sleeplessness and the moments of heart-rattling mania below ground. 

It can work now too, you tell yourself, taking in one long breath. If you can’t shut it out of your head, you can shut it down with your hands. Your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose just hard enough to feel the pain, then you carefully pick up the clock again. 

You’re not sure how long it actually takes you to dismantle the thing. Not long, you imagine; before the war, you quite enjoyed taking clocks apart, to your father’s chagrin. Each timepiece had a specific list of requirements, a checklist of dos and don'ts that allowed it to work in perfect tandem. Each wheel and spring and catch had to work with the pieces around them. When they didn’t, when a wheel wobbled or when a spring budged and bucked from its proper location, the whole machine failed. The whole thing operated off of its individual parts working together.

You like that about machines. They are predictable and they rely on a set of rules and a set of values to function. Like people, you suppose, though Tom was always better at navigating those while you preferred to stick to your formulas and algorithms.

You pluck the second hand from atop the clock face and the room goes suddenly still around you.

The absence of sound is so starkly different from the moment before that it’s nearly dizzying. Your shoulders sag with relieved exhaustion and you press one hand to your mouth to keep the creeping hysterics sealed inside your throat.

“‘Ey.” You flinch as Thomas’s voice interrupts the silence, bouncing against your eardrum even from the other room. “Everything alright?”

His voice is heavy with sleep, but you’re well aware he’ll come looking if you don’t answer quick enough. Even so, the truth is too embarrassing and you can’t quite admit to a man with a stone face and an even harder shell that you haven’t managed to beat your nightmares back, even now.

“Yeah. Just getting some water.”

You lean over the sink and slowly ease the faucet on. It’s a good enough cover, wil be a relief for your throat and the pounding in your head anyway. The glass is cool against your skin and you down the water quickly, suddenly parched. As you place the empty glass down, the contact sends the softest of ringing echoes rippling out across the tile counter. It’s reminiscent of what woke you, just enough to make you fidget. But the ticking is gone and you’re responsible for that fact. Surely, that’s enough of a task to reward yourself with some rest.

With a sigh, you shadow your way across the room back to the bed and silently crawl back beneath the covers.

Thomas’s eyes follow you, half glazed with sleep but still watching. You wonder if he ever entirely switches off that ever-constant observation.

After a moment, seemingly satisfied with what he sees, he turns onto his back again. The man goes so still that you think he may have fallen asleep again, but then an arm drops down over your shoulders.

"Settle down, Carter."

There's no need to correct him. Not when the name feels just as familiar as Tillerson, as Marie, and not when hearing it again makes you feel like you're home.

There should be some kind of decorum to your actions, when it would be so easy to call you strangers. But Tom is warm and you're too tired to bother with such proper conduct when it's likely neither of you care for that kind of thing anyway.

Your head drops to Thomas's shoulder and you curl one arm around his torso. The smell of cigarette smoke and cedarwood seeps in through your pores and you sigh against him.

He shifts beneath you, his breath halting in his chest for a moment. You think perhaps that you misread the action and an apology spills from your mouth. You begin to pull back, but then his arm shifts from your shoulder to your side. His thumb drags carefully along the curve of your hip, feather light.

It feels like a brand, like his thumb is a match striking alight right along your ribcage.

There's a beat, a moment you can practically see the gears whirring about in his head without even looking at his face. Then his chin settles atop your head and Tom breathes again.

You fall asleep like that, safe and comfortable and home, and it's the sun that wakes you after, nothing else.

*

“So you’re off then?”

He’s trying to remain passive, you know. There’s a kind of forced neutrality in his voice and you can see it, the nights before a plan was put into action, the few spare minutes before a battle where Thomas Shelby stood amongst a throng of men and convinced them what came next was inevitable.

You glance up at him and for just a moment, your heart rises into your throat. The urge to lock your hand around his wrist, to drag him down the steps behind you and disappear, the both of you, to wherever you’d like, is almost too much. He wouldn’t say yes. Shouldn’t say yes. You know this without asking. He’s got his family. He’s got this town. And he’s got a name to make for himself, or so he’d said the night before, when you were both heavier into the drink then you should have been.

He belongs here. And you don’t. Not yet. Not anywhere just yet.

“For now. Things to see.” Things to become.

Thomas nods, his eyes flicking towards the window, then to the pockets of his coat. He digs into one of them, plucks his lighter out with a focused kind of impatience. But as he lifts it to the cigarette dangling from his mouth, you step forward. Your hand circles around the lighter, pulling it from his grip with the silent demand that he pay attention.

This is important. Goodbye, however temporary, is important.

“I’m going to write you, alright?” Thomas pauses, his eyes stilling on your face this time, and he seems to wait, sensing a promise. It is one, really, when you think about it. You owe him that at the very least.

“I’ll keep you informed on where I’m at, remind you I’m still around.” Your thumb taps against his lighter, your offer solidifying in your gut as you straighten in front of him.

You turned tail last time. Forced or not, you left him alone on the battlefield. It’s a mistake you won’t make again.

“And you can make sure I don’t fall off the map again. Deal?”

You lift your chin, your nerves scattering as he considers you and the words you’d spent the last morning hours crafting so carefully. Slowly, he steps forward, so close you can feel the heat of him against you, and his fingers bump against yours to slide his lighter back into his palm.

“Deal.”

[scattered-winter]

Keith sprinted down the corridor, heart pounding and pulse racing. He held his sword in one hand and his knife in the other. Both blades were wet with blood, and Keith was certain he had more on his clothes. None of it was his.

The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, and it was all Keith could do to keep running. His vision kept overlaying with the burning farmhouse, the charred bodies—it took every bit of his focus to stay anchored in the present.

But for all the adrenaline coursing through his veins, there was fear there, too.

He’d encountered and brought down a few enemies already, but there were more; he could hear the screams, the shouts, the sounds of battle echoing through the castle halls.

Lance. He had to find Lance.

Keith rounded a corner and stopped short, blades snapping up as a figure materialized from the shadows. The figure dropped into a defensive stance when he caught sight of Keith, but held it for only a moment before relaxing and lowering his bloodied sword.

“Keith!” Shiro cried, relief clear in his tone. “Are you okay?”

Keith’s defensive posture melted away, but he didn’t sheathe his blades. “I’m fine. What’s going on?”

“Bandits,” Shiro answered, expression grim. “A lot of them. I’ve been trying to establish a perimeter, but there’s too much chaos and not enough knights. We’re spread too thin.”

Keith’s heart plunged into his stomach. They’d just sent most of their forces out to take care of skirmishes on the border; the castle was defended by a skeleton crew at best. Had the bandits planned this?

From the look on Shiro’s face, he’d reached the same conclusion, but it wasn’t like either of them had time to worry about it.

“Where’s Lance and Allura?” Shiro’s tone was clipped, all business. It was only because Keith knew him so well that he could see the underlying fear, the tightness around his eyes. “We need to get them both to safety.”

“I was with Allura when the attack started; I left her with Shay and Romelle, in the armory." Keith exhaled shakily. "I—I don’t know where Lance is. I’m trying to find him.”

Shiro gave a short nod. “Okay. We’ll establish a perimeter around the armory and medical wing; if you come across anyone else, send them there.”

Keith nodded and opened his mouth to ask another question, but movement at the corner of his vision caught his eye.

A group of heavily armed bandits on the other end of the hallway were bounding up the spiraling staircase, one after another. Blood-covered blades flashed red in the moonlight.

Keith’s blood turned to ice. They were heading for Lance’s rooms.

He sprinted after them without a backward glance, fear and adrenaline singing high and wild in his veins. Behind him, he could hear Shiro on his heels.

An explosion rocked the castle, and Keith stumbled, glanced back.

Outside the window, smoke plumed from the medical wing, trailed by bright tongues of flame. The infirmary was burning, and an entire section had collapsed in on itself.

Shiro had stopped in the middle of the corridor, eyes on the smoke and face white.

Matt.

Keith didn’t hesitate. “Shiro, go! I’ll get Lance!”

Shiro didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted in the opposite direction toward the medical wing, and Keith adjusted his grip on his blades and kept running. He reached the stairs and started bounding up them, two at a time.

The smoke only got thicker the higher he got, and Keith could barely breathe from the primal, instinctual terror.

But Lance was up there. And Keith would tear his way through fire and smoke to get to him, no matter how terrified he was.

He skidded to a stop as a bandit appeared around the corner, brandishing his weapons with a battle cry.

Keith ducked beneath the swing, arced his knife forward, felt the blade slice through leather and flesh. The bandit screamed and collapsed, blood spraying Keith’s tunic to join the rest.

Keith kept running. Another bandit leapt at him, swords flashing in the moonlight. Keith danced to evade, his own blades clanging against the bandit’s as they fought.

He sidestepped to avoid a strike, but his exhaustion was getting the better of him. Pain hissed through his side as one of the blades sliced through his tunic, and Keith ground his teeth. He stepped in close, knocking aside the blades, and kicked the bandit in the stomach to send him tumbling down the stairs.

Above, Keith could hear fighting—grunts, shouts, metal on metal. The bandits had reached Lance. Keith had to hurry.

He continued to sprint up the steps, battling bandit after bandit the entire way up. It was taking too long. They were trying to slow him down, stop him from reaching the top.

The fear was a living thing, crackling beneath Keith’s skin like a live wire. The last time he’d been this afraid, his world had been on fire.

Above, the sounds of battle tapered off, leaving nothing but terrible, deafening silence.

Keith bounded up the last few steps and burst through the door at the top, blades in hand, Lance’s name on his lips.

Bandits clustered in the room around a fallen, crumpled blue figure. Keith could see blood on Lance’s tunic.

He brandished his swords, a low growl that didn’t even sound human rising from the back of his throat. “Get away from him.”

One of the bandits just grinned toothily at Keith. “I don’t think so.”

He tossed something underhand toward Keith; it rolled across the ground and came to a stop at Keith’s feet.

A round orb, topped with a lit fuse.

Keith’s eyes widened, and he leapt backward, arms flying up to shield his face.

And the world went white.

Keith’s senses returned one by one. Pain, so acute it throbbed with every beat of his heart, lancing through every limb. He could taste dust and smoke on his tongue, and the coppery tang of blood. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Keith painfully peeled his eyes open.

He was lying on the floor in a crumpled heap. All around him, the tower room was in shambles; flames licked at the curtains, and the far wall was gone, leaving a gaping hole staring out into the night sky.

Bandits were clambering through the hole one by one, shouting to one another; Keith could only hear muffled noise over the ringing in his ears.

A bandit in the last group had Lance’s limp body slung over his shoulder. Lance’s face was streaked with blood and soot, and his tunic was torn and burnt.

Desperately, Keith clawed for his knife, just a few feet away in the midst of smoldering rubble. His fingers curled around the hilt; he was lying halfway across burning embers, so hot it was cold, but he didn’t care. All he could see was Lance, his limp body outlined by the moon as the bandits prepared to leave with him.

Keith flipped the knife in his grip so he held the blade and threw it, end over end.

But he was dazed and wounded and weak, and the knife barely made it three feet before skittering pitifully across the floor.

Black spots danced in Keith’s vision, but he tried to push himself up, tried to stand. Desperation and terror pounded through him like a drumbeat, overwhelming every other sense, every other thought.

The bandit holding Lance saluted over his shoulder at Keith and disappeared.

Keith’s chest heaved with the effort to stand. A high-pitched wail echoed in the small room, raw with pain and fear, and it took Keith a moment to realize it was coming from him.

Something slammed into the small of his back, pushing him down, and Keith screamed, ragged and raw.

Someone rolled him over. Moonlight flashed on a blade.

A bandit stood above him, grinning as she angled her sword down to rest the point against Keith’s sternum. He couldn’t move; he could feel himself losing consciousness.

The bandit’s grin sharpened, and her blade arced downward.

_______________________

Shiro sprinted down the hallway toward the med wing. Terror like he’d never known filled his lungs with ice. He ran past battles, knights, bandits; he didn’t slow down to even process any of it. The only thought in his head was Matt. Matt. Matt. Over and over again, like a mantra, like a prayer.

Smoke plumed in the corridor from the medical wing, thick and black and choking. Shiro didn’t even hesitate before plunging into it headfirst.

It was like another world. Flames licked at the walls, bright and blinding; the smoke hung so heavy in the air that Shiro could barely breathe. An entire section of wall had crumbled, leaving a pile of charred rubble.

“Matt!” The name was torn from his lips, ragged and desperate and barely piercing the blanket of smoke and crackling fire. “MATT!”

Shiro caught a glimpse of something moving in the smoke—someone, moving toward him.

A bandit materialized, blade held aloft. He ran at Shiro with a shout. Shiro was too dazed with overwhelming fear to even raise his sword.

The bandit’s cry turned to a strangled gasp, and he stopped short and crumpled.

Matt stood behind him, breathing hard, long knife clutched in one hand. He had blood on his face and was barely staying upright.

Relief swept through Shiro, heady and overwhelming. Matt was alive.

“Takashi, come on!” Matt grabbed Shiro’s arm and tugged him back the way he’d come.

Shiro shook himself and followed, forcing the overwhelming emotion down and away; now wasn’t the time to lose control. He had to stay focused if they were all going to make it out of this alive.

Outside the medical wing, the other medics and several knights stood in groups, dazed and soot-smeared. There were no bandits in sight, but Shiro could hear the sounds of battles still raging elsewhere in the castle.

“We’re setting up a perimeter around the armory,” Shiro said.

Matt nodded sharply, amber eyes steely. “We’ll head there.”

He waved to get the other medics’ attention, and made a few sharp, hurried hand signals. The other medics nodded and set off toward the armory.

“We’ll set up a field hospital,” Matt said, starting after them. “I have a feeling we’re gonna need one.”

Shiro made to follow him, but another explosion rippled through the castle, making him lose his footing.

When he regained it, he raised his eyes to meet Matt’s horrified expression.

“That came from the east tower,” Matt said quietly.

East tower. Lance’s rooms. Where Keith had just gone.

For the second time that night, ice-cold terror swept through Shiro like a wave. He whirled and sprinted back the way he’d come.

He could vaguely hear Matt following behind, but Shiro outpaced him easily. All his senses were overwhelmed with bone-chilling fear for his little brother.

Shiro reached the spiral staircase in record time and bounded up them, heart pounding in his chest like a drum.

He reached the top and had only a split second to take in the scene that met him.

The tower room, charred and crumbled. Keith on the ground, bloodied and half-dead. A bandit standing above him, sword drawn.

Shiro threw his sword, end over end. It wasn’t designed to be thrown, but his aim was true; the blade sunk to the hilt in the bandit’s back, and she gurgled and collapsed.

Keith was trying to push himself up, a high-pitched whine of pain rising strangled and ragged with every movement, and Shiro burst forward, dropping to his knees and wrapping an arm around Keith’s shoulders to support him.

Keith was shaking, head to toe, and his chest heaved with every breath.

“Woah, hey, slow down, okay? Just—just breathe. You’re okay.” Shiro’s voice cracked, but he swallowed back the wave of emotion. Keith was in bad shape. Really, really bad shape.

But Keith just struggled harder. “Shiro, they—they took him.” His voice was raw with desperation, with pain, with fear.

Dread pooled in Shiro’s stomach, and his mouth ran dry. “What? Took who?”

Keith shuddered in Shiro’s arms, slumping against his chest as his adrenaline was spent at last. “They took Lance. Shiro, they took Lance.”

Hurried footsteps announced Matt’s arrival; he was out of breath and panicked, and his eyes only widened further when he took in Keith’s state.

Keith swallowed thickly. “We have to—we have to go after them,” he said, pushing weakly against Shiro’s chest. “We have to—”

“Hold still,” Shiro ordered, pushing past the fear to grasp desperately for control, for calm. “You’re in no condition to—”

Keith’s eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped against Shiro’s chest, unmoving.

Shit.

Shiro met Matt’s eyes above Keith’s head. “What’s the situation down there?” If Matt noticed the tremble in his voice, he said nothing, for which Shiro was grateful.

“The bandits have pulled out,” Matt said grimly. “The fighting has stopped.”

They’d gotten what they had come for. They’d gotten Lance.

But there was no way they could go after him, not now. There was too much to do, too many people who needed help.

Shiro slipped an arm beneath Keith’s knees and pulled his little brother into his arms, letting Keith’s head loll against his shoulder. “Come on. I hope that field hospital is set up.”

[floef-likes-everything]

Nightingale Adventure

(Based on Apo's lore stream of 28-8)

They hadn’t been sailing for more than an hour when the weather had turned sour. Apo didn’t understand how, because when they left the port there was not a cloud in sight. He liked to think he could predict the weather quite accurately now, but today had proven him wrong. The worst part was that he had decided to board Acho’s ship instead of going on his own, which meant he was just a passenger. Acho knew how to sail and with a good crew of Nightingales there really was nothing to worry about. Still, when the first lightning bolt struck the sea Apo couldn’t help but flinch.

“Lightning scared ya, Apo?” Michaela noticed, a smirk on her face as together they undid the ropes that held the small sail down. With winds like this, they really didn’t need all sails up to keep them going. Will and Graecie were up in the mast, hoisting the sail upwards and fastening it.

“Caught me off guard,” Apo deflected. A little storm didn’t faze him, he’d sailed in too many storms to get scared this easily. “I just hadn’t expected a storm to roll in this suddenly.”

“I agree with that,” she said, trying to wipe the thick hair out of her face as she looked up into the mast, where the other two were working hard to tie the sail down. Acho, from behind the wheel, was shouting out orders to the rest of the crew but Apo couldn’t hear him over the sound of the waves. “I’m happy we went with Acho, their ship is by far one of the best from our fleet. No offence.”

“None taken,” Apo muttered, though he would’ve loved it if they had decided to take his ship and let him be the captain. “Do you really think we are going to run into Aimsey on that island?”

“I hope we do,” Michaela’s expression hardened. From what Apo managed to piece together, Michaela knew Aimsey pretty well. She had told him a little about how their families were very good friends and that that was the reason Michaela had come to the Faction Isles in the first place. She was supposed to stay with them for a while, but due to bad weather she arrived later than expected and at that point disaster had already struck. She was told only snippets for what supposedly happened to Aimsey and today the Nightingales hoped to uncover more of what happened that mysterious night. Apo sometimes still had nightmares about the storm and those nasty, purple tentacles.

“Land ho!” Ros yelled from high up in the crows nest. She was brave staying there with this wind, though Apo assumed she was too scared to climb down at all. She was lovely, truly lovely and a true Nightingale at heart but she wasn’t the best pirate. She had however been determined to go along on this venture. She had been so adamant about it that nobody had dared to tell her no.

Acho gestured for Apo to join them, so he swiftly made his way over to them across the slippery deck. He almost stumbled on the stairs, but managed to keep himself upright to present himself to his friend. Acho had been so stoic this journey, as if they had something to prove. Despite them being new to the faction, they were amongst family. They didn’t have to prove their worth to this crew.

“With the weather like this, I can’t dock safely,” they explained to Apo. “I’ll get as close to the shore as I possibly can, but we’ll have to take the sloop to the docks.”

“But we docked safely in that first storm,” Apo argued. “With an entire fleet, even. Sure, the weather is a bit worse than that night but – “

“I won’t put my ship in jeopardy,” Acho interrupted him, set on their own plan. “We had some very good sailors leading the way, that night. We can’t afford losing this ship, we’ll be marooned.”

“Then why did you ask?” Apo said, confused by what Acho wanted from him.

“To inform you to prepare the sloop,” Acho recovered with just a slight hesitation in their voice. “We’ll drop the anchor here. I’ll gather Ros, Will, Graecie and Michaela. The rest of the crew will stay here.”

Apo opted to not go against his friend again and just do as he was told. Acho was on edge, for good reason in all honesty. They were still a bit weary of Willow, the Nightingale that had just come back from a rather large and long journey. He’d been with the Faction for years already, so he knew how things were run amongst their family. Apo somehow assumed Acho felt threatened by that. They must come from a very demanding environment, but Apo didn’t want to get into business he wasn’t supposed to. If Acho want to tell him about their past, they would.  

So, as Acho gathered the Nightingales that would go to shore, Apo prepared the sloop. It wasn’t much and it would be a hell of a job to get this thing to the island that was just about visible through the rain. It wasn’t particularly far and the waves weren’t nearly as bad as on the open seas, but they would have to work hard to row against the tide. Nightingales were though, however, especially when they said their mind to something. With some struggle and good directional ques from Ros, the six of them managed to get the sloop to the deserted docks. When everybody had set foot on solid land and the wood creaked under their feet, they took a look at the island before them.

Apo could feel his mouth drop. It didn’t look anything like the last time he had been here. The goop was gone, the purple tentacles that had engulfed the small seaside down where either gone or had turned to solid stone. It was deserted, as it had been before and cold wind and rain swept against his face. If only he could be back in their tavern with a keg of ale in his hand near the warm fire. But no, they had to set sail to this wretched place they already knew. They weren’t Herons, who looked to discovery every mystery of the world. They weren’t Kestrels, looking for treasure even in places like this. They certainly weren’t Kite, despite them looking for one now.

“This is not what I remember from being here last time,” Graecie was the first one to break the silence. “Where… why has everything turned to stone?”

“I’ve been here once after Aimsey disappeared,” Acho said, which was yet another piece of information Apo wasn’t aware of. “It was a couple of weeks ago, I think, and by that point the stone was already – wait, did you see that?”

Acho pointed towards the sky and Apo had to pull out his spyglass to even see they were pointing to the top of a mountain. He saw nothing but rain and rocks, so he turned to his friend with slight concern.

“I see nothing,” he stated, though Acho looked as if they’d seen a ghost. “It must’ve been the lightning.”

“No, I swear to the Sun God,” Acho argued. Their white hair was plastered to their face and they squinted to look into the distance, the spyglass on their hip entirely forgotten. “There it is again, take a look!”

They pointed, sprinting forward a few steps until Graecie caught them by the collar. Apo followed the gesture with his eyes, but he still had no idea what Acho was talking about.

“What is it, Acho?” Ros asked, her soft voice barely carrying over the sounds of the storm.

“The purple particles!” Acho argued as they turned around, brushing Gracie off. “I – I’m not crazy!”

“We don’t say you are,” Ros assured them with a weak smile. “But let’s not go running off on our own. We already lost a friend here, we wouldn’t want to lose another.”

Ros was the kindest soul Apo had ever met, and he knew quite some people. Yet, on the entire Faction Isles there wasn’t a person as compassionate as Ros. If Apo had to describe what it was to be a Nightingale, he would pick Ros as an example. She would do anything for her faction, even if that particular thing wasn’t in her skill set. If you asked Ros for help, she would drop everything to come to your aid. She cared for her crew.

“I see it too!” Michaela then yelled, pointing to a wildly different spot Acho had earlier. All six of them turned their heads and now, Apo couldn’t deny it. There was something purple far up the mountain, something small and moving. For a moment he thought of cruppy, that weird little creature Olive had encountered on this very island. It had somehow followed them all the way back to the Faction Isles and it seemed to like it there. Yet, this was different as purple particles seemed to flow in the air, clearly visible despite the darkness and the rain. Mere seconds before it blinked out of existence, Apo swore he saw a pair of eyes.

“Where did it go?” Acho questioned and from that point onward, nobody seemed to keep Ros’ warning in mind. Acho was the first to run away, making their way further into the town looking for a way up into the mountains. Michaela followed in their footsteps with her sword in hand. With two already gone, the four remaining Nightingales had little choice but to follow the crew. Apo fell behind as he tried to pinpoint the location of the strange visage again.

There! He spotted it, near where the rest of the crew had gone of to. Through is spyglass he could take a closer look. He had been right, it was more than just particles! There was a figure amongst the strange magic, a face lined in dark hair and shrouded in purple.

“Aimsey…?” Apo muttered aloud, his voice lost to the rain. The appearance looked like them, but he didn’t remember Aimsey being purple. Had they been here the entire time? Why hadn’t they returned to the Faction Isles?

“Aimsey… were are you going?” Apo yelled it into the wind, but the question didn’t seem to land. As his crew scrambled their way up the mountain, the visage had already moved. Apo got into motion, making his way over the slippery rocks and through the mud, battling to keep his balance. They might not be Herons, but this was a discovery worth chasing after. They had come here so Will and Michaela could witness this island for themselves, but none of them had anticipated a chase like this. Had Apo hoped to find Aimsey here? Sure, but he wanted the Aimsey he knew. They had been very welcoming when he arrived at the Faction Isles despite the reputation of the Kites.

“We should take different routes to this mountain!” at some point, Acho was close enough for Apo to hear them. “Take the left, Apo. We think it’s Aimsey!”

It was good to know Apo wasn’t the only one that thought so. He followed Acho’s instructions without giving it much thought, keeping his eye on what they thought to be Aimsey through his spyglass. It moved fast, way to fast for a regular human. Once he had reached the place it had been earlier, it had moved far away. Air started to burn in his lungs and he didn’t know how much time had passed when he found himself on a muddy shore, all alone and in the dark.

“This isn’t going to work,” he muttered to himself, turning around slowly in hopes to spot his crew. He didn’t, however, so he opted to return to the dock where they had set foot earlier. When he finally arrived, soaked to the bone as he had to wade through waist deep water to get back, he found that others had made the same decision. Acho was waiting alongside Will and Graecie. They, much like Apo, had their hair and clothes stuck to their skin because of the weather.

“Apo!” Will sounded delighted to see Apo. “Have you caught them? Have you caught Aimsey?”

“No,” Apo said, still catching his breath. “Did they look weird to you as well? They looked… purple, despite those weird particles.”

“Something is off about this place,” Graecie confirmed. “We… we didn’t get close enough to them to ask them anything. What concerns me more, where are Ros and Michaela?”

Acho snapped to attention as if he hadn’t noticed they were missing two of their crew members before that. The two must still be on their way to the docks, Apo told himself. Sure, this island hadn’t taken another soul. He wouldn’t believe that.

“I – Let me go look for them,” Acho decided all on their own and before the others could go against it, they had already disappeared into the town. Apo opted to go after them for a moment, but that meant he had to leave Will and Graecie behind on the docks. Acho could fend for himself, Apo considered them to be one of the Nightingales best swordspeople.

“When you told me you’d show me a special place, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Will said as the rain started to die down. Apo had no idea how long they had been running around the island, chasing Aimsey, but he swore he could see the beginnings of daylight at the horizon.

“Well, we weren’t exactly expecting to run into an adventure quite like this,” Graecie admitted. She pulled her hair together to wring the water out of it, shifting her eyepatch in the process. She quickly put it back into position. “Do you guys think we should tell anybody at the Faction Isles?”

Apo hadn’t even thought about that yet. Was a wild goose chase on this mystic figure really something they wanted? Sure, Apo wanted to know what was happening here but not at the cost of any more lives. Some mysteries where better left uncovered.

“The Herons might be helpful in this endeavor,” Will opted. “They love their mysteries, if I remember correctly. If anybody knows something about this, it must be them.”

He was right, the Herons might just know a thing or two. Maybe the Herons that roamed the Factions Isles right now had never encountered anything like this, but those of old might just have. Apo knew of their vast library with maps and documents. He was happy he didn’t have to add anything to it.

“Michaela, they are here!” Ros turned a corner and suddenly, she and Michaela had made it to the dock. Their sudden appearance startled Apo, though he hoped he had concealed that first reaction good enough. Michaela still had her sword out, gripped tightly at the hilt. There had been a point at which Apo had questioned if she hadn’t been more on her place with the Kites, but she never meant any real harm with her threats. The Kites did, Apo had had enough running ins with them.

“I touched the cloud,” Michaela stuttered and Ros instantly wrapped an arm around her to console her. “I… they were there. They were friendly. The cloud didn’t hurt me.”

Apo couldn’t really string together what she meant by that, but he didn’t dare to ask. She seemed shaken by whatever had happened to her. All that mattered was that both of them had gotten back safely.

“Great, and now Acho is running around looking for the two of you,” Graecie sighed. “He’ll be smart enough to return swiftly, right? – Oh, speak of the devil.”

Acho reappeared on the other side of the dock, but clocked the group quickly enough. They came running towards them, boots splashing on the waterlogged planks and their coat swirling around their legs.

“Is everybody alright?” they asked and Apo couldn’t help but notice he didn’t sound particularly out of breath. That was impressive, in all fairness. “Have you caught the… whatever that was?”

“It’s Aimsey,” Michaela said with confidence. “Or… it looks like them. Something is off with this island, with them, I don’t know! We should do something.”

Apo had never struck Michaela as someone desperate, but she sure sounded like it. Of course she was, she just wanted to safe her friend.

“We should ask the Herons for advice,” Graecie said, repeating her earlier thought. “If anybody has the information, they do.”

“No Herons!” Acho almost yelled, which wasn’t necessary anymore as the storm had settle down just as suddenly as is had appeared. “It – this doesn’t concern them at all. If anything, we should inform the Kites. Aimsey is one of them, after all.”

“I’d rather not talk to the Kites,” Michaela said and a frown appeared on her face. “One of them keeps threatening me he’ll murder me once I set foot off the Isles. Some of them are… a bit wicked. Aimsey was the most reasonable of them. I like the idea of going to the Herons.”

“What about the Kestrels?” Acho continued, clearly not happy with the idea of going to the Herons. “Wasn’t Aimsey quite close with one of them?”

“With Guqqi, you mean?” Apo had to dig deep in his memory to come up with that name. “The one person who also went missing on the same night?”

“We don’t know if she’s missing,” Acho said, though Apo doubted anybody had heard from her since she had taken off with those cloaked fellas. Apo didn’t talk to the Kestrels that much, there was only Martyn he could sometimes have a normal conversation with but the others were just to stuck up with themselves. Apo didn’t think he could ever be that selfish.

“How about we discuss this back at the Faction Isles?” Ros proposed as more light started to spill over the now calmed down ocean. “We should all get a chance of dry clothes, we’ll get sick like this.”

There was a grumbling agreement and in a somewhat awkward silence, the crew returned to the sloop. Apo couldn’t help but wonder why Acho seemed to have such an aversion to talking to the Herons. He thought the Herons to be quite pleasant to be around as long as you didn’t start about their achievements. Once they started their tales, they wouldn’t stop talking no matter what you tried.

As they rowed back to the ship, Apo threw one last glance back at the island. Now, with the light of day creeping in long shadows were cast over the stony structures looking very much like tentacles. All of the stone had been purple once, whatever had happened to it for it to look like this? Apo was afraid they might never know, which in turn would mean there was little chance they would get Aimsey back. Whatever had happened to them, Apo could only pray the thing that did it stayed on that island.   

-------

This was my first time tuning into an Apo lore stream and I might just tune into a bunch more, as I had a blast! Also, I'll protect Ros with my life she is so very dear to me.

(also please to scream at me if I got any pronouns wrong by mistake)

[blacklegsanjiii]

Golden

Single Dad!Mihawk raising Sanji that I talked about. Can also be read on AO3 here!

CH 2! CH 3!

Summary: Sanji's hair reminds Mihawk of the tales of Nika's sun. Golden.

“Help us! Hey!” A child’s voice called. Mihawk looked up the impossible island to see a blond boy’s head poking off of the side. “Please! Help us!” The boy couldn’t be older than seven maybe and Mihawk was not a soft man, not by any sense of the word. Yet he laid anchor and managed to get the boy, a one legged man, and their bag of treasure off the island and sail towards the nearest town.

Mihawk was providing the best first aid he could to the man as the boy hunched into a corner on the other side of the coffin ship, trying to give them space as Mihawk wastes a decent amount of really good whiskey on the bastard’s leg. They know each other tangentially, Red Leg a pirate with a long career, Mihawk’s already a decent pirate, an excellent swordsman. 

“Take whatever you want as thanks, Hawk-eyes.” Zeff grunts as Mihawk wraps the bandages on his stump of a leg.

“And what could I possibly take that would be worthy of saving both your lives?” He asked with a hint of aggression towards the older man. 

“The eggplant,” Zeff nods to the boy, “he’s got a long way to go but he wants to find the All Blue. Decent enough that you could get a protege out of him, shit at most things though.”

“Are you trying to put this boy further in debt to me?” Mihawk asked.

“Not at all, Hawk-eyes. But we were on that island for eighty five days.” Red leg says, fixing him a look. “If you don’t like him, bring him back to me and I’ll do as I see fit. I think you two might get on better than you think.” 

Neither Mihawk nor the boy replied to him. Mihawk fixing yellow eyes onto the sea blue of the boy’s. Other than starving and almost being cooked by the sun, to Mihawk’s limited medical knowledge he was fine. His eyebrows curled to one side of his face as Mihawk pat his head and steered them to land. Once docked the first thing they did was drop Zeff off at the local doctor’s who shooed him and the boy out without so much as a word. The boy followed Mihawk as he resupplied his ship, be it small it did have to last him until he got back to Kuriagana and he hadn’t been expecting passengers. The boy helped quickly and quietly, eating the apple Mihawk handed him with an expectant look slowly.

The boy was smart, he wasn’t going to gorge himself sick. He looked around, observing his surroundings but flinching at a lot of the loud noises. Seemingly trying to melt into Mihawk’s coat as to be as unnoticed as possible by those around them despite the eyes Mihawk drew to himself. It was getting late so Mihawk found a modest inn with a room with two beds that he led the boy to. Mihawk had bought him a change of clothes and ordered him to bathe and change which the boy listened to, practically bolting away afraid to make the pirate mad. Mihawk disposed of the boy’s other clothes when he was out and brought food back with him, two plates, both nutritionally dense as he gave the boy the smaller portioned one. They ate in relative silence other than a few mumbled thanks by the child.

“Do you have a name or am I just supposed to call you ‘eggplant’ like Redleg?” Mihawk asked as the boy stacked the plates to return them to the kitchen.

“Sanji.” The boy whispered. Mihawk cocked an eyebrow at the boy who hurried out of the room quietly. “Sanji” was the word for three in North Blue which meant this boy had a storied past or unimaginative parents. Neither of which Mihawk cared for. He hung his coat and hat as the boy reentered just as quietly as he left.

He watched the boy quietly toe off his shoes and climb into the bed furthest from the door, sneaking under the covers and disappearing practically. Mihawk took off his boots and laid in the other, extinguishing the oil lamp and letting himself drift off to sleep. He woke up not long later to small whimpering noises and words coming from the other bed. Mihawk scowled as he sat up and looked, the moonlight putting a cold glow into the room as he listened to Sanji.

“Take it off, please. I’m sorry. Stop.” Muffled by the covers that Sanji had encased himself in and Mihawk's eyes widened fractionally. “It hurts, I’m sorry.”

Softly, terribly softly, Mihawk made his way to the other bed. Sitting on the edge and pulling the covers back enough to find Sanji’s small hands gripping his hair tight enough that he might rip it out with his knees tucked to his chin. Mihawk, unsure of much to do with children, so he tried to pry the boy's hands off his hair which evoked a gasp and blue eyes shooting open to catch sight of the yellow eyed man. Sanji ripped away from Mihawk, on instinct the elder thought, only to begin apologising for waking him up.

“It’s not from the island.” Mihawk stated as he and Sanji stared at each other. One with eyes full of realisation and the other full of fear.

“No.” Sanji agreed.

“Take off what?” Mihawk prodded as the boy’s hands found his hair again.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s gone, they’re gone.” Sanji deflected but Mihawk grabbed his wrists, guiding Sanji’s hands from his hair to his lap. Mihawk accepted his words but didn’t pull away.

“What do you plan to do once you find the All Blue?” Mihawk guided the conversation carefully as he moved up the bed, letting go of Sanji to sit next to him. 

“I want to open a restaurant.” Sanji answered quietly. How fitting this boy was rescued by the captain of the Cook Pirates, how unfortunate for Zeff that Mihawk would take Sanji with to Kuriagana so that he could have a well rounded education Mihawk decided. Mihawk nodded as they looked at each other. “Are you going to leave me with him?”

“No,” Mihawk answered, “you’ll be coming to Kuraigana with me.”

“Thank you.” Sanji said quietly as rubbed his eyes and looked to the window. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can sleep any more.” He apologised and Mihawk nodded. He stood and put his boots on then his coat and hat.

“I could use a drink and you should eat something small again, come along.” Mihawk drawled and Sanji scrambled to follow suit. Somehow still quietly like he had been trained to hide. Putting Yoru on his back they went and found a bar where Mihawk drank wine that looked like blood and Sanji ate the meat and vegetable skewer Mihawk had ordered him.

When the sun rose and the doctor let them in to talk to Zeff, Sanji thanking him for saving his life and Mihawk telling him he was taking Sanji with, Zeff nodded at all of this.

“Be good, eggplant.” Zeff ordered the boy who nodded.

“If your restaurant is still open when he’s older I expect you to give him a job.” Mihawk said before they left. “For experience.” Zeff nodded and they left. It would be a four day sail to Kuriagana, which Sanji learned everything to do with the coffin ship on. He took to it quickly as if clinging onto the words of the swordsman was the only thing that would keep him alive.

When they arrived, first bringing in their haul to the kitchen to be put away immediately. Mihawk then showed Sanji his room to be, the study, Mihawk’s room and his office and the garden. Pointing out other not so necessary things as they passed, all of which made Sanji’s eyes grow wide.

“Thank you, sir.” Sanji said when the tour concluded and Mihawk gave him a curt nod. 

“We’ll wash up and start on dinner, you’ll need to know how to cook to open a restaurant.” Mihawk said and that was the first time he saw Sanji smile, even if it was just a small one.

~*~

One of the first things Dracule Mihawk notices about Sanji is he's rail thin. He smokes cigarettes around meal times and snack times so after about a day Mihawk had put it together. He also had no idea where the boy managed to steal the cigarettes from. Or how many because he was going to let the boy have his privacy and they were most definitely stashed in his room, likely under the bed or in the wardrobe. He's so thin Mihawk could name every bone in his body when he looked at him. Sanji is nine, he looks like he's six.

They're taking a bath, Mihawk notes the scars the nine year old has across his body. He's washing Sanji's hair because it's so fine and the boy is so rough with it. Sanji grips his hair so tight and often Mihawk is surprised the boy doesn't have bald spots. It also took a lot of coaxing to even get the child to bathe with him. He'd debated on calling Shanks as he was based in Foosha for the time being and on the last call they had he was hanging out with a kid who had recently eaten the devil fruit his crew was going to sell. Shanks would probably be a lot better at this than him, not that he'll ever tell that to the man but the point remains.

"Head back." Mihawk says and Sanji complies so Mihawk can rinse his hair. Turns out his hair is even lighter than first thought. It feels like straw still, dry and cracked and the ends are split to hell. Mihawk gathers the conditioner and runs it through the boy's hair. Noting every breath hitch and flinch. Mihawk doesn't ask. He's made it very clear to Sanji that he will stop when the boy says. He might kill someone for waking him up from a nap and he is a pirate after all, but he's never hurt a kid. Which is more than most pirates, or really anyone on the Blues can say.

He works it in and lets it sit, he washes his own hair in the meantime, giving Sanji a much needed break from his touch. He feels a shift in the boy's haki, becoming drenched in fear he whips to the boy.

"Sanji?" Mihawk asks and Sanji is stock still, eyes flicking around the room following something but he doesn't answer. "Sanji, I can't help you if you don't tell me." And then he sees it, a bug lands on Sanji and the boy screams and swats at it but not before it bites him? Stings him? It hurts him and flies off before it gets hurt and Mihawk is grabbing the boy who is covered in fear and pain and horror for some goddamned reason and immediately his hands shoot for his hair. 

Mihawk is trying to get him to calm down but he's in a full blown panic attack and he's not calming down. He instead gets out of the bath and picks Sanji up and he's so light that it makes Mihawk seethe. He gets them both towelled off and wraps his waist while Sanji gets wrapped into two. He'll rinse his hair out later, Mihawk decides and it could be worse. He treats the sting, pulls the stinger out and all. Sanji doesn't react, he just stares at the ground and now his haki is empty. 

"Sanji." Mihawk whispers, garnering no response. He takes Sanji to the master bedroom because Mihawk had found that Sanji's nightmares were intense and if Mihawk wasn't careful he would startle Sanji awake and he had to deal with a boy who had attempted to run away in pure flight mode. Mihawk's hands were rough and calloused from years of sword fighting and it seemed to scare Sanji into a deeper panic if he touched him too soon but this was new entirely. 

He got the boy dressed in pyjamas that hang off his wiry frame, wrapped his hair in a towel and laid him on the spare side of the too large mattress that Mihawk had never shared before Sanji came into his life a month and a half but the boy spends more nights in Mihawk's than his own. He dresses in his sleep pants and lays down next to the boy, gently rubbing Sanji's back.

Mihawk is not a soft man. Yet here he is, caring for a child who has seen so much worse than most pirates will ever enact. 

Maybe a call to Newgate should be in order.

[zoe-and-quinn]

Whumptober Day 9

Polaroid / Mistaken Identity / “You’re a liar.”

TW: Restraints, partial nudity (non-sexual), knife, creepy whumper

The morning had gone by like usual. Alexei had come in to hand out food, water, and meds. Casey took a few minutes to go through Georgia’s paper cup and point out each supplement, antidepressant, and vitaman, to ease her mind. There was only one he didn’t recognise, but she quickly explained that it was her estrogen supplement.

“I don’t know how he knew my brand or dosage, though.”

“He has his ways,” Casey sighed.

Alexei came by to collect dishes, and the three started a game of go fish using Felix’s cards, asking questions with each play to get to know each other. Felix insisted on starting with simple questions, which Casey quickly agreed to. Felix tended to avoid talking about deep subjects, when at all possible. Besides, Casey didn’t know all that much about either Felix and Georgia, and favorite colors and animals seemed like a good place to start.

They only had a few minutes of playing before the door opened and Alexei walked in again. “Come on, Casey, let’s get moving,” he ordered, holding the door open and looking impatient.

Casey’s stomach dropped. “Where are we-”

“You’ve got a client,” Alexei interrupted, annoyed, “and they’ll be here any minute, so let’s move.”

Casey stayed motionless, rooted to the floor as the surprise and terror set in. He had only had a few clients since Alexei deemed him ‘trained’ enough to be on the market. He hadn’t gotten used to the paralyzing, horrible sensation of looming pain, hadn’t figured out how to push back the what-ifs and reluctance.

Alexei rolled his eyes and stepped into the room, grabbing Casey and yanking him up to his feet. He put a firm hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of his room and down the dreaded hallway. He stopped to grab something out of a cupboard, but Casey hardly noticed. He couldn’t stop staring at the steel door.

When Alexei pushed him towards it once more, the panic surged and filled his body. “Sir, don’t make me, please don’t-”

Alexei didn’t stop, sliding the bolt and pulling the door open. Casey was pushed inside. His eyes moved on their own accord, and he could not take responsibility for their sweep over the many weapons on the wall in front of him.

Something hit Casey’s back, and he flinched and turned to see a small heap of clothing on the floor. “Get changed quickly,” Alexei ordered, turning to unwrap a thick rope from an anchor on the wall.

Casey did as he was told, pulling off his old clothes and putting on a fresh white tee and a pair of black athletic shorts. He balled the dirty clothes up and held onto them nervously.

Alexei had untied the rope and added more slack. The rope was threaded through a loop on the ceiling, and the end now hung at about eye level. Tied onto it was a large, metal hook.

Alexei pulled a sturdy pair of handcuffs off a shelf, and Casey realized what was happening.

He backed away a step, shaking his head as tears started to well up in his eyes. This was all too much, he didn’t want this, he couldn’t handle this.

Alexei didn’t care. He grabbed his wrists and forced the handcuffs on, letting the bundle of clothes drop to the floor. He placed them on the hook and pulled the rope, and suddenly Casey was on his toes, hands above his head, caught like a worm on a hook.

“They’ll be here in a minute,” Alexei said, grabbing the dirty clothes and moving towards the door. “On your best behavior, understand?”

Casey said nothing, eyes screwed tightly shut.

“I said, do you understand?” The darkened tone made Casey flinch, and he nodded immediately.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered. Alexei left without another word.

The client opened the door a few minutes later, and before Casey knew it, they were momentarily blinded by the flash of a camera. Once their vision came back, blurry and littered with spots, they got a look at the client.

She looked to be in her mid 30s, with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She smiled at Casey, holding the polaroid camera up again. This time, Casey had the foresight to close his eyes before the flash.

“Don’t mind me,” the woman said, bending down and pointing the camera up at him. “I’m just getting some ‘before’ pictures. We can get started in a minute.”

Casey found himself not minding the wait, as she lined up a few more shots. Anything to delay ‘getting started’.

Eventually, she put the camera down on a table, laying the developing photos out in a row. She turned to the wall of weapons and started looking. Casey didn’t know whether he wanted to watch or not, whether he wanted to know what would happen to him in a minute or two. In the end, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“So many interesting toys to play with,” the woman mused, tapping her chin in indecision. “In the end, though, I think I’ll stick to the classics.”

She pulled a knife off a magnetic strip, a small, curved weapon with a wicked shard point and a much duller blade. Casey couldn’t help the pathetic little whimper that escaped from his lips.

He wasn’t strong like Felix, not yet at least. He didn’t know how to bite back the screams, how to stay witty and brave through the pain.

When that knife bit into his chest as she slit his new clean shirt, when it carved patterns into his skin like he was a block of wood, he wasn’t able to hold back the sobs.

The client stepped back after what felt like hours, circling his shaking form like an artist around a sculpture. She picked up the camera and snapped picture after picture as Casey hung, barely supporting his weight, letting the cuffs rub his wrists raw.

She watched as they developed, smiling at each new addition to the collection of Casey’s pain. At one point, she picked one up and walked over to him.

“Look,” She said, grabbing his chin and forcing him to stare at the polaroid, showing off the blood dripping down his chest. “Don’t you think you look just beautiful like this?”

She was gripping him so hard, and his body hurt so much, and he wanted her to be happy, to leave him alone. “Y-yes,” he muttered, closing his eyes once more.

“Aww, you’re lying, aren’t you.” He felt a jolt of fear at these words. Would she punish him for the lie? Should he have told the truth, that he thought he looked like a cut of meat, barely human and hardly pleasing to the eye?

“No matter,” she continued, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “I can see enough beauty for the both of us.”

[fridayincarnate]

desperately wanting any director's cut info about By Any Other Name; LOVED that fic despite not having read Phasma!

Oh man, that's so wonderful to hear, thank you! I'm so glad you asked! I wasn't expecting questions about my Hardinal fic and I'm delighted to talk about it.

(By Any Other Name is here for anyone who hasn't read it and would like to! Spoilers for the fic ahead.)

This is a prime example of a fic that blew up way beyond what I was expecting when I started, haha. Partly that's because the idea expanded to involve more character exploration, which is fine. But a huge part of it was that I underestimated how much Cardinal would resist the realization that Hux is interested in him.

When I tell you this man willfully chose ignorance to every hint that Hux tried to drop! But as I wrote and delved deeper into Cardinal's psyche, that made more and more sense. Cardinal's newfound interest in Armitage poses an existential threat to his self-image as a loyal First Order soldier, not to mention the pragmatic instinct to avoid any repercussions from Brendol. So he represses his interest in Armitage, and he represses his awareness of Armitage's interest in him even further. The latter is the real threat, because if Armitage reciprocates suddenly it becomes a real possibility. That means the consequences become real, too.

Writing Cardinal's POV was such a fascinating challenge because huge amounts of the relationship and character development happen at a subliminal level. And his conditioning actively gets in the way of where I needed him to go (accepting his feelings for Hux).

At times, this made the pacing drag. I cut this bit from the section where Hux is asleep and Cardinal is processing his feelings:

He isn’t supposed to be able to understand why Armitage fears his father would send someone to kill him, but he does. His conditioning scrapes at the insides of his skull in protest with each grueling step he takes along that line of thought. He knows how cutthroat the competition is among officers—officers of the First Order are the best of the best, fair-minded and true, their judgment is beyond reproach—and the galaxy has yet to produce a nerf herder thick enough to miss the tension that exists between Armitage and Brendol. All the same, Cardinal has his doubts that Brendol would go as far as to kill him. How worried can Armitage truly be if he’s allowed Cardinal to take off his armor and sit for a rest?

I liked the glimpse of his conditioning reasserting itself, but it didn't feel crucial to Cardinal accepting his desire for Hux, which was the main purpose of that section.

The other section that I grappled with the most was Cardinal's realization that Armitage has wanted him for a long time.

This went very differently in my first draft! Picking up from the moment where Cardinal asks "why me [for your first time]?" and Hux gives his "the only winning move was not to play" speech, originally Cardinal responded like this:

“I am glad that you changed your mind,” Cardinal murmurs, skimming his knuckles against one narrow shoulder, marveling again at how vulnerable he looks without the uniform. Especially today, with the weight of the Grand Admiral’s loss in his eyes. Cardinal sits bolt upright. “Oh, gods. I’m so sorry, Armitage. It was never my intention to take advantage of your grief.” “Shut up, Cardinal.” Armitage’s eyes harden. His fingers dig into Cardinal’s forearm, anchoring him in Armitage’s bed. “Archex,” he amends, though his anger is unabated. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “You’ll feel differently tomorrow.” Cardinal swallows a lump of anxiety. “Or the next day… whenever your judgment returns to you.” “I am entirely possessed of my judgment,” Armitage hisses. He tugs on Cardinal’s arm, beckoning him back into the warm temptation of his sheets. Cardinal shakes his head. “If you weren’t compromised you would never have even thought of doing this with me.” “You cannot be this stupid!” The heat in Armitage’s voice swells and then snaps like a flag in a sudden gust of wind. “I’ve never been able to stop thinking about doing this!” Shock halts Cardinal in place. He can’t have heard what he thinks he did, or—Armitage is telling him what he wants to hear to keep him from leaving. But Armitage’s jaw drops and his lip quivers, and Cardinal sees his shock mirrored back at him as Armitage registers what he’s just said.

While there was something satisfying in having it laid out that bluntly and seeing Hux snap, he would never be so direct. It also felt like a few too many emotional ups and downs for that section after they've had sex, cycling through the same emotional beats in a way that began feeling redundant.

I fiddled with that section forever because it felt like such an emotionally impactful reveal, and one that Hux would try his damnedest to hide! I'm satisfied with the changes - hopefully that still comes through in a subtler way. It also feels right for Cardinal to see through Hux's "I never trusted anyone else" bullshit, because he knows very well that Hux has never trusted him either!

There was so much that was fun to explore with this fic - Cardinal's psyche and conditioning, a more vulnerable Hux, what happened to Grand Admiral Sloane, what Hux and Cardinal's dynamic looks like while Brendol is alive to cast his shadow over it.

Thanks again for reading and sending an ask about it!

[thesinglesjukebox]

MAGGIE ROGERS - "DON'T FORGET ME"

In which we manage to not mention Sally Rooney...

[7.36]

Hannah Jocelyn: Maggie Rogers makes the best Kacey Musgraves song we're covering today. The production is weirdly underwhelming, especially compared to Surrender, but if it all sounds a bit bland, the nuts-and-bolts songwriting here is solid. [7]

Julian Axelrod: I've always appreciated Maggie Rogers, despite never being a diehard fan. But every few years she comes out of nowhere and drops a song that knocks me on my ass. "Don't Forget Me" knocked me on my ass. The last song of hers that had this effect on me, 2021's non-album single "Love You for a Long Time," was an ebullient ode to blind devotion that felt like the first peek over the horizon of a long forever. "Don't Forget Me" comes at long-term partnership from the opposite direction. Our narrator watches her friends' relationships stall out over time with a mixture of bafflement and isolation, yet she can't help but yearn for the relative safety of an unreliable companion. "Take my money, wreck my Sundays" sounds like the vows of the worst couple you know, but it's wrapped up in a sweeping hook that would make for an amazing first dance. [8]

Nortey Dowuona: Maggie Rogers is a storyteller. This is her greatest strength. Telling stories is difficult, especially as lyrics; the easy thing is to tell the half-remembered sketches, the poorly thought-out experiments, the overly detailed ears on pancake faces. But telling a complete story is the mark of a great songwriter -- a great writer in general. Maggie lights up your ears when the sound of "I'm still trying to clean up my side of the street slides past you, glittering with the slight glint of frustration at watching Sally find another anchor in the world, no longer there to watch the raccoons dig in the cans on her lawn. Later, she turns the knife with 'She seems happy, but that's not love to me, a reminder that the frustration is beginning to bubble over -- is it worry for Molly, who might be abandoning herself to chase her guy wherever he goes, or the knowledge that she doesn't have someone she could trust that much? It's concrete in its weight yet feathery in its subtlety. Then she gently casts "and maybe I'm dead wrong, maybe I was bitter from the winter all along." She's willing to let go of being frustrated at Sally and Molly finding happiness and willing to try again, trying to recast it as her own bitterness about her thwarted chances of love, willing to thaw out and step forward into the breach. "Take my money, wreck my Sundays, love me till your next somebody, oh, but promise me that when it's time to leave...don't forget me." [10]

Ian Mathers: There's something so compellingly bleak, intended or not, in "Give me something I can handle/A good lover or someone who's nice to me." Or? I've never smoked, but this makes me want to gaze moodily off into the middle distance with a cigarette in my hand.  [6]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: With every song she makes, Maggie Rogers is very self-consciously attempting to write herself into great-American-songwriterdom. The funny thing is that it works – the more effortful her efforts toward greatness are, the better she is. I wanted to be cynical about "Don't Forget Me," about the rootsy chug of its guitars and the grand sustains of the piano, but with every listen Rogers' writing endeared me to it a little more. Where her earlier work trafficked almost entirely in the vague inspirational register of first-person heartbreak and growth narratives, here she shines her light more outwards, capturing her own social milieu with care and grace – in passing references to green eyes and weddings – and using those observations to self-examine in a mode that feels more honest than anything she's done before. All that autofictional jazz wouldn't be worth much if she didn't also have a handle on songcraft, but she constructs an exceptionally sturdy folk-pop vehicle that initially struck me as rote before I noticed all of the well-wrought details in each individual part. [9]

Jackie Powell: I saw Maggie Rogers perform “Don’t Forgive Me” live this past summer at Forest Hills. I liked the sound. It was quite Carole Kingian. But it’s not until now that I’ve realized that this is her “Yoü and I,” a deeply personal narrative that could become her most critically acclaimed and beloved song. Rogers, like Lady Gaga, writes about the sacrifices that her chosen life presents her with. She contemplates whether the sacrifices she’s made in not living like her friends Sally and Molly are actually worth it. In verse two when she’s discussing Molly’s life circumstances, there’s a line that could easily have been less insulting: “She seems happy, oh, but that's not love to me.” Rogers could have replaced that with something like “She seems happy, oh, but that’s not the life for me,” but opted for something a bit more grating. I wonder why she made that choice. Maybe it’s because she wants to draw a contrast between settling and having low expectations. Rogers said herself that “Don’t Forget Me” is about having low expectations, and there’s a yearning in the hook for those low expectations to amount to something that’s worth remembering. That’s all she wants: relationships with people that live on even if they are over, and that aren’t just bygones.  [9]

Katherine St. Asaph: Listening to this, I was reminded of Jess Bergman's excellent piece in The Baffler, "I'm Not Feeling Good at All," about the subgenre (that increasingly feels like just the norm) of books about aimless millennial women who drift through half a lonely life like the protagonist of "Don't Forget Me" does: "She has no friends or resents the one she has. Her boyfriend is distant. Perhaps he’s not even her boyfriend anymore, but still, she thinks of him often. She rarely eats. Absent what you might call drive, her life proceeds by rote.... With this literature of relentless detachment, we seem to have arrived at the inverse of what James Wood famously called 'hysterical realism,' describing a strain of fiction overflowing with eccentric characters and detail that, in its exaggerated vitality, depicts life as 'fervid intensity of connectedness.' What these novels constitute instead is a kind of denuded realism. Rather than an excess of intimacy, there is a lack; rather than overly ornamental character sketches, there are half-finished ones. Personality languishes, and desire has been almost completely erased—except, of course, the desire for nothing. ... However individually stylish or inventive, taken together, the novels tend to replicate the sensations of apathy and tedium they seek to describe." I don't dislike this style of writing nearly as much as others seem to, and I don't even dislike it in music necessarily -- Bergman's first paragraph describes the plot of ABBA's unarguably classic "The Day Before You Came" so well I'm kind of amazed it was written about something else. But "Don't Forget Me" sure does replicate tedium, despite being on the surface a more hopeful narrative. Maybe it wouldn't if the arrangement was as un-smooth as Rogers' voice is. [5]

Joshua Lu: The instrumental is gorgeous, the lyricism is poignant, and the singing is so strained it plows through everything like an excavator through a rainforest. Maggie Rogers has a beautiful voice, and she does not have to fight for her life every time she wants to express an emotion. It makes her sound like she's making music the universe does not want her to create. [4]

Isabel Cole: It’s the hitch in her rich, steady voice on “nice”: “a good lover or someone who’s nice to me.” Such a meagre ask, the lowest of low bars — unless, of course, you’ve had cause to learn not to take it for granted. She sings it like it’s a dream so wild she can hardly bring herself to say it out loud, and it kills me every time. [7]

Alfred Soto: Keeping Nilsson's "Don't Forget Me" (and Neko Case's cover) in the rear mirror, Maggie Rogers writes her own summa. No regret but some pain. The piano and bass lock well enough for Rogers to let her voice crack on the strategically placed syllables. A adult song without arthritis. [8]

Aaron Bergstrom: I've always been clear on what I don't want. I thought navigating adulthood would require more active efforts to suppress jealousy, but it turns out that I spend way more emotional energy on listening to people brag about their lives, maintaining a polite smile while thinking "oh my god this all sounds miserable," then walking away feeling equal parts superior and broken. Why don't I want that? Shouldn't I want that? What do I want? On "Don't Forget Me," Maggie Rogers centers her dislocation on idealized romantic relationships, but that feeling seeps into everything. We all know what the "right" answers are, what we're supposed to want. Setting aside those one-size-fits-all dreams is an important first step, but it's not enough. You have to replace them with something. Maggie knows what she wants: someone who will be nice to her, someone who will remember her fondly even if it doesn't last forever, which it probably won't. That's such an honest self-appraisal. Molly and Sally would probably tell her to dream bigger, but these dreams are hers, and for that reason alone they're better. [8]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[jimitjain]

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Nails: Typically used in wood construction, nails are hammered into materials to hold them together. They come in various lengths and thicknesses, designed for different applications.

Screws: Offering more holding power than nails, screws are used in both wood and metal construction. They provide a tighter fit and are easier to remove and replace.

Bolts and Nuts: Essential for heavy-duty applications, bolts and nuts provide a strong, reliable connection. They are commonly used in steel construction and for securing heavy components.

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Fasteners are used in nearly every aspect of construction, from framing and roofing to finishing and furnishing. Some key applications include:

Framing: Nails and screws are extensively used in framing walls, floors, and roofs. The choice between nails and screws depends on the specific requirements of the structure and the materials being used.

Structural Connections: Bolts and nuts are critical in connecting steel beams and columns, ensuring the structural integrity of the building. These fasteners must be chosen based on their strength and durability to withstand loads and stresses.

Drywall Installation: Screws are the preferred fasteners for attaching drywall to wooden or metal studs. They provide a secure hold and are less likely to pop out over time compared to nails.

Concrete and Masonry: Anchors are used to secure fixtures and fittings to concrete and masonry surfaces. They must be selected based on the type of load they will bear and the material they will be embedded in.

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Selecting the appropriate fasteners for a construction project is crucial for several reasons:

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To ensure the optimal performance of fasteners in construction, it is essential to follow best practices in selection and installation:

Consult Standards and Guidelines: Refer to building codes and industry standards to determine the appropriate fasteners for specific applications.

Consider Material Compatibility: Choose fasteners that are compatible with the materials being joined to prevent galvanic corrosion and other issues.

Use Proper Tools: Ensure that the right tools are used for installing fasteners to achieve a secure and accurate fit.

Inspect and Maintain: Regularly inspect fasteners for signs of wear or damage and replace them as needed to maintain the integrity of the structure.

          We now provide our excellent fasteners and rapid shipping to all major Indian cities. We are the most reliable Stainless Steel Fasteners Manufacturer in India. We provide our clients with the greatest prices available on global stainless steel fasteners. These are also used for delicate applications in harsh settings. 

[more-gremlin-than-fae]

I reblogged this once already without commentary but actually I am team "Do" BUT and this is the part that leads to most of these tragedies: "Do it with respect"

The ocean can and will kill you, without pity or remorse, whether you're on or under it.

But you can make exploring it safer by:

respecting the decades of expertise that go into the classification and certification of vessels instead of saying shit like “The vast majority of marine (and aviation) accidents are a result of operator error, not mechanical failure” - yeah, you know why, dipshit? because there are fucking standards in place for the mechanical stuff which, unlike people, operate in expected ways because they meet those standards

respecting that things can and will go wrong and having an actual plan for emergencies instead of coming to it with the attitude "At some point, safety is just pure waste" - Listen, you will never make anything 100% safe, especially not in the ocean, but that is not the attitude I want the person in charge of designing or signing off on safety protocols to have, good lord. You know what you can have instead of a ship with a Starlink*, an X-Box controller and a door that bolts on from the outside? Electromagnetic ballast, and multiple methods of communication on board, and a locator beacon, and a door that you can fucking open from the inside so that if and when shit goes wrong, your boat will goddamn float to a place where the radio works and you can be rescued and in the meantime there is air to fucking breathe. Certified submarines are built with multiple redundancies because even with certifications and the best inspections in the world, stuff. goes. wrong.

respecting the weather conditions - you know why they were going to be "probably the only manned mission to the Titanic in 2023"? BECAUSE THE WEATHER CONDITIONS WERE LOUSY. It was the worst winter in Newfoundland (which is saying something, boy howdy) in decades, every other group that might have had the intention to do a manned mission looked at that same weather window these guys saw and went "Nope, the sea is changeable and the weather this is year is more fickle than it's been in decades, no thanks"

*Y'all I HAVE a Starlink and it is actually genuinely better than many internet providers - like it's equivalent to a fiber connection and I remote in to work on it most of the time - but also it stops working when: it gets too hot, it gets too cold, it does not like where it is in the garden, i haven't signed in to my account in awhile, and between 3 and 3:15pm every day because there is a tree branch casting a shadow on it for that 15 min window, IT SHOULD NOT BE A KEY PART OF YOUR SAFETY GEAR because it is still new technology that is prone to unexpected failure.

And even if it wasn't [points at multiple redundancies line above], boats carry: a radio, lights, an airhorn, an anchor or three, a big-ass flashlight or spotlight, signal flares, signal flags, and these days probably GPS, not to mention the adults on board having cell phones just for a day sail. You know why? Because conditions on large bodies of water can and do turn at the drop of a hat and if you don't have safety gear, you could become the cautionary tale.

We set out once to sail locally from like, Vancouver to, I think we were heading for Bowen - not even crossing the Gulf - and when we started it was overcast but it was not even supposed to rain. Next thing we know, it's goddamn snowing. And not just snowing because the wind has picked up (enough that it caused the jib to rip) so it's whiteout conditions. We're still in Burrard Inlet but we cannot see more than a couple of meters on any side of the boat - the sky is white, the sea is white, all you can see is snow on all sides where not 5 before we were in comfortable sight of the shoreline.

We know we're near Lighthouse Park, but we can't see the lighthouse and we don't know if we'll see the rocks before we run into them. So here is teen me scrambling up the boat in nothing but a sweater (with a PFD over it) and jeans frantically pulling down the damaged sail, while my dad tries not to steer us into any rocks and my mom is trying to pull out the GPS unit (which was a new thing for itty bitty sailboats like us to have at the time) and the air horn and the PDFs and whatever we had in the way of cold weather gear. If we hadn't had the GPS (or the boat engine) to get us back to False Creek, we might have had to try and anchor out until conditions cleared or edge towards shore and hope we didn't run aground while we tried to find to a shoreline to follow back.

I could hear my parents but not see the cockpit of the boat (that is roughly 20ft) and the sea was rough enough that I was likely to end up IN it, if I'd tried to get back, plus we needed someone at the bow to keep watch for hazards. I spent a very miserable time the whole way back huddled in the front of the boat, using the broken sail as both cushion and emergency blanket, while my parents got us back to our moorage safely.

TAKE YOUR SAFETY MEASURES SERIOUSLY OR DON'T TAKE TO THE SEA

I think the thing about the ocean is that it does not want us there, and it can kill you so much to prove this.

Look, SOME of us grew up repeatedly hearing The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald from a young age and that Lake Superior never gives up her dead. The ocean is like that but MUCH BIGGER and MORE.

Do not!

[deepsteelcenter]

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It is endeavoring to manage this blend on account of the presence of parts of mix like nickel, nitrogen, chromium, and molybdenum. The Very Duplex Steel Latches are have a lot of familiarity with warm cycle movement like welding in the consequence of which intermetallic stages by precipitation are shown. The Very Duplex Steel Latches are generally suggested in substance making due, desalination equipment, marine application, oil and gas industry, and the gas scouring industry. It has outstanding pieces of high strength, higher warm conductivity, shortcoming, further made regard, mind blowing weldability, etc.

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[artdecosupernova-writing]

Small Stories Hour: Partners

The Lush Belt Champ

↳ The ties came off the second Gilmore and Murray burst through the door to Ben's apartment, belting out the final note to the most successful number of the night loud enough to wake the tenants on the other side of the building. Ben waved the bottle of beer he swiped from the bar in the hand not tugging impatiently at the strip of silken fabric around his own neck, squeezing past Reagan in the doorway to stumble into the living room, all but knocking his shin against his coffee table in the process.

"Look at you, Benny," Reagan purred, pressing the door closed behind his back and regarding Ben with nothing short of his permanent pride. "Continually provin' to be…the best pianist this side of Vienna, aren't you?"

Ben drained the last of the beer by throwing his head back and pouring the last of it into his mouth. He tossed the tie onto the table and swaggered in the direction of the kitchen, at this point much drunker than Reagan as was typical. "I'm breakin' out the gin and you can't stop me!" He somehow managed to get two glasses from the cabinet, noting that he hadn't gone shopping for food in quite a few days. That was important, but not as important as the bottle of gin being far too high up on the shelf for him to reach, apparently. "...Reggie, help me out."

Reagan meandered into the kitchen, grinning very much like the cat that ate the canary—though that was also a permanent expression, it seemed—and he gripped the base of Ben's throat to move him aside. "I'm only taller than you by an inch."

Ben watched through bleary eyes as Reagan unfastened his jacket to extend his arm to the top shelf. "You shouldn't even be taller than me at all, pal!"

"Now, now." Reagan set the bottle on the counter with a thunk and plucked a glass from Ben's hand. He poured the clear liquid into both of their glasses. "Don't get hostile with me; we've got a grand performance to celebrate. Things are finally startin' to look up for us. So, cheers." He held the glass up to Ben. "To you."

Clinking their glasses together, Ben snorted. "To we. There would be no me without thee."

"Without thee, there is no we," Reagan corrected. "Who is the singer without an instrument?"

"Ever heard of a capella, boy?"

"No." Reagan gave him a cheeky wink and took a generous swig of his gin. "Is that anything like antipasti?"

Half of the bottle disappeared within an hour and Ben found himself draped over the couch, balancing his empty glass on the underside of his chin, staring at Reagan through the gap under the coffee table. Reagan had found some solace in the carpet, holding his own empty glass to his chest like a teddy bear and watching unseen shapes dancing on the ceiling.

"Be my partner forever," he murmured.

Ben released a long sigh he didn't expect and the glass tumbled onto the floor. Vertigo cropped up bad if he even thought about getting up. "That's the idea."

The ticking of the clock in the kitchen became an anchor, rooting the duo into reality the harder the liquor decided to hit.

Ben pulled himself upright, wiping a smear of pungent alcohol off his jaw. "You gonna stay the night?"

"I prob'ly shouldn't."

"But you will, 'cause you ain't ever said no to me before and I don't think you're gonna start now."

Reagan turned his head and leveled Ben with a very dark, glassy look. "Better be careful, Benny…'cause one day I just might prove you wrong."

"Ooh, you think you got it in you to say no to me? Go ahead then, say no to me." Ben took a few playing cards from the deck on the table and tossed them at Reagan, who didn't even flinch. "'Smatter, Reggie? I ain't bein' too obnoxious, am I? Am I annoyin' you? Huh? Am I?"

Reagan bolted up and Ben screamed, attempting to make a sloppy run for it and instead dropping like a dead weight behind the table. Reagan caught up and grabbed him around the waist, lifting him over his own head to drop him onto the couch. Ben broke his hold and shoved his knee up, forcefully putting space between them so he could get free.

He succeeded, but only for a moment. They rolled off the couch and Reagan tussled with him to pin him down, straddling him and pressing Ben's elbows into the floor with a wicked chuckle.

"What's that, nine times in a row now?" Reagan struggled to catch his breath. "I'm startin' to think there's no point wrestlin' you if you're gonna keep losin' like this, sweetheart."

Ben scowled up at him. "You're eighty times stronger than me, it's not fair!"

Reagan caught the edge of the table to keep himself from collapsing, snatching the bottle of gin from beside Ben's head and taking a quick pull. "Guess you better start catchin' up."

Pouting like a petulant child, Ben knocked the bottle out of his hand and the the contents splashed on him before rolling to a stop against the wall.

"Oh," Reagan said. "You monster."

The nonchalance of his tone caused Ben to burst into laughter so intense and physical that Reagan had to laugh with him, slumping against the couch to let him get up, though neither of them had the capacity to do so and neither of them really wanted to anyway.

They slept off their inebriation in Ben's bed, ignoring every one of Charles' calls as they remained dead to the world until noon.

[asnutbolts]

Best Quality Bolts Manufacturer in India

The leading bolt manufacturer in India, Aashish Steel also manufactures other stainless steel products such as Stainless Steel Fasteners, Nuts, Inconel Fasteners, etc. We are also a very big Inconel Fasteners Manufacturer in India.

As one of the leading Stainless Steel Fasteners Manufacturers in India, all our goods are produced while keeping in mind the quality our customers have come to expect of us. This has made us one of the best Bolt Suppliers in UAE and Bolt Suppliers in Saudi Arabia. We also export our products on an international scale and are now the fastest growing Anchor Bolt Manufacturer in Malaysia.

At Aashish Steel, we ensure on time deliveries, great prices, and customer satisfaction along with brilliantly crafted stainless steel products. 

Visit Aashish Steel to know more about bolts, fasteners and other similar products.

Curious to know more? Drop us an email at info@asnutbolt.com

To know more, visit:

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E-mail: info@asnutbolt.com

[walcotwaldo548]

What are the Advantages of Shoulder Eye Bolts and The Benefits of Guying

A complete, round loop and a threaded shaft (or shank) are both features of an eye bolt. It is basically used to anchor a different object, connecting to the anchoring structure at the eye bolt.

Eye bolts are often composed of either steel or stainless steel (either 304 or 316). While the latter is typically investment cast, the former is typically forged. In spite of stainless-steel eye bolts' higher material strength, steel eye bolts are normally a little bit stronger.

sleeve-shaped eye bolts

Between the eye loop and the threaded shaft of shoulder eye bolts is a solidly strengthened portion. This reduces the risk of shearing by strengthening the bolt and rerouting angular forces. They can therefore be utilized for weights that are not precisely parallel to the shaft. Although weights should never be perpendicular to the shaft, it should be noted that the breaking load drops significantly as the load angle rises. The greatest load angle that can be tolerated before the rated capacity drops to 25% of its normal value is 45 degrees.

Theoretically speaking, plain pattern eye bolts are superior to shoulder pattern eye bolts for vertical weights. However, a shoulder pattern bolt ought to be utilized if there's a chance that lateral pressures will have an impact on the load.

On the other hand, where more than one tower segment is installed, temporary guying of steel towers is always required. The tower must never be advanced by more than two sections without guying. Before the temporary guys are taken out, the permanent guys need to be placed.

Short-term Guying

For temporary guying, a variety of materials, including stranded wire, wire rope, and fiber line, are acceptable. The best option is a heavy guying line due to its durability and portability. The height and weight of the structure that needs to be guyed, as well as the local weather, define the size of the guyed material that is needed.

[jimitjain]

5 Types Of Anchor Bolts In The Market

Anchor Bolt:

Anchor bolts fasten structural components to concrete structures and secure them. In general, anchor bolts are used to fasten structural elements, equipment, and skids to concrete. The anchor bolts have one end that is buried in the concrete and the other end that is left exposed.

It is actually a stud constructed of two adjoined pieces, one-piece is threaded at the top end and the other end consists of a process that includes a wedge and clip that is expanded between the stud and the wall of the hole in the concrete.

The anchor bolt are generally a good option for a heavy shear application and for heavy load. Also the heavier duty seismic wedge anchors are used in areas frequented by seismic activities.

Anchor Bolt Types

Sleeve Anchor Bolts:

A sleeve anchor is a type of fastener used to secure objects to a concrete or masonry structure. They can be used to join two or more concrete structures, or to fasten an object such as a shelf to a brick wall.

Headed Anchor Bolts:

Construction fasteners known as headed anchor bolts have a head on the non-threaded end. In order to secure a steel column, beam, bolt, rail, or other structural part in place, this end is placed into concrete or masonry.

Wedge Anchor Bolt:

Consideration made by wedge anchor bolt manufacturers in India: The diameter of the wedge anchor should match the diameter of the holes that are drilled into the concrete.

Additionally, it is only used for solid concrete; it cannot be used with stone, mortar, brick, etc.

Bent-bar Anchor Bolts:

Bent-bar anchors, which include the customary J and L bolts, are threaded steel rods with hooks on the end embedded into the masonry.

Drop-in Anchor Bolts:

Drop-In anchors are female concrete anchors designed for anchoring into concrete. Drop the anchor into the pre-drilled hole in the concrete. Anchor bolt manufacturer use a setting tool to expand the anchor within the hole in the concrete. Drop-in anchors require a setting tool to install.

Best Anchor Bolt Manufacturer In India

Ananka Group is one of the major Anchor Bolt Manufacturer In India offering a diverse range of anchor bolt in a variety of sizes, grades, and scales. The majority of high-tensile bolts, screws, and fasteners on the market are blackish-coloured alloys.

We are one of the best wedge anchor bolt manufacturers in India and anchor fasteners manufacturers in india.

Our website also provides a prominent washer weight calculator offering a diverse range of washers in a variety of sizes, grades, and scales. High tensile fasteners manufacturers in India follow national & international standards. Anchor bolt manufacturer use a nickel-copper alloy that is resistant to corrosion in many environments.

Contact us today to discover why we're the best in the industry. We offer a wide range of products, including 12mm stainless steel rods, M16 threaded rods, stainless steel threaded rods, and 12mm threaded rods.

We are one of the best Eye Bolt Manufacturer in India, Our Anchor bolt manufacturers use a nickel-copper alloy that is resistant to corrosion in many environments.

We are a High Tensile Fasteners manufacturer and Inconel fastener manufacturer.

For more details:

Product Source - Anchor Bolt Manufacturer In India

[asnutbolts]

High Quality Bolts Manufacturer in India

The leading bolt manufacturer in India, Aashish Steel also manufactures other stainless steel products such as Stainless Steel Fasteners, Nuts, Inconel Fasteners, etc. We are also a very big Inconel Fasteners Manufacturer in India.

As one of the leading Stainless Steel Fasteners Manufacturers in India, all our goods are produced while keeping in mind the quality our customers have come to expect of us. This has made us one of the best Bolt Suppliers in UAE and Bolt Suppliers in Saudi Arabia. We also export our products on an international scale and are now the fastest growing Anchor Bolt Manufacturer in Malaysia.

At Aashish Steel, we ensure on time deliveries, great prices, and customer satisfaction along with brilliantly crafted stainless steel products. 

Visit Aashish Steel to know more about bolts, fasteners and other similar products.

Curious to know more? Drop us an email at info@asnutbolt.com

To know more, visit:

Our website: asnutbolt.com

E-mail: info@asnutbolt.com

[asnutbolts]

Manufacturer of High Grade Bolts in India

The leading bolt manufacturer in India, Aashish Steel also manufactures other stainless steel products such as Stainless Steel Fasteners, Nuts, Inconel Fasteners, etc. We are also a very big Inconel Fasteners Manufacturer in India.

As one of the leading Stainless Steel Fasteners Manufacturers in India, all our goods are produced while keeping in mind the quality our customers have come to expect of us. This has made us one of the best Bolt Suppliers in UAE and Bolt Suppliers in Saudi Arabia. We also export our products on an international scale and are now the fastest growing Anchor Bolt Manufacturer in Malaysia.

At Aashish Steel, we ensure on time deliveries, great prices, and customer satisfaction along with brilliantly crafted stainless steel products.

Visit Aashish Steel to know more about bolts, fasteners and other similar products.

Curious to know more? Drop us an email at info@asnutbolt.com