#Dryer Cylinder
Text
Paper Machine Used Dryer Cylinder For Paper Mill
Our company Leizhan can provide the whole paper making line machine.
Email: [email protected]
WhatsAPP: +86 18539133178
https://www.leizhanchina.com/kraft-liner-paper-making-line/paper-machine-used-dryer-cylinder-for-paper-mill/
0 notes
Text
0 notes
Text
#Air dryer compressor#Balance opposed reciprocating compressors#Vertical non lubricated compressor#Reconditioning of compressor cylinders
0 notes
Text
#Biomass Pellet System#Digester System#Project Design#Project Execution#PSA Oxygen/Nitrogen Plant#Liquid Oxygen/Nitrogen Tank#Bio CNG Plant#Booster System for Oxygen#Nitrogen and Bio CNG#Cylinder and Cascade System for Gases#Drum Dryer
0 notes
Text
Bergamot. Oak. Linen.
Three scent profiles that never meant much to you before he did.
Bergamot.
Eau Pour Le Jeune Homme, Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier.
Top: Orange, bergamot.
Middle: Nutmeg, coriander.
Base: Sandalwood.
Like lazing across from each other at the dinner table. Steam billowing over mugs of earl gray tea, cookies that one of the nice old women in town had shoved into your hands just earlier that day stacked haphazardly on a plate between the two of you. Clear vase of purple catmint, yellow coneflowers, and whorled milkweed sitting at the end of the table runner to your left.
His chuckle turns into a snort as he scribbles onto a sticky note, peeling it back and slapping it down next to your mug as he turns his attention back to his phone. He's been doing this the entire time you two settled down at the table. You regret influencing his Instagram algorithm. Messy blue ink sprawls out the yellow piece of paper.
betray, belittle, boytoy
Oak.
Gentleman Reserve Privée, Givenchy.
Top: Bergamot.
Middle: Chestnut.
Base: Whiskey, amber.
Like special occasions. You sit on the bed, watching him rubber band between the bathroom and the bedroom to get ready to leave. You've been ready for at least ten minutes, but he insists on looking his best for this party your parents were throwing, and that meant rummaging through his fancy fragrances. He's never overbearing with it- always just enough cling to him and his clothes. Neck, inner elbows, wrists- always, like clockwork.
He has no idea what the fancy words on the bottles mean, but he does know that he doesn't want to smell like anything resembling 'toilet', so eau de parfum is the next best thing. You can catch wafts of it lingering in the air as he moves, before he finally stands proudly before you, hands on his hips, and a proud wide-toothed smile on his face.
"Y'ready?"
Linen.
Lin Blanc, Jeanne en Provence.
Top: White flowers, pear.
Middle: Lavender, cotton.
Base: Vanilla, white woods.
Like freshly dried sheets. He dedicates Sunday to laundry day. The washer and dryer in the house are still pretty new and practically pristine, but he will always air out and pin up the bedsheets and pillowcases on the clothesline like Ma did when he was younger. It makes him feel better to shake them out and flatten them out against the line outside in the backyard- nostalgic, really.
Sometimes he lays down in the grass beneath them after a few hours. He stares up at the bright blue sky. Sheets dance along the cool breeze, like the fluttering fabric of a waltz. You watch curiously through the window the first few times, and eventually, you convince yourself to go outside and lay next to him.
And he welcomes you happily.
"That cloud looks like a cow."
Bonus.
The Most Wanted, Azzaro.
Top: Cardamom.
Middle: Toffee.
Base: Amberwood.
He pulled the bottle out of the box and buried it in his sock drawer in the walk-in closet. You're half sure he got it just because it looks like a revolver cylinder. You've test-sprayed it on your wrist before- sickly sweet caramel, strangely spiced- and you scrunched your nose at it. He laughed from the doorway.
It was supposed to "settle," he had said. Whatever that means. It had been maybe a month since he hid it away, so imagine your surprise when he finally pulls the bottle out. You cringe a little as you recall the scent while he mists it onto the collar of his button down, watching the fragrance just hook onto the fabric. He chuckles at your expression as he affixes one of his watches to his wrist. You take a half step back as he comes towards you, but the smell isn't nearly half as bad nor domineering as it first was- suddenly subtly sweet and tangy. He simpered as your expression mellowed.
"Better now, ain't it?"
Babes that wanted to be tagged:
@mockerycrow @kivino
#Rancher AU#Graves.#Mini.#Been on a perfume kick recently idk.#Dawg said “Toilet?? Oh hell naw.”#Had to post it or else it wouldve never seen the light of day.#It's been sitting in my drafts for TWO WEEKS.#Phillip Graves x Reader#Phillip Graves x gn!Reader#cod mw2#cod mwii#Phillip Graves
46 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Art in the Heart - Chapter 4
Silco’s not exactly an uninvited guest, but your first sleepover together is still much more than you bargained for…
Everybody Lives AU | Pre-Act I | Silco x Reader | Female!Reader | Slow Burn | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Mild Angst || SFW | WC: 1.95k
ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
taglist: @sherwood-forests @deny-the-issue @let-the-monster-out
───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────
Silco insists that he shouldn't impose on you repeatedly during the entire walk. You threaten him at umbrella-point, and he finally accepts.
The studio apartments of the Cliffside Promenade housing complex are modest by Topside standards. Their true appeal is in their location: smack dab in the middle of the Promenade. It’s prime real estate for Zaunites like you who have to make frequent trips to Piltover, but don’t want to stray too far from your roots.
When you and Silco cross the threshold, he accidentally kicks over a jar full of paintbrushes.
“Oops, sorry about that,” you wince.
“The fault is all mine,” he says. He gropes for the brushes in the dark while you flip the lights on.
Crap. Your apartment isn’t in the best state to be hosting guests.
It’s been a while since the last time you deep-cleaned. There are jars and mugs everywhere, mostly filled with paintbrushes. Some hold paint tubes, metal cylinders for pneumatic tube deliveries, or eating utensils. A pneumatic tube receptacle is mounted on the southern wall next to the front door. Your small single bed is shoved up against the western wall, and a large wardrobe stands at the foot of it. The door to the bathroom is on the northern wall. To the east is a bay window and all your secondhand appliances: a stove, dishwasher, small refrigerator, and a stacked washer-dryer. Instead of dining room furniture, you’ve made room for easels of multiple sizes and a drafting table. Too much space is being dominated by wooden crates filled with canvases. The only chairs you own are a pair of chipped wooden stools.
Everything is covered in speckles and smears of paint, contributing to the feeling that there’s a slightly grubby patina over everything.
You glance at Silco, wondering if he’ll comment on the shabbiness on display. He scans the room thoughtfully, as if taking the time to formulate a proper opinion.
“Where would you like this?” he asks. He holds out the jar of paintbrushes.
“Thanks, I’ll take that,” you set it down on the floor again. “Can you wait here a second?”
Silco nods. You drop the umbrella, pull off your boots, and hurry to your bathroom. You return with a large towel and hand it to him.
“Thank you,” he smiles. He starts drying his hair. “Your home is quite the epitome of coziness.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” you say. “I got some ground rules for you.”
He stops rubbing his hair and drapes the towel around his neck.
“Take off your clothes.”
He tilts his head. “Pardon?”
“Shit, sorry,” you say hastily. The excitement of the night is catching up to you. Weariness is starting to pull at your bones. You stifle a yawn before elaborating. “You’re dripping all over and I don’t want you to get anything wet. I’ll put your clothes in the dryer, and they’ll be ready by morning. I’ll find something for you to wear in the meantime.”
“Sounds reasonable enough.”
“You should wash up too. Don’t want you catching a cold.”
“That won’t be necessary. You’re being too generous as it is—”
“There’s no point in getting you dry if you’re still cold. Besides, the hot water is unlimited! It’s awesome.”
It’s such a mundane thing to enthuse about, but you’re trying to keep your energy up.
“And shoes off, by the way,” you add as an afterthought.
As Silco kneels down to unlace his boots, you put yours away in the wardrobe. He wraps the towel around his shoulders and strides into the bathroom. Discarding his backpack on the floor.
You use your stockinged feet to wipe up the trail of water behind him.
At this point in the night, you’d toss your purse onto a stool. However, you're conscientious of its precious cargo and instead place it carefully underneath your table.
He calls out your name from behind the bathroom door.
“What’s up?” you ask.
“Would you like to take my clothes now or later?”
“I’ll take them right now, thanks.”
“Not at all.”
When he cracks open the door, you expect him to toss his clothing onto the floor. Instead, he holds them out for you to take.
You’re reluctant to approach.
Because you’re trying not to think about the fact that he’s naked. And in your home.
Oops.
You’re glad the door isn’t open enough for him to see your reddening face. After you take Silco’s clothes from him, he shuts the door and turns on the shower. With long exhale, you shove his clothes into your dryer and start a cycle.
You pull your bed drawers open and locate a pair of boxers. For outerwear you pull out your largest smock and sweatpants. After judging that they’re clean enough, you fold them and place them on a stool. Setting them outside the bathroom.
You don’t currently have a lover; you’d tell him if he asks, but would he believe you? The boxers belonged to an ex who couldn’t be bothered to pick them up.
You shake your head at yourself. Why would it matter if he believes you or not? You’re not even friends.
What are you to him, then? Wouldn’t he consider you a friend after all the favors you’ve done for him?
Ugh. You’re letting your mind wander too much because you’re too tired. You slap your cheeks to stay awake.
It’s with a sigh of relief that you undress and pull on your sleepwear. Shaking out your hair helps soothe some of your pent-up tension. Bedtime can’t come soon enough.
The shower shuts off. Silco opens the door to call out to you, but stops when he spots the clothing you’ve set out for him. He grabs them and shuts the door again.
When he finally comes out, he finds you staring at your bed where you’ve laid out the contents of your purse. The spoils of your heist.
“How was the water?” you ask without looking up.
When he doesn’t answer, you turn around.
Some invisible force seems to be holding him in place. His eyes are wide and unblinking, and his mouth has fallen slightly open.
“Are you okay?” you ask, frowning.
“I’m fine,” he chokes out. “I’ve never seen you with your hair down before. You look nice.”
“Oh… thanks,” you blush.
It’s interesting when Silco uses simpler words to speak more candidly. That’s probably the closest he gets to carelessly blurting out what he’s really thinking.
Now it’s your turn to give Silco a once-over. In all the occasions you’ve seen him, he’s demonstrated a preference for fitted clothes that show off his lithe but muscled frame. Right now, his outfit is just a little too loose, but it somehow smoothes out the sharp angles of his body into something softer.
“The water was perfect,” he answers you belatedly. “I’m tempted to steal these clothes from you with how comfortable they are.”
“Go ahead,” you chuckle. “As if you don’t owe me enough favors already.”
“That’s very true,” he stands next to you and stares down at the documents.
To be more precise, they’re pictures of the documents you found in Salo’s office. Taking the original articles would have been too suspicious.
“Congratulations on a job well done,” Silco claps a hand on your shoulder, beaming with pride. “What would you say to joining me on my future ventures?”
“Piss off,” you groan and rub your eyes. “Just tell me exactly what tonight was all about.”
He moves his hand off your shoulder to hold his chin. As he scans the snapshots, he hums in thought. Lifting several photos and studying them carefully.
You already knew his hands were huge, but you notice for the first time how thick his fingers are. And yet he moves them so delicately—
“The councilor’s shipping manifests were the most critical,” he explains. “Then, visual confirmation of what the cargo looks like, and finally, the shift schedule of the warehouse staff. We need all of these to proceed with our schemes.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Oh, I never mentioned it? The Children of Zaun,” he states grandly, puffing out his chest.
Your previous conversations with him are completely recontextualized. The rebel group is at the forefront of the Undercity independence movement. Only the loudest and proudest Zaunites are allowed to join. If Silco is one of them, then it makes sense that he would have taken personal offense at you mentioning Piltover in any kind of positive light.
While you’ve always admired the Children from afar, you’re suddenly seized by concern— no, by fear.
That he shares the Children’s reckless tendency to throw themselves into dangerous situations for the slightest opportunity to strike at Topside. At the risk of bodily injuries or death.
“Silco, what exactly are you planning?” you ask quietly.
“We received reliable intelligence that a shipment of weapons— no, bullets— will be arriving very soon,” he says. He taps a photo with a knuckle. “The receiving party are the Enforcers. We plan to liberate the cargo in order to quite literally disempower them.”
You might not be a fan of Councilor Salo, but you know he’s smart enough to have all his ports staffed with armed guards. If the Children are only going to be equipped with the Undercity’s inferior firepower—
It’s too daunting to think about.
You squeeze Silco’s wrist. “I can’t let you have these.”
He stares at you, incredulous. His grip on the photos tightens.
He wants to argue with you again. You try to summon all the determination you have, but—
Your vision goes watery. You rub furiously at your eyes.
Silco’s face softens. He clears a space on the bed, taking a seat.
“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.
“Nothing,” you mutter furiously. “Just— got something in my eye.”
He looks at you knowingly. Gesturing for you to sit.
“Talk to me.”
You flop down next to him, fisting your hands in the blankets. There’s no way you’re going to admit the truth— that you’re scared. Maybe it’s exacerbated by your exhaustion, but the worst-case scenario is freaking you out: if their mission fails, Silco could die. If nobody knew to let you know, it could be ages before you found out for yourself.
Hell, if “Silco” isn’t his real name, then you’d have no real way to track him down.
He’d become just another friend who left you. Alone.
You try to clear the lump in your throat.
He waits patiently for you. As if he had all the time in the world.
“Aren’t you scared? You could get killed,” you finally manage to grunt out.
“Every one of the Children is prepared for death. It’s something we all embrace, sweetheart,” he says. “Any one of us would be proud to die for the cause. If it happens it should be a cause for celebration, not mourning.”
That his ideals are so extreme doesn’t surprise you, but it still takes a monumental effort to keep from flinching.
If you weren’t so drained, you’d give him a piece of your mind.
“I want to cash in a favor,” you declare. “Maybe two.”
“If it’s within my power, it’s all yours,” he vows.
You swallow hard. Determined to be as articulate as possible. There can’t be any room for doubt here.
You turn to face him head on.
“Promise me that no one will get hurt.”
He’s taken aback. His eyes tick wider, but he doesn’t break eye contact. He opens and closes his mouth, struck dumb for the third time that night.
You stubbornly hold your gaze, fighting the urge to blink.
“I mean it. Please.”
That word breaks something in him.
“Okay,” he replies. “I promise.”
Chapter 5
#Arcane#Arcane fanfic#Silco#Silco x Reader#Arcane Silco#Silco Arcane#my writing#The Art in the Heart#TAITH
84 notes
·
View notes
Note
Throw your shrimp cylinder into my dryer, cuz baby we're about to tumble
LOLLLLLLL
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Our shower broke and then broke even more when we were trying to repair it so the water can't be turned off at all and it just pours out so fast that it floods the bathtub which shouldn't actually be possible.
And because there's no valves specifically for the shower, because whoever did the plumbing was a goddamn fool, we had to turn off the water main entirely and we haven't had running water for two days.
Can't wash dishes, can't water the plants with the hose, can't wash and refill the bird baths, can't flush the toilets, can't shower. We have to use bottled water to brush our teeth.
We have no idea when we'll be able to get the water back on because the cylinder thing that controls the water flow to the shower broke when we were trying to pull it out so now we have to figure out how to get the broken cylinder out and replace before we can turn on the water without flooding our house.
It's times like this that I desperately wish that the US had bathhouses. Like we already have laundromats for people without washers and dryers, why don't we have bathhouses for people without baths, showers, or running water???
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
Everything matters
We fit like an enfit (Tube 'verse)
This one is Steve in hospital directly post-colectomy. I have had this exact procedure done to exactly these results. This is James's POV. Some swearing, some medical lingo, and emeto.
----------------------------
Steve's been through the wringer these last two days. Washer and dryer. Extra hot. Bleached. Sanitized. To hospital quality standards.
Because that's exactly where they are. And that's exactly where they're going to stay.
The beginning, Steve's exit from the PACU, had been downright frightening. Steve looked tiny and pale, and still attached to so many tubes. James Jumped up and followed the rolling bed straight to the floor, one specifically dedicated to patients recovering from gastric surgeries.
How many people are they doing this to? James had thought. The hallway was long, and the room, though private, wasn't spacious.
Steve blinked slowly into consciousness about half an hour after his nurse and transport team had abandoned them, and then promptly threw up all over his white bedding. Then all over James, who didn't realize the emesis basin and a stack of kidney dishes were actually behind him.
The nurse came in before either one of them could find the call button, for the racket of retching and shouting had apparently been audible from the hallway. James apologized for being deaf and loud. Steve backed him up with a sigh that turned into a burp that turned into a sticky, stringy hand.
A parade of techs and MAs entered and exit edthe room, getting Steve's blood pressure, changing his bedding without moving him out of it, providing a plethora of triangular graduated cylinders to collect further vomit.
Then what are all those other fucking bowls and dishes for? James wondered. Once everyone else is had gone and it was just him and Steve again, James quickly stripped off his stained shirt and zipped up his hoodie over a bare chest. As much love as he has for Steeve, James wasn't going to smell of bile all day.
"Ha," Steve had murmured, wincing as pushing out vocalizations forced chest rise. "Good idea."
"Press your morphine button." James pointed to the cord dangling half off the bed, then to the pole carrying the rest of the setup for Steve's epidural.
"It's ok--" But Steve cut himself off with a gag that brought up a trickle of something vaguely the color of Sunny D. That made James wince, too.
"See?" Jame lifted the cord and settled the push button in James's hand. "You're entitled to medicine. Every 15 minutes, even. I don't want to watch you be in pain."
"I don't want you to watch me keep throwing up," Steve replies in what can only be described as a pitiful whine.
"I'm sorry that keeps happening." James moved his chair as close to the bed as possible. He could barely reach far enough to put his hand on Steve's foot. "I'm with you till bedtime. Then I gotta go to work."
When the night nurse came to sedate Steve on another round on pain meds, he left as quickly and graciously as he could. James had had his own encounters with narcotics. Good, bad, necessary, non... He still wasn't sure where he stood. He was also going to be late for the start of the overnight shift if he kept standing and didn't scram.
Even though James watched the clock emphatically, refrigerator boxes have never seemed lighter. He barely had to push the dolly to ferry one across the warehouse. Sometimes everyone joked about the man with one arm trying to keep up with the rest of them, but that night, even if nobody was watching, it was true.
Well, it wasn't, exactly. James surpassed them by a mile. He could only think of mechanics. Scoot. Grab. Lift. Elevate... If he had a backache, he couldn't feel it. Compared to how he'd last seen Steve, the scab on James's wrist from last week's encounter with a shattered porcelain toilet, was nothing. The sweat on his brow was nothing. The cardboard dust settled on his shoulders... That might make Steve sneeze.
After he'd parked crookedly in their next-door-neighbor's designated space, James ran into the apartment, showered so quickly the water didn't even have time to fog up the mirror, got dressed, and shoveled down two of Steve's probiotic yogurts while standing in front of the open refrigerator.
Alpine wound around James's ankles. He made an attempt to put his paws into the vegetable drawer to bat at the bag of bell peppers and banana pudding multipack.
"No," James said with his mouth full.
Alpine turned and licked up a drip of yogurt that had fallen from James's spoon. "Oh, you..." James shakes his head. "I know Steve's been letting you lick the containers under the table."
After he tossed his trash and threw the spoon into the sink, James patted Alpine on the head. "I'll see you..." James thought. He couldn't remember his schedule. Work. Sleep. But always, first, Steve. "When I get back."
James shoves his feet into already-tied sneakers and throws a bag over his shoulder. He hadn't cleaned it out since he finished his associates and kissed community college goodbye. Some stupid class notes might be in there. Maybe they could entertain Steve.
Although it was the end of James's day, most people, or at least those at the hospital, were just starting theirs. After following the same maze of hallways, James found Steve's room. He waited with his back against the wall while someone in an apron yelled out "Nutrition!" and carried a cup of green jello through the doorway on a tray.
James tried not to laugh. As if Steve would eat that. Even when he wasn't puking up his guts, Steve carried an aversion to unnaturally colored things, like blue popsicles. Iced purple roses decorating frosted cakes. Bright red cherry cough medicine that James joked about using to get high, while Steve did, in fact, just use according to the directions.
When James steps into the room, he feels the oppressive hospital atmosphere settle in over his head. It's like he's broken the surface tension and plunged into a world that isn't compatible with him. Or isn't anymore.
Everything is completely the same as the night before, except someone's moved the rolling table so it emulates a bedstand, holding all necessities, which, for now, seem to be a triangular graduated cylinder with brownish splashed down the side, and the cup of jello. James notices that they haven't brought Steve any utensils, so he takes it upon himself to move the unpalatable breakfast to the back counter of kidney dishes.
Steve's still out cold, but sleeping, James thinks, instead of passed out. The oxygen cannula under his nose seems to be delivering a constant flow, just boosting Steve a little while he breathes on his own. James squints at the muscles of Steve's neck, trying to take his pulse without touching him, and then comparing the number to the speed of his breathing. Basic medical told him Steve wasn't dying. If he'd paid more attention in basic, or maybe took Air Force route and became a PJ, he'd probably know a lot more.
The chair's set up just as James left it, and he settles into the plasticized leather cushions. It's not a comfortable chair. But James didn't come here to be comfortable.
Whilst keeping one eye on Steve, James lifts the flap on his bag and peers inside. As he expected, it's a mess of student and everyday-person needs. The organization's gone to shit, if there was any to begin with. The bag has interior pockets. Maybe that was back when he was in his fuck-therapy stage, before he let OT and PT help him work his body into something he could be comfortable with. It had helped him find a job, at least. And a boyfriend.
The most interesting find from the bag, so far, is a tangled pair of earbuds. The plug is compatible with the port on his phone, so James attaches them and scrolls to his music app. After wiggling one hearing aid out and replacing it with the soft plastic earbud, James runs his finger down the available albums and chooses one at random.
Is this the real life? Is it a fantasy?
James almost starts laughing. Bohemian Rhapsody? Seriously?
Well, for a half-delirious working man shirking sleep to protect Steve, to make money for rent for Steve while he healed up, paying the parking garage in quarters from beneath the center console in the car...
Nothing really matters
Nothing really matters to--
James cuts off the end of the song before the ending notes can play. No. He doesn't want to hear it. He can't hear it. Or it'll be true. Something has to matter. Even if it's remembering to go home often enough to feed Alpine something other than artificially flavored strawberry yogurt.
James presses the button to play the next song. The first beat sounds. James recognizes it. His foot moves automatically, tapping the floor to the notes of the refrain before the lyrics even start.
Steve walks wearily down the street
his brim pulled way down low
There's a soft groan from the bed. Steve blinks sleepily and seems to be trying to stretch his shoulders without sitting up.
James realizes, too late, that he's been tapping the undercarriage of Steve's bed every time he thought he was tapping the floor.
"I'm sorry," James says, quickly standing up and moving to Steve's side so he's level with his chest and head. "Was I hurting you?"
"What'd you call me for?" Steve asks blearily.
"Huh?" James doesn't understand. "I didn't..."
"You said my name," Steve insists. "But like, mumbly. Were you, like talking while you were writing something down?"
"Mumbly?" James is still confused.
"And I think your headphones are broken," Steve points out. After a couple fumbles, he catches the dangling earbud, the one James left hanging.
Steve lifts it up so it's high between their faces.
Another one bites the dust
Another one bites the dust
"Fuck." James buries the earbud in his fist and turns off the music on his phone. He turns off his phone for good measure. "I was-- I thought--" James shakes his head. "I didn't think you could hear it. I didn't mean to bug you."
"No, that's ok." Steve scoots his body a millimeter closer to the pole of epidural machines. The push-button has made its way to the floor again, so James bends to grab it and give it back.
"But," Steve continues, after giving himself a good dose of painkiller, "Why's my name in it?"
James hast to think on it. There's a "poor boy," but he doesn't have a name... Another one bites the dust is, well, about a serial killer... but...
"Oh." James points upward to show his realization. "No one's ever broken the news to you?" He goes for a sly smile, but laughter is trapped in his chest and throat.
"What news...?"
"You did it," James informs him. "You're the perp."
"I-- what?"
"Steve walks wearily down the street, his brim pulled way down low," James recites.
"That's in the song?" Steve asks, as if he isn't sure he believes James.
"It's the first word. 'Steve.'" James can contain his laughter no more. "Everybody just knows 'Another one bites the dust.'"
"Wow." Steve ponders the ceiling. "How many people did I kill?"
"I don't actually know." James furrows his brow. "I can put it on again and we can count." He looks down at the janky earbud in his hand. "Or you can keep it a secret. 'Cause if anybody here in the hospital catches wind that you're a criminal, they'll probably send you back to prison."
"You'd bail me out, right?" Steve manages to pry his spine from the mattress using the strength of one elbow. Though he's speaking, he still has all the tells going. Quivering lip, pale face, clenching jaw...
Steve looks at the graduated cylinder as if it's a bacteria sample for a biology project. Colonies to numerous to count. Remain sealed due to unidentifiable contents.
"Should I not watch?" James asks gently.
Steve shrugs. He lets saliva drain openly in expectation of the first wave. "Bail me out of here?"
James smiles sadly. "That's not exactly how things work around here. Sorry." He pauses. "And that damn yellow gate with the meter in the parking garage-- it's eating up all my gold doubloons."
"But," Steve asks in a small voice. "You'll stay."
"Somebody's gotta make a dent in the mattress and shove some boxes and feed the cat..." James shrugs. "But I'm here as much as I can be. And I'm with you to the end of the line."
#marvel#mcu#fanfic#fanfiction#we fit like an enfit#tube 'verse#steve rogers#bucky barnes#captain america#winter soldier#sickfic#emeto#hospitals#surgery#colectomy
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
@sevenbulletsavior
▎ A breath and the sleep hanging around eyes was wiped away. A deeper breath and feet had him ten miles away from home. Grey hood was pulled tighter over his head, blocking out intrusive sounds as heat gathered thick over his skull. A breath and it wasn’t his only sweat he smelled. Diluted bleach was in the air, though he had his doubts that a dumpster filled with bleach would not completely erase the smell of sweat, body order, and perseverance. Frank Castle had repeatedly told himself that were was nothing to miss about the circuit, and despite the hard nature of his skull, he sat opposite to his coach listening to a spiel about legacy and greatness. The plastic bottle crinkled loudly as fingers gripped the cylinder tightly to douse his throat with water. The demons, seclusion, enemies, and cutting weight.. no, he missed none of that, yet it felt permanently embedded in his body. He missed it, and his coach knew it. It was something, something to cut through the monotony of life.
❝ I’m past my prime. If you want to see me win more belts for the gym and get some good publicity going, coach, it’s not worth it. Legends coming back only last a few months. ❞ Frank had argued while deep down wished his coach would kick and scream until he accepted. No kicking nor screaming was involved, but a fight was put forth, strong enough to leave the thoughts tumbling in his mind like a brick placed within a dryer machine. It carried with him the entire run back, as he showered, cleaned, cooked, and while he slept. The next morning Frank arrived at Hell Street before the doors even opened, and his coach did not look the slightest bit surprised. Was he predictable? Was his life predictable?
Not one week into training, showing himself he was more out of shape than he anticipated, and the word to one promoter had spread like a virus. There were no secrets in the industry unless the first palm was greased. It wasn’t a scandal involving a hooker or a urine test, but Frank wasn’t prepared to advertise his face and name on something that was so new. He was a man who was paid to destroy someone’s life, either paid by the government while overseas wearing uniform, or paid to be caged with another fighter for the sake of entertainment.
The mentality was, sickeningly, very similar. It was Frank against them. Be it a combatant or a loud mouthed fighter, he needed his focus. He blocked out the noise, offering more hours at the gym than sleeping. Unlike many other fighters and which was a god send to Hell Street — Castle was a dedicated man. Alcohol, sex, and drugs never clouded his mind and poisoned his body. Frank practiced in the cage. He practiced on the gym mats. Day turned night. One month passed, and his promoter was hungry, greedy. The return of the Destroyer, the Punisher needed to get those glamorous promotional pictures.
More asses needed to be in the seats. More. More. More. After finishing another session, still dripping in sweat and in need of a good shower, coach reluctantly (not really) passed the hard suggestion of a potential conference or, at the very least, an interview and photoshoot. Most of the people in the industry were just as scummy as the promoters and fighters he faced. Frank grimaced at the prospect. He already had his own demons to fight. “Just a quick conversation. Feel her out before you say yes.” If or when Frank said yes? It didn’t seem like an option. He drowned out his thoughts in the shower, used muscle memory to return home, and zoned out watching tv at home until her message arrived. Her. Who even was she?
#◤ a bullet never lies ┖ 💀 THREAD ┒#◤ — truth at all costs ┖ FT KAREN ┒#◣ verse — AU : with sevenbulletsavior#sevenbulletsavior
1 note
·
View note
Text
High Quality Dryer Cylinder For Paper Making
Email: [email protected]
WhatsAPP: +86 18539133178
https://www.leizhanchina.com/corrugated-paper-making-line/high-quality-dryer-cylinder-for-paper-making/
0 notes
Text
Used Sheet Fed / Offset Machine for SALE
Komori - Lithrone L-628
Buy Directly from Seller -
Number of color: 6
Max sheet size: 52 x 77 cm / 20.47 x 29.92 inch
Manufacturer: Komori
Year: 1991
Machine Availability: Immediately
Price: On Request
Location: USA
#print #offset #machinedalal
0 notes
Text
Understanding Rotary Unions: The Backbone of Fluid Management Systems
Rotary unions, also known as rotary joints or swivels, are indispensable components in various industrial applications where the transfer of fluid or gases between stationary and rotating equipment is necessary. From simple cooling systems to complex machinery, rotary unions play a vital role in ensuring seamless operation and efficiency. In this blog, we'll delve into the intricacies of rotary unions, exploring their functionality, applications, and importance in different industries.
What is a Rotary Union? A rotary union is a mechanical device that allows the transfer of fluids or gases between a stationary supply and a rotating component, without leakage or loss of pressure. It consists of precision-engineered components such as seals, bearings, and housing, designed to withstand the rigors of continuous rotation while maintaining a reliable connection for fluid transfer.
Applications of Rotary Unions:
Machine Tool Coolant Unions: In machining operations, maintaining proper coolant flow is crucial for lubrication, cooling, and chip removal. Rotary unions enable the transfer of coolant from a stationary supply to rotating machine tools, ensuring efficient operation and prolonging tool life.
Steam Joints: Industries such as paper manufacturing, textile processing, and food processing rely on steam for various processes. Rotary steam joints facilitate the transfer of steam from stationary pipelines to rotating cylinders or drums, powering equipment like dryers, calenders, and presses.
Hydraulic and Pneumatic Rotary Unions: Hydraulic and pneumatic systems are prevalent in industries ranging from automotive manufacturing to aerospace. Rotary unions facilitate the transmission of hydraulic fluids or compressed air to rotating components, enabling precise control and smooth operation of machinery.
Hot Oil Rotary Unions: Processes involving high-temperature fluids, such as oil heating systems and plastic extrusion, require specialized rotary unions capable of handling extreme heat without compromising performance or safety.
Food Rotary Joints: In food processing equipment such as rotary cookers, ovens, and packaging machinery, rotary joints ensure the hygienic transfer of ingredients, steam, or other fluids without contamination, meeting strict industry standards for food safety.
Importance of Rotary Unions:
Efficient Fluid Transfer: Rotary unions enable the seamless transfer of fluids or gases between stationary and rotating equipment, ensuring consistent performance and productivity.
Extended Equipment Lifespan: Proper lubrication and cooling facilitated by rotary unions help prevent premature wear and damage to rotating components, prolonging the lifespan of machinery.
Versatility: With a wide range of configurations and materials available, rotary unions can be tailored to suit diverse applications and operating conditions.
Reliability: Quality rotary unions are engineered for durability and reliability, minimizing downtime and maintenance costs in industrial settings.
Rotary unions are the unsung heroes of fluid management systems, enabling the smooth operation of machinery across various industries. From machine tools to food processing equipment, these precision-engineered components play a crucial role in ensuring efficient fluid transfer between stationary and rotating parts. As technology advances and industrial processes evolve, rotary unions will continue to adapt and innovate, remaining indispensable components in the realm of fluid power transmission.
Contact Us at: https://www.rotaryunion.co.in/ | +919820045787 | [email protected]
#Rotary Unions#Rotary Joints#Rotary Swivels#Steam Joints#Machine tool coolant Unions#Water Unions#Hydraulic Rotary Unions#Air Rotary Unions#Hot Oil Rotary Unions#High Speed Coolant Unions#Rotating Unions for Coolants#What is a Rotary Union?#Food Rotary Joint
0 notes
Text
PaperMachine #PaperIndustry
Revolutionizing Paper Production with Dryer Cylinder
More details:
https://tpapermachine.com/revolutionizing-paper-production-with-dryer-cylinder.html
Welcome to contact me to inquire!
Email: [email protected]
WhatsApp: +86 18839545270
1 note
·
View note
Text
5 Reasons Why LP Gas is the Smart Choice for Your Home
In household energy solutions, there's a multitude of options available, each with its own set of benefits and drawbacks. Among them, LP (liquefied petroleum) gas stands out as a versatile and efficient choice for powering your home. From heating and cooking to powering appliances, LP gas offers a range of advantages that make it a smart choice for homeowners. Let's delve into five compelling reasons why LP gas could be the perfect fit for your household.
Versatility in Applications
LP gas is incredibly versatile, offering a wide range of applications within the household. Whether it's heating your home during chilly winters, fueling your stove for cooking delicious meals, or powering various appliances like water heaters, dryers, and even generators during power outages, LP gas proves its adaptability across different needs. This versatility means that you can rely on LP gas for multiple purposes, streamlining your energy solutions and potentially reducing the need for additional energy sources.
Energy Efficiency
Efficiency is a crucial factor when considering energy sources for your home. LP gas boasts impressive energy efficiency, providing high BTU (British Thermal Unit) output per unit of fuel consumed. This means that you can achieve the same level of heating or cooking performance with less fuel compared to many other energy sources. The efficient combustion of LP gas also results in fewer emissions, making it an environmentally conscious choice for homeowners looking to reduce their carbon footprint.
Cost-Effectiveness
In today's economic climate, cost-effectiveness is a top priority for many homeowners. LP gas often proves to be a cost-effective option due to its competitive pricing and efficient energy output. Additionally, with the flexibility to purchase LP gas in bulk or through budget-friendly payment plans, you can effectively manage your energy expenses and avoid unexpected spikes in utility bills. Moreover, the durability of LP gas equipment and infrastructure ensures long-term savings by minimizing maintenance and replacement costs.
Reliability and Convenience
When it comes to powering your home, reliability is paramount. LP gas offers a dependable energy solution that ensures uninterrupted comfort and convenience for your household. Unlike electricity, which may be susceptible to outages during severe weather or infrastructure issues, LP gas provides a reliable source of energy even in adverse conditions. With on-site storage options available, such as underground tanks or aboveground cylinders, you can rest assured knowing that you have a readily accessible supply of LP gas to meet your household's needs.
Environmental Sustainability
As concerns about environmental sustainability continue to grow, choosing eco-friendly energy options becomes increasingly important. LP gas emerges as a sustainable choice due to its lower carbon emissions compared to many other fossil fuels. Additionally, advancements in technology have led to the development of cleaner-burning LP gas appliances, further reducing environmental impact. By opting for LP gas, you can contribute to conservation efforts while enjoying the comfort and convenience it provides to your home.
In conclusion, LP gas offers a compelling array of benefits that make it the smart choice for powering your home. From its versatility and energy efficiency to its cost-effectiveness, reliability, and environmental sustainability, LP gas stands out as a comprehensive solution for modern homeowners. By embracing LP gas as your primary energy source, you can enhance the comfort, convenience, and sustainability of your household while optimizing your energy expenditures.
0 notes
Last Seen Blogs
awesomebeasy
Netflix und Screencaps
fucksoa
제목 없음
rijkeprins
Be good. Do well.
liviavx-blog
Pictures from Hetalia
veequeent
Fvckboy Euclid