#touch monitor Display

[zylcd]

Application of industrial control screens in intelligent security

Industrial control screens play a vital role in the field of intelligent security. They are widely used in monitoring, data analysis, early warning and alarm, and provide efficient and reliable visual support for security systems.

1. Video monitoring and processing

The industrial control screen is the core display device of the security monitoring system. It can display multiple monitoring videos in real time and support high-definition, multi-screen display and picture-in-picture functions. By cooperating with the industrial computer, the industrial control screen can realize video recording, storage, playback and real-time transmission, providing comprehensive video support for security monitoring. For example, in the smart city monitoring center, through the 55-inch LCD splicing wall, 16 channels of 4K signals can be displayed synchronously, combined with intelligent analysis algorithms, abnormal behaviors can be automatically marked and early warnings can be pushed.

2. Intelligent analysis and early warning

The industrial control screen supports advanced image recognition and analysis technologies, such as face recognition, license plate recognition and behavior analysis. These functions can help the system quickly and accurately identify abnormal behaviors or potential threats, and trigger early warning or alarm mechanisms. For example, in some intelligent security systems, the industrial control screen cooperates with the liveness detection algorithm to achieve millisecond-level response, shortening the identity verification time of the customs clearance personnel from 8 seconds to 2 seconds, with an accuracy rate of up to 99.6%.

3. Data storage and management

The industrial control screen is usually used in conjunction with the industrial computer, with a large-capacity storage device, which can save a large amount of monitoring data and image information. At the same time, it also supports rapid retrieval and playback of data to ensure the security and integrity of the monitoring data.

4. Environmental adaptability

The industrial control screen adopts a wide temperature design (-10℃ to 60℃), anti-electromagnetic interference, dustproof and waterproof structure to ensure stable operation in the monitoring room and outdoor scenes. For example, in the case of oil drilling platform monitoring, the industrial control screen still maintains 99.2% display stability under salt spray corrosion and severe vibration environment.

5. Intelligent interaction and operation

The industrial control screen supports a variety of interaction methods, such as capacitive touch screens and gesture recognition algorithms, so that monitoring personnel can quickly locate abnormal images by dragging and zooming, improving operation efficiency. For example, actual tests at a financial monitoring center showed that the event processing efficiency was improved by more than 60% through the use of an industrial control screen with an integrated capacitive touch screen.

About Us: Shenzhen Zhiyan Optronics Co., Ltd. (zylcdshop.com) is a trusted LCD screen distributor based in China. We are dedicated to providing high-quality products and tailored support to meet your unique LCD display requirements.

[aurosoulart]

Hi, I have a friend that really wants to play with vr sculpting, do you recommend using the tilt five, quest 2, or quest 3.

Do you know of any plans to add support for any other headsets?

Also if you want an easier way to display art check these out (holographic displays) https://lookingglassfactory.com/

I’d go with a secondhand Quest 2 if it’s specifically VR sculpting your friend is interested in! though I think the price for a new Q2 dropped recently so either option is a more affordable entry point. 👍

and we wanna be on Apple Vision and maaaayybe also SteamVR so Figmin could run on any PCVR headset… but we’ll see haha

current supported hardware is the Quest line, Tilt Five, Magic Leaps, HoloLens, Vive XR Elite, aaand Android & Apple mobile devices. (if anyone wants to be part of the mobile beta hit me up 👀 we need more testers 👀👀👀)

and YES I know Looking Glass!! I’ve seen their displays and other similar 3d displays in person before and they’re wild.

[industrypanelpcfactory]

Industrial Monitors

[itd-technology]

Choosing the Right Outdoor Touch Display for Your Business 

In the digital age, outdoor touch displays have become important for businesses wanting to capture customers, develop their brands, and give a dynamic experience. In the sectors of retailing, hospitality, and public services, the right outdoor display can boost a business by providing interactive experiences that really attract attention and engage the customer. 

However, great consideration should be given to factors that will help guide your decision when selecting the right outdoor display. In this blog, we will highlight significant points that will aid you in your choice of the most appropriate touchscreen display. 

Brightness and Visibility of the Display :

When it comes to choosing the best outdoor display, the most vital factor to consider is brightness. The screen should be able to resist strong direct sunlight and different weather conditions. It is of utmost importance that outdoor screens are bright enough to be visible during the day. A minimum of 2,500 nits will ensure clear, easy readability, even on bright days.

Durable and Weather Resistant :

Your outdoor screen will face the brunt of extreme weather, so you require a display that can withstand diverse weather conditions. It should endure snow, rain, or extreme heat without being destroyed. Make sure that the display has at least an IP65 rating for dust and water resistance.  

Dimension and Resolution of the Display :

In regard to selecting an outdoor display, be mindful of the location it occupies and how far your audience will be viewing it from. A large screen entails displaying a large quantity of information since it can be viewed from some distance. 

It is definitely necessary to keep images and videos sharp and clear, particularly when handling detailed graphics or text. The decisions of size and resolution should be made according to where the display is set and its intention. 

Touchscreen and Interaction :

Interactivity is the biggest advantage when it comes to outdoor displays. Touchscreens thus provide customers with a novel way to interact with some content by browsing products, viewing interactive maps, or filling in forms. Choose between capacitive and optical touchscreen technology to ensure smoothness and responsiveness towards user input.

Energy Efficiency :

Energy consumption is something that you need to pay attention to, especially when the display works for long hours. Opt for an energy-efficient display; it is good for the environment and will reduce operational costs. Choose models that contain LED backlighting, as they use less power than traditional LCD screens, and make sure that the display has an auto-brightness adjustment feature to effectively use power depending on the surrounding light. 

Conclusion :

stretched monitor   embedded pc   open frame touch monitor   open frame panel pc   panel mount monitor rack mount monitor   stainless steel panel PC   panel mount touch screen pc   industrial box pcFinding the right outdoor displays for your business should balance durability, visibility, and interactivity. By balancing brightness, durability, size, and touch technology, you ensure that your outdoor display meets environmental conditions and provides users with a delightful experience. The right outdoor display can help your business stand out, engage with the customers, and thrive in a digital world.  

[welcome-to-the-technology]

Cutting-Edge Multi-Touch Monitors: Enhancing Interactive Experiences

Experience Seamless Interactivity with a Multi-Touch Monitor Gain a cutting-edge advantage in your digital interactions with a multi-touch monitor. These innovative displays offer users the ability to effortlessly navigate through content, manipulate images, and engage with applications using intuitive touch gestures. Whether you are presenting in a boardroom meeting or showcasing products in a retail environment, a multi-touch monitor provides a dynamic and immersive experience for both users and viewers alike. Explore the limitless possibilities of interactive technology with a multi-touch monitor that redefines the way you engage with your content.

[lisazhu]

PCAP technology ensures accurate and sensitive touch functions, and our 156TM series is widely used in various industrial environments, such as production workshops, workstations, etc.

15.6” Projective Capacitive Multi-touch Screen Fanless System with Ultra-low Power Use Front IP65 Dust and Waterproof VESA Mountable

#touchmonitor#industrialmachine#automationapplication

[ddaeng-sims]

ddaengsims - The Sims 4 Mono Setup Addons

This time I’m bringing you a sweet little extension to the Mono Setup — soft, pastel-toned pieces and nostalgic touches to complement your Sims’ dreamy desk space.

iPad Air & Magic Keyboard - 7 Colors - Functional (Base Game)

90s Flip Phone - Open/Closed Versions

Seventeen's Carat Bong Kpop Light Stick - V3 & Anniversary Edition

Cat Photocard Holder - Several Swatches

Digital Camera - Black, White, and Pink

iPod Classic - 3 Colors + Display Options

Jo Malone Perfume

Lip Gloss - 8 colors

Monitor Stand (Not Pictured)

Nintendo DS - 7 Colors

Chanel Tulips Glass Vase

—

***** DOWNLOAD @ Patreon

—

[amtechinternational5]

What Are The Applications Of Industrial Computer Touch Screen?

The modern era of a digitally advanced world, where technology is reshaping with its evolution rapidly. The advancement in industrial computer touch screens has emerged as a revolutionary in the field of technology. The way the business is being operated with these transformative interfaces in different parts of industries. The manufacturing sector is witnessing enhanced efficiency by improving the customer experience and making a big contribution to the evolution of the industrial sector. In this article, you will discover the applications of industrial computer touch screen in the industrial sector. Read More: https://www.zupyak.com/p/3978263/t/what-are-the-applications-of-industrial-computer-touch-screen

[optomaprojectors]

Optoma’s interactive displays are designed to fit the needs of teachers and students seamlessly. By listening to educators and gathering customer feedback, Optoma creates solutions that remove the challenging barriers facing teachers today.

[archspaceandguides]

The Future of Office Desks: Smart and Connected Workstations

The traditional office desk is transforming, ushering in the era of intelligent and connected workstations. As technological advancements continue to reshape how we work, office desks are becoming more than just static furniture. In this article, we will explore the future of office desks, delving into the innovative features and technologies that make workspaces smarter, more efficient, and…

[zylcd]

How to clean and maintain industrial control displays?

You need to be extra careful when cleaning and maintaining industrial control displays, because industrial environments are usually more severe, with dust, oil, chemicals, static electricity, etc. Moreover, the display may have integrated touch functions. It is best to follow the correct steps to clean and maintain it in order to effectively extend its service life and avoid damage. Below, the editor will explain to you how to clean and maintain industrial control displays.

1. Preparation before cleaning is crucial: Before cleaning the industrial control display, be sure to disconnect the power supply and confirm the screen material. Prepare cleaning tools such as microfiber cloth/dust-free cloth, special screen cleaner or distilled water/purified water, air blower, etc. Avoid using corrosive cleaners such as alcohol and ammonia.

2. Correct cleaning steps are key: First, blow away the dust with an air blower, then spray a small amount of detergent on a clean microfiber cloth and gently wipe the screen in one direction. Use a cotton swab to clean the edge gaps, and finally wipe the screen with a dry, clean cloth to ensure that there are no water stains and detergent residues.

3. Daily maintenance cannot be ignored: Regular cleaning (once a week/month) is a must. Reduce the number of times you touch the screen, avoid liquid splashing, and avoid direct sunlight. Keeping the environment clean and reducing static electricity can effectively extend the life of the display.

4. Special screens require special treatment: Be more careful when cleaning touch screens (capacitive screens/resistive screens), avoid using corrosive detergents, and pay attention to strength control. It is crucial to understand the characteristics of different screens and choose the right cleaning method.

5. Avoid wrong cleaning methods: Do not use ordinary paper towels or rough cloth to wipe to avoid scratching the screen. Do not spray detergent directly on the screen to prevent liquid from penetrating. Avoid pressing the screen too hard to damage the LCD panel. Choosing the right cleaning tools and methods is the key to ensuring screen safety.

In short, regular and correct cleaning and maintenance, combined with good environmental control and operating habits, can effectively extend the service life and reliability of industrial control displays in harsh industrial environments. If you are not sure what to do, you can first refer to the equipment manual and consult the equipment supplier.

With over 18 years of expertise, Shenzhen Zhiyan Optronics Co., Ltd. (zylcdshop.com) is a trusted supplier based in China, specializing in high-performance LCD screens. We deliver tailored display solutions, consistent quality, and competitive factory-direct pricing to meet diverse industry needs.

[ridingtorohan]

hey!! i saw ur recent post about the tulpar crew walking in on reader touching themselves, could u do the same but vice versa?

Ask and ye shall receive!

𓇻 ft. tulpar crew x gn reader

𓇻 content. 18+ content, minors dni. possible second hand embarrassment. masturbation, sexual propositions, the whole shebang. this is a sequel to this post. this one can definitely be read on its own though. lightly implied that reader didn't accept swansea or daisuke's offers in the prequel but that can be left up to interpretation. jimmy's definitely happened though.

𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, reblog, or send in asks!

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Masterlist - Want to Join my Taglist?

Curly is just so damn tired. Tired of the reports, faxes, checking the straps in the cargo bay. One of the few downtimes he gets is when he can sit and watch the constellations pass on the common room monitor. The Augira, Constantine and Mitena were all ones that he recognized from this sect of the system, all penned from the eyes of Saturn and further.

Movies are a scarce commodity on the screen, given Jimmy's track record of not wanting to hook the systems up, but it helps him nod off most times.

Working out, though? Working out he can do. Pony Express has given him permission to bring his weights on board, alongside a slew of magazines and audiobooks to listen to.

While Curly doesn't think of himself as a gym rat, those moments to himself are some of the best. Nothing but the burn of iron, the strain of his muscles with each rep. It's methodical work, one that sets his mind at ease and off of reports for once.

Some days, he can get Jimmy in on the action, but most of the time his co-pilot bemoans it. Each time they worked out, the stretches between the next session grew longer.

He's pleased when you agree to attend a few sessions with him. By then, it's almost amicable between you two, as if him walking in you didn't even happen. He's very much acted the part of a dutiful captain, though, he can't help his own eyes from wandering when he sees you stretch. Can't help himself from putting his hands firmly on you when he goes to correct your stance. It doesn't linger, doesn't wander, but goddamn, does he wish he could throw propriety out the window.

It's after one of his solo workout sessions when he chooses another way to unwind. Really, that's the only explanation for it. One that he tells himself anyway, because the strain of propriety is heavy. If he still thinks of you from time to time, if your face crops up in his thoughts while he touches himself, that's his business.

The only places you'd catch him in the act is either in the bathroom or his room.

Curly has always been imaginative, thoughts trailing to roads not travelled, paths that burn out of sight. Of you, sprawled out on the bed, and how he wished he had stayed. How he'd have given anything to hike your legs over his waist and kiss you senseless when he slid against you.

As it always is, every fantasy comes to an abrupt end. Every night that he had dreamed of walking in to find you waiting, you found him. Wifebeater drenched in sweat, towel draped over his shoulders, every line of his well built body on display, hand fisted around his cock.

There's a difference between wishing you'd walk in on him and actually receiving it.

A painful, terse moment lingers between you two, tension so thick he swears he can cut it. His hand completes the motion, wiping from his base to the tip, each breath deep. Despite how uncomfortable he felt (for more than one reason), he also felt more prepared. "Hold on a minute." He'll cover himself, boxers and uniform hiding himself from view.

If you believe you could flee from the room without Curly following you, you're dead wrong. He'll track you down, put this to bed once and for all. He'll catch you, half-dressed in his uniform, blue workwear draped around his waist, hand against the wall. "We have to talk about this."

Regardless if you stay or leave, not talking about it is no longer an option. You've both seen more of each other than was warranted, then what you both signed up for, but dammit he wants this. And he's so tired of shying away from things that he wants. From the person that he wants. All because of some higher-ups sitting cozy back home saying that it's wrong to do. He can't do it anymore, not when he feels like he's on the cusp of something great for once in his life.

"I know that what happened isn't what either of us expected," he'll start, voice low and perhaps far too sensual to be appropriate considered his half-dressed state. "And frankly, we can keep it to ourselves, pretend we never saw it." Biting the bullet is one of the fewest things he's done in life, but this is something that he wants to do. By fractions, Curly leans in closer, his voice entering a low murmur. "But... it doesn't have to be. We could give each other a.. hand, so to speak."

Routine. That's one thing that the Tulpar is good at. Routine. Each meal time, the rigid necessity of clocking in and out on time, even bathing. Pony Express may be a shit machine but it's well oiled, worked raw by the people under it. Delivering the payload is a smooth easy task because they all work on it together.

Part of that routine is shift work. Jimmy, ever the night-owl, works evening and night shift. This makes it so incredibly easy to avoid him if you wanted, especially since he walked in on you tending to yourself.

But he doesn't let you forget it. Since that moment, there's a smoldering heat in his gaze, eyes hooded as he watches you go about the room. Watched as you did your tasks, always standing too close - enough that you can get a whiff of his woodsy cologne, or feel his arm against yours.

He's almost helpful, even when your tasks really don't necessitate the need for another. His hands linger, hot against your uniform, his hips against the back of yours whenever he steadied you, or reached above you. Each word a rumble in his throat.

Except there's never really any change to talk to him about what happened. Not when every moment is tense, fraught with unresolved desires and need. Not when Daisuke or Curly walk into the room, silencing the burning questions and words that haunt your lips. Jimmy seems especially disgruntled about the interruptions, getting almost snappy towards the other crewmembers.

All in all, you rarely have a moment to speak with him. It's the furthest thing from your mind when you step out of the shower, more than eager to collapse face first into bed and sleep the weariness away.

If you're the sort to bring clothes into the washroom to change into, the absence of them is noted fast. No amount of scrounging around turns them up either. At a loss, it's to your sleeping quarters to wrangle up something else to wear.

Except you're very much not alone the second you step into your door. The door swishes behind you but you're effectively grounded, eyes drawn to the man lounging on your bed.

His head is tilted, messy hair falling across his hooded eyes, a dark and smoldering look to them. A slow stretch of a smirk crawls across his face, a pleased look darting into his eyes.

Jimmy is just as bare as the day he was born, an arm languidly thrown over your pillow. A leg bent up, not at all coy about having himself on display. His other arm is resting against his thigh, one hand smoothing along his flushed cock in a slow, slick motion. His fingerstips are all but slathered in precum - or actual cum, as you might suspiciously think when you look at your clothes haphazardly thrown onto the floor, looking sticky.

"There you are. Took you long enough." He breathes out your name, chin tilted upward, something primal lurking deep in his eyes. Jimmy clicks his tongue, ever the disapproving copilot. "You should know better than to keep someone waiting." Despite the curt, wanting tone to his words, he doesn't move towards you. Letting you go to him. Like he knows you will.

"I've been thinking," each word is low and deep, husky in his mouth. Jimmy's hand very much doesn't stop moving, stroking himself as you're rooted to the spot. Whenever you glance down between his thighs, his smirk deepens. "That you owe me for what I did for you."

It's not like you could dance around the topic forever; each touch, every interrupted conversation, it all would have culminated to this. Jimmy waiting for you, eager to put his hands back on you, to feel you tremble and shudder beneath him as he pulls you apart.

The thing was, you realize, it'd be terribly easy to leave him here. To not respond to his advances. The door was to your back and even Jimmy had enough sense not to walk out nude in pursuit of you. It'd be easy to walk to another crewmate's quarters and pilfer clothes. It'd be laughed off, brushed under the rug just as another incident, excused as you being unable to enter your room because of 'technical difficulties'.

The thing is, though, you can clearly remember how his hands felt, the way he moved. How Jimmy watched you with the same intensity now, his eyes a dark promise of a repeat experience, if not more.

You don't really want to refuse such an offer, do you?

Try as Anya might, she can't get the image of you out of her head. The sounds you made, how your hands moved. She'd tried to be civil, though how quickly she averts her gaze and fidgety hands betray how much it affected her. Nerves, she'd try to excuse it. Nothing ever related to you, of course, because that sounds too much like blame. She blames herself for walking in on you masturbating, and blames herself for wishing that she hadn't left.

But by god, did it make her needy and so sexually frustrated. She's found every excuse under the sun to touch you then jerk back, at war with herself. She has to act professional. Doesn't she?

Something about you, seeing you like that, had coiled something burning inside of her. Something hot, that festered low in her gut.

For the most part, she can act professional. Mostly. But she can only get so far from letting her eyes trace your silhouette, from sitting on her leg whenever you talk to her. It's risky business, even riskier when she decides to keeps a few tokens of yours. Things that smell like you, even distantly - papers, a bracelet. Things that you've lent to her before.

It's been a while since she got laid, since she's even been attracted to anyone. But something about you just sets her on fire, burning with want and need. She needs you like she's never needed anyone before.

Realistically, Anya knows it's because of the forbidden nature; because of the close proximity day in and day out, but there's something so tantalizingly beautiful about it too. She's a sucker for it.

One of her favourite places to get off is in the medbay; she can lock herself in it - but she doesn't. Because it's so much more tantalizing when she thinks about you walking in. When she thinks about pressing you against the desk and using her medical expertise on you. She wants to hear you - taste you - feel you. Is that too much to ask for?

That's exactly where you catch her. Her breath coming out in hot breaths, eyes shut tightly, uniform pulled open. It'd be so easy to mistake it for something else, such as the room being hot - if it weren't for where her hands were.

One has all but ridden up her shirt, rolling the peak of her breast between her fingers. The zipper has gone all the way down to her waist, one hand curled tightly in her underwear, motions jerky as she fingers herself.

Every inch of her wishes that it was you, your fingers working her over, touching her clit and prodding at her walls. She feels so close, having edged herself for a bit until you came in.

It was just to ask her her input on supper, or for a nonsensical question that very well could have waited for another moment.

The door swishes shut behind you and her eyes flutter, dark as she looks up at you, flush all but crawling up her neck.

Seeing how you look at her - how you came to look for her- needing her for something, a question halfway on your lips - and it's her undoing. She moans your name, guttural and hoarse, hips jerking, dripping over her knuckles. "Wait-" Singlehandedly one of the better orgasms she's had, better than when she pined endlessly.

When her senses come back, Anya is breathless and shaken - and you're long gone.

She's not letting you go this time. Not when a new, burning question lodges inside her. Did you like what you see? Did you wish you weren't there?

Anya approaches your door at night, knocking crisply and when you grant entrance, she stands there, the atmosphere almost palpably awkward. She takes a few steps closer, feeling flighty and desperate, eyes searching your face, whispering your name.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she whispers, voice low in the room, nerves biting at her throat. She can't not know anymore. "But I'm... glad that you did."

"Is this.. tension between us all in my head, or, do you want me too?"

It's one thing after the next. Couplings came loose, Daisuke's homework is not up to par, the lightbulbs need to be changed but no one seems capable of doing it. It all amounts to a sort of frustration winding up in him. Swansea has enough grace not to lash out at anyone, but it's there, palpable in his tone.

By some saving grace, you're willing to help him out with his work. Passing over screwdrivers and wrenches, new copper wire as he needs it. Swansea has noticed that you're attentive and eager like that; willing to help. Sometimes, he really wished you were his intern instead of Daisuke, not that he blames the kid.

He really needs a damn beer.

Wanking out his frustrations as a teenager and young adult had really suited him just fine, and with each passing day, it becomes a far more likely possibility.

It surely does not help when every little moment with you feels charged. Knuckles brushing when you supply him with mechanic tools, or when his arm brushed against your thigh as he steadied the ladder for you.

Swansea finds his gaze lingering.. on how your uniform bunches, the sway of your walk, the excited chatter to your tone when you've launched into some spiel or other. Each look he gives you is in quiet contemplation, though perhaps not as obvious as to why.

He's long since brushed off your curious questions.

It's when Anya outright slipped and fell over an oil spill that Swansea called it quits. There's only so many small annoyances that he could take before it became a hazardous snowstorm.

After it's suitably cleaned, he tried to find a place to tuck himself away. Keyword: tried. Something else always needed to be fixed, and he had enough years under his belt to know the ins and out of everything. Leaky faucet? Hold his glass. Vaccuum given up? He's got it. Curly, goddammit, he has it.

It's so grueling to find a moment of peace, so he takes what he can. That just so happened to be in the utility room, frustrations to a boiling point.

He knows his body, knows just the right way to stroke himself, the perfect amount of pressure. Learned it long since his youthful days, since his amicable divorce from his wife. Sure, it might feel mechanic at a certain point, but to him, it was a small reprieve. A getaway that only booze came close to.

Foreskin pulled back, his head is tucked low, eyes heavily lidded, fingertips pressing under the tip of the head just like he likes.

Swansea has himself sticky with precum when the utility door rattles and open. "Swansea, I found your keys-"

His eyes track up, eyebrows raised. Whatever hasty attempt you may have made, it's blocked by the aging mechanics of the utility door. It's from an older rig, one that still uses keys instead of the security bars that the medbay and cockpit use. Which means it's faulty as shit.

He sighs, head tipped back, eyes still on you. "That's on me for not leaving a sock out there," he grumbles, voice gruff and husky. A reference to how he told you to ward off people when he caught you masturbating earlier.

Moving his hand from his cock, his gaze is surprisingly steady, arm draped against the back of the chair. "Listen, kid, I won't say shit about this if you don't. Keep it jammed tight better than a olive jar when making margaritas. But." He rolls his neck, feeling a satisfying crack run through him. "I can show ya a few things that the ole cap' or other men won't, if yer interested."

Daisuke has been, for lack of a better word, edgy around you. Hovering, then trying to create distance. He can't seem to decide how to act around you. Not when he's seen you that way, pleasuring yourself. When he wishes you'd involve him.

He's seen plenty of naked people before, got hard over them, but wow, did you take it to the next level. Even how you tilt your head or roll up your sleeves has him in an outright tizzy, straining hard in his pants.

Daisuke often has to excuse himself from your presence. Ignoring Swansea's rolling eyes and knowing scoffs is easy; ignoring you is harder.

It's during one of those mundane tasks, where you're prattling about your work to the others, his eyes glued to your form, absorbing every word that he can't take it anymore. Excusing himself, he pops right out of the room, awkwardly striking towards his bunk.

But of course that is the exact moment you decide you need to return his gameboy - or comic, or whatever he had lent you a few weeks prior.

Daisuke is completely in the groove, pants folded down, back propped to the wall, knees folded and lips parted with each heavy breath. He's always been loud, noisy and boisterous. But his saving (and falling) grace is that he's also often playing movies in his room, and what muffled sounds you may hear from the other side of the door is easily chalked up to that. (Or perhaps, you knew.)

You catch him like that, hand fisted around his lean cock, shirt ridden up over his stomach, his movements sharp and jerky. It's bad enough that you walk in on him like this - but another to hear Daisuke rattle out your name, the sound breathy and full of want coming from his lips.

He's a poor, flushed mess, eyes wide when he looks up at you - and it's so plainly obvious to the both of you that he didn't call out because he heard you come in.

"I- I can totally explain." Except he really can't, can he, when he has his dick in his hand, just moaning your name literally seconds ago.

Any attempt to backtrack out of the room will be greeted with a hasty, "Oh my god, no, pleasewait!" As he all but tries to leap from his bed, tripping over his pants in his haste to get to you. Daisuke is nothing but determined and will try to talk to you about this, even if you manage to successfully flee.

Choosing to stay has him utterly red-faced, almost ashamed as he rambles through a tirade of, "Okay, so," punctuated by repeated, stumbled phrases before he manages to get out, "So, me calling out your name just now - total accident. Unlessyoudon'twantittobe? But, like, I definitely understand if you want to leave but I'dreallyratheryoustaybecause I really can't stop thinking about you and, - oh hey, is that my gameboy? You can just set it-- that's not important! I just. Really don't want you to leave. Please."

[tinyshyteacup]

• Words of Command •

Tw: Cussing, angst, mentions of blood and grime.

Words of Command - Part 1

The lobby of Stark Tower gleamed with too much glass and not enough warmth for your taste. Sunlight pooled through the towering windows, hitting the polished marble floors and refracting off the chrome detailing of the modern decor.

You sat behind the main reception desk, perched on a tall stool with your legs swinging slightly.

The desk itself was a sleek black curve, embedded with holographic displays and a touchpad that still didn’t always respond when you tapped it with freshly moisturized fingers.

A nameplate identified you only by your first name, the letters tastefully etched in a clean serif font.

At the moment, you were staring at the printer behind you like it had personally offended you. It made a soft whirring noise—then stopped.

A flicker of smoke puffed up from the feeder tray. You yelped.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., I swear, I didn’t even touch it this time!”

"Miss, respectfully, you did attempt to print a double-sided image from an incompatible file format.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “You’re not even here physically. How would you know?”

“I am connected to over 2,000 sensors in this room. Shall I list the ones currently monitoring your error?”

“Rude,” you muttered, grabbing the paper that had jammed mid-print.

You shook it like it was a bad dog chewing your shoes. “This is sabotage. You're trying to make me look bad in front of Mr Stark.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Stark has been made aware of your printer challenges. He found it... 'endearing.’”

Your cheeks flushed.

The sarcasm was biting, but the thought that Tony Stark had discussed you at all—even mockingly—made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t proud of.

The lobby doors hissed open with that smooth mechanical slide, and you looked up automatically.

When Captain Rogers walked into a room, it was like watching someone pull the '40s into the present. He was tall, and looked slightly rumpled in civilian clothes—a dark blue hoodie stretched over broad shoulders and a plain T-shirt underneath.

He wore jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice gentle but somehow carrying in the echoey lobby. “You’re the receptionist, right, the wizz with phones ?”

You nodded quickly and smiled. “Y-Yes, Captain Rogers. Morning.”

He returned the smile, slower, steadier, as if trying to ease your nervous energy. “Please, call me Steve.”

Right. Like that would help.

You stood, still barely reaching his chest, and smoothed down the front of your cardigan. “What can I help you with?”

He stepped up to the desk, pulled something from the pocket of his jeans, and placed it on the counter. A Stark-Phone. One of the newer ones Stark had issued.

You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting.

“I, uh…” Steve scratched the back of his neck, clearly sheepish. “I pressed something and now it’s speaking Korean. I think.”

You gently picked up the phone and pressed the home button. “Oh. You activated the language cycle shortcut. Happens if you triple tap the lock screen.”

You tapped through the settings with practiced ease. “There. Back to English.”

Steve watched you like you were performing magic. “I don’t know how any of you keep up with this tech.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze with more courage this time. “Honestly? I mostly argue with the printer. J.A.R.V.I.S. does everything else.”

Steve chuckled, a warm, earnest sound that made your heart thump faster. “Well, you seem to be holding your own.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “I like your necklace, by the way. It suits you.”

You looked down, brushing a finger across the tiny pendant resting at your collarbone. “Oh. Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

He nodded like that meant something to him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you’re done. Then adds, almost sheepishly, “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to throw a shield at them.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re... not that scary.”

His grin is warm, boyish. You find yourself smiling back, unexpectedly grounded.

The elevator dings, and in breezes Tony Stark like a whirlwind in thousand-dollar shoes.

He’s on a call, two steps ahead of his own thoughts, sunglasses on indoors because of course they are.

"Yeah, just tell Fury he can bite me. In Morse code. Bye."

Phone snapped off, sunglasses up, and he zeroes in on you. “Sweetheart. You jammed the printer again.”

“I did not jam the printer,” you say quickly. “Jarvis is just being dramatic.”

“Jarvis is always dramatic, but in this case? He’s right.”

Tony leans on the desk, eyes squinting slightly. “Do you intentionally make the tech hate you? Is this like your rebellion arc Thumbelina? First it's the printer, then you’re reprogramming him to swear in Gaelic.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you murmur, looking down. Then pause. “Wait... JARVIS can swear?”

Tony smirks. “Atta girl. Knew there was a fire in there somewhere.”

He straightens up, hands in pockets, a half-laugh escaping him as he walks toward the elevator. “Keep her, Rogers!” he shouts over his shoulder. “She’s the only one who’s not afraid to talk back to Jarvis.”

You blink.

Captain Rogers is still standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with something between amusement and... curiosity.

Maybe even admiration.

The city never sleeps, but it sighs in the early hours of morning—hushed traffic, glimmering reflections on wet pavement, a lull between the pulse of nightlife and the rise of commuters.

Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows that cling to him like a second skin.

He moves like he’s not sure he’s real.

Each footfall is heavy but hesitant, like the ground might reject him. His hair is a tangled mess, matted and unwashed, sticking to his face and jaw.

The stubble on his cheeks is rough, uneven, and clings to him like dirt. His clothes are soaked in sweat, grime, and old blood—some of it his, some of it not.

His left arm is bare and gleaming beneath a tattered coat sleeve, metal fingers twitching involuntarily, as though searching for a rifle that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember where he’s been.

Only fragments, screams, commands in harsh syllables, red flashing lights. A corridor. Restraints. Cold.

Oh God that biting cold.

He walks past windows and glass doors, catching glimpses of himself in reflections—a shadow, a haunted smear of what used to be a man.

He doesn’t know his name.

Not truly.

Not right now.

But somewhere, deep under the static in his brain, there’s something.

Maybe he had a name.

And then he looks up.

It rises above him like a monument, gleaming even in the grey blue of pre-dawn. STARK in large, defiant letters. The light at the top pulses. He stops walking, just… stands there.

His breath fogs the cold air, erratic.

His chest heaves, ribs visible through the threadbare shirt beneath the jacket. His boots are worn to the sole.

Everything about him screams survival, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—recognition.

Stark.

Mission report.

Howard.

December.

Blood.

Sixteen.

Comply.

1991.

Zimniy Soldat.

Soldat.

The words slam into him like gunfire, and he stumbles forward, metal hand clenching hard enough to groan under its own pressure.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He only knows the building is important.

And maybe... maybe someone inside can make the noise stop.

The automatic doors whisper open, parting slowly to let him step into the warmth of Stark Tower’s front lobby. Inside, the polished floors shine, reflecting the subtle glow of the early-morning lighting.

The scent of fresh polish, faint coffee, and recycled air fills the space. It’s clean. Too clean. Sterile like a medical wing, like some place where experiments happened.

He hesitates in the doorway.

The light overhead flickers slightly, casting a quick stutter of shadow across his face—an echo of something dark beneath the skin.

You stand behind the front desk, holding your phone in one hand, uncertain. His body is massive in the entrance, his shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for a threat. That left arm, slick and inhuman, gleams under the overhead light, fingers twitching like they have a mind of their own.

He takes two steps forward.

You don’t move, but your fingers close slowly around the base of your mug—some deep instinct reaching for something solid, something real.

"Hi… I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here," you say softly, trying not to let the nervous quiver in your voice show.

He tilts his head.

Not sharply. Not mechanically. Like a man trying to understand.

His lips part. You can tell it’s painful. His throat works around something—speech, maybe, or just the ghost of it. His voice comes like gravel, dry and shredded.

“Pomohgeet-yeh…"  Help.

Your brows knit. You don’t understand the words. But the way he says them makes your chest hurt.

He tries again.

“Gde… eta?"  Where… is this?

The effort it takes him to speak is visible.

He trembles.

Not with fear, but exhaustion. His whole body is strung tight like a stretched wire, ready to snap. One wrong move and he could bolt. Or lash out. Or break down.

You hold both hands up in that gentle, universal please-don’t-run gesture. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying. But I want to help. I can call someone. Or—I can get Mr. Stark if you want, or—”

At the name, something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Stark.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, he shifts—too fast. That metal arm raises slightly, just a fraction. You freeze. Not because you think he’s going to hurt you—but because for a moment, he doesn’t look like a man anymore.

He looks like a ghost wrapped in combat training, forged in violence.

His eyes dart around the lobby—scanning exits, angles, security cameras.

His stance changes subtly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, as though he’s ready to take someone down.

And you—you’re just standing there.

He opens his mouth again, lips cracked and barely moving.

“Ne khochu… drat’sya." I don’t want… to fight.

You still don’t understand the words.

But you understand the tone.

Soft. Strained. Pleading.

“uh-huh,” you whisper.

You take a slow step around the desk. Not too close. But enough that he can see your hands, see your face.

You keep your voice low. “You look like you need help. Food? Water?”

He doesn’t answer. But his eyes track your hand as you slowly lift your bottle and offer it to him.

He reaches for it with his metal hand—but stops. There’s shame in the hesitation.

Holy Shit, is that metal ?

The faintest flicker of emotion across his dirt-streaked face. He switches to his right hand and takes it.

He drinks.

Not quickly. Like every swallow might be a mistake. Like he doesn’t trust it not to hurt.

As he drinks, you take him in quietly.

He looks... wrong in this space. The marble floor, the sleek design, the soft hum of Jarvis’ systems in the walls—it makes him look like something out of time. Like a soldier in a museum.

And then it hits you.

There’s something familiar about him. Not just the metal arm. Not just the way he looked at the building. But something in the jawline. The eyes.

You move slowly back to your desk, heart thudding as you open a file of security images.

"Who are you?" you whisper to yourself.

He doesn't answer.

He just watches you.

You move quietly to the comm panel, still keeping one eye on the man sitting stiffly in the chair near the lobby’s edge.

Tony had given you a comms piece to use in emergencies, is this a emergency ?

Stranger, built like a fridge, with a metal arm ?

Definitely.

The stranger in question hasn’t spoken since you gave him the bottle of water. His fingers—bare and bruised on one hand, cold steel on the other—grip it like it might disappear. He hasn’t drunk again. Just stares at the wall like he's trying to make sense of what a wall is.

Your voice is hushed as you speak into the receiver.

“Captain Rogers? I—I’m sorry to bother you. But there’s someone in the lobby. A man. I don’t know who he is, but I think… I think you should come down ... please.”

You don’t say that he’s filthy, trembling, starved.

You don’t say you’re afraid of how quiet he is.

You don’t say that even Jarvis, hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.

As though the building itself is holding its breath.

You hear him before you see him—the heavy, purposeful footfalls of combat boots against tile. The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and Captain Steve Rogers steps into the lobby like a storm arriving with restraint.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You watch the expression on his face collapse.

From soldier to friend.

From Avenger to broken-hearted brother.

“...Bucky?” he breathes.

The name falls into the room like a thunderclap.

But the man in the chair doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might spook him.

The man’s eyes track Steve—but only briefly. Recognition doesn’t register.

No emotion flickers. Just calculation.

The Winter Soldier, watches Steve Rogers like he’s a possible threat. Like a target.

You step back instinctively, not out of fear, but because the air has changed. Thickened.

Like the moment before a fight. Or before someone remembers something too painful to hold.

Steve is trying. You can see it.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. 40s. We grew up together.” His voice cracks.

But there’s nothing behind those eyes. Not the kind of nothing that comes from confusion.

The kind that’s been scraped clean.

Programmed.

Buried.

The man’s body tenses. A tic in the jaw. A breath held too long.

His fingers flex on the water bottle, crack—plastic gives under his grip.

Then, that guttural voice “Ne znayu tebya." I don’t know you.

Steve flinches. Not physically. Not visibly.

But you feel the break.

He kneels in front of him, ignoring the metal arm, the set jaw, the violence in his posture. His voice lowers to a whisper, so raw and aching it doesn't feel meant for anyone else to hear.

“I thought I lost you. I never stopped looking.”

The soldier’s gaze doesn’t soften.

His eyes scan Steve like he’s a file to be decrypted. A puzzle, not a person.

He shifts in the chair.

Not toward Steve—but away. Just a few inches. Enough to feel like a rejection.

The lobby is quiet again. Bucky? Or The soldier?—or the shell of him—sits in the corner like a statue draped in rags. His posture stiff, eyes half-lidded but never soft.

Like a soldier awaiting deployment, tension simmering beneath his skin.

Steve touches your arm gently and gestures toward the hallway off the reception desk. His voice is low, heavy with something that feels like grief soaked in guilt.

“That’s Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes. We grew up together. He enlisted before me.”

You blink up at him, trying to marry the image of the blank, cold-eyed man in the lobby with the idea of someone’s best friend.

Steve swallows hard. “But… that’s not who he is now. Hydra got to him. They—”

He stops. The words taste wrong in his mouth.

“They erased him. Broke him down and rebuilt him into something else. A ghost with a gun. They called him ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“They didn’t use his name. They called him Soldat." Steve whispers, making sure only you hear.

You murmur the word aloud without thinking, testing it, you feel disgust claw at your spine at the idea of someone being stripped so bare.

“Soldat…?”

The sound barely leaves your lips. Just a sound.

But across the lobby—the man moves.

Fast.

Sudden.

Mechanical.

The chair clatters backwards as he rises in one sharp, fluid motion. Spine straight, feet planted.

His metal arm clenches, whirring softly. His eyes, once clouded with the fog of confusion, snap into unnatural focus.

Like a trigger has been pulled.

His gaze lands on you.

Not Steve.

You.

Then, in that same guttural, rasping Russian:

“Gotov k vypolneniyu." Ready to comply.

Your heart lurches. You don’t know what he said—but the tone tells you enough.

Cold.

Obedient.

Trained.

Steve steps forward sharply, hand raised. “Bucky—no! She’s not—”

But Bucky isn’t listening. His head turns ever so slightly toward you, chin dipped in rigid respect, but eyes locked like a weapon sighting a command post.

Then, another word in Russian.

“Rukovoditel’" Handler.

Shit. SHIT

You freeze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as you stare at the man before you.

He’s taller than you by what feels like a foot, broad-shouldered and imposing, hair tangled, blood on his temple not yet dried. But it’s not his appearance that terrifies you.

It’s how still he is now. How controlled. How conditioned.

Like someone flipped a switch inside him.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder suddenly, protective, grounding.

“He thinks you’re his handler,” Steve says softly. His voice is tight, like he’s struggling to remain calm. “Hydra trained him to respond to words 'Soldat' must have triggered it.”

You glance at the Soldier—and feel a cold chill crawl down your spine.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

As if he’s expecting you to give him an order.

You whisper, almost afraid of your own voice, “What do I do?”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give him commands. Don’t say anything that sounds like one. We’ll get Bruce or Tony down here, maybe they can—”

The sound of polished leather shoes and the hiss of elevator doors heralds Tony Stark’s arrival.

He strides into the lobby like he owns every inch of it—which, of course, he does. A tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses he doesn’t need indoors, and a cup of coffee he’s already bored with. His tone, dry as ever.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man himself.”

Tony stops a few paces from the soldier, surveying him like a potential weapon. Or worse, a ticking bomb.

“You gonna sing ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ or…?”

No response.

The Soldier—still as a statue—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands in that unnatural way. Tense. Straight-backed. Alert. His metal hand twitches faintly at his side, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it.

And you definitely are now.

You stand just behind Steve, hands clasped nervously in front of you like you’re trying to shrink into the floor. But you feel the weight of his stare. Not Tony’s. Not Steve’s.

His.

The Soldier.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, are pinned on you.

Tony raises an eyebrow and leans toward Steve. “So this is the guy you were willing to punch me in the face over?” He eyes the torn tactical gear and matted hair. “Charming.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is firm but quiet. “He’s not well. Hydra programmed him. We think he… believes she's his handler”

Tony turns toward you, glancing you up and down, not rudely, just… curious. “She gets winded carrying a bag of flour.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then The Soldier moves.

Not toward Tony.

Not toward Steve.

Just… a slight shift. He angles his body protectively between you and Stark.

And then he speaks. Russian again.

“Rukovoditel"

His voice is hoarse, barely a growl.

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. That means ‘fearless leader’?”

Steve sighs. “It means ‘handler.’ I told you Tony, he thinks she’s his handler.”

Tony takes off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. We’ve got a murder machine who’s latched onto Thumbelina.”

He turns back to The Soldier, then tries his best Stark-brand sarcasm. “Hey, RoboCop. You like shawarma? Puppies? The Bee Gees?”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

His gaze stays locked on you. Like Stark isn’t even in the room.

“Gotov k vypolneniyu" Ready to comply.

Tony paces a bit, muttering to himself.

“Okay, okay… Steve brings in a half-feral Hydra brain bomb who only listens to the human equivalent of a cupcake, and I’m just supposed to—what—build him a bunkbed?”

Steve steps between them, voice low and serious. “He’s not dangerous to her. You saw that.”

“Oh yeah, I saw it,” Tony shoots back. “Saw him zero in on her like a guided missile with a crush. Only she’s not trained. She doesn’t even speak Russian. What happens if she says the wrong thing?”

You flinch a little at that, the weight of it finally settling in your chest.

Tony softens for a half-second. Just a breath. His eyes flick to you. “No offense. I’m sure you’re a lovely hostage.”

Then, toward The Soldier again. “You got anything else in that scrambled brain of yours? English? Stark tech? The weather?”

The Soldier’s only movement is the subtle tightening of his jaw. The slight widening of his stance—defensive. Watching Tony too closely now. Like he’s assessing threat levels.

But then… his eyes return to you.

You whisper, half to yourself, “He’s waiting.”

Tony raises a brow. “For what?”

You shrug helplessly. “An order. I think.”

The lobby feels heavier. Like a suspended moment, stretched too tight.

Tony watches the two of you, something calculative slipping into his expression.

“This is a problem,” he murmurs. “Because if she’s his focus, and we can’t get through to him otherwise—he’s not just broken. He’s tethered.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Then we don’t break the tether. We use it. Let her anchor him.”

Tony scoffs. “Oh, sure. Let’s just traumatize a receptionist, make her the sole translator for Hydra’s favorite murder puppet. What could go wrong?”

But even he can’t ignore the truth, the Winter Soldier isn’t reacting to threats, or commands, or charm.

Only you.

Fuck.

[sumantra12]

Everything You Need to Know About Kiosk Touch Screens

Sumantra Computer Trading LLC provides a comprehensive overview of kiosk touch screens, benefits, and their various applications across different industries. It highlights the advantages of using kiosk touch screens, such as enhancing customer experience, reducing wait times, and improving business efficiency.

[yzashaven]

CONTENT WARNING .ᐟ streamer!kinich ⋆ cockwarming ⋆ slight exhibitionism ⋆ mention of "good girl" + fem!reader

WORD COUNT ᯓ 0.36k

NOTE ᝰ kinich playing genshin cuz why not + we can both suffer in domains together

MASTERPOST

"damn, bad artifact... as usual." kinich sighs as he sees yet another def% main stat artifact go into his inventory. his twitch stream chat spamming emojis as that was the 4th bad goblet in a row. he prepares to start the domain again, resting his chin on your shoulder. you were on his lap facing him, his hoodie on you was a perfect look.

especially the warmth of your pussy that enveloped his cock.

his fans knew of you, his girlfriend, who would sometimes join him on stream randomly—so they didn't really question why you were on his lap while he streamed. you also played together every now and then.

he knew risky actions like this would have consequences. but he was more than ready to face them. besides, why would he pass up the opportunity to feel you? he loves when something intimate happens between the two of you, it just makes him feel satisfied and happy. being close to you was a stress reliever of sorts for him.

consider yourself lucky that his microphone doesn't pick up any of your quiet whimpers. especially when he's discreetly stimulating your clit with his fingertips while waiting for the loading screen to finish. maybe even while talking to his chat. gosh, he just can't keep his hands to himself, can he? kinich just loves you to death, he doesn't want to leave you alone.

"i feel like i should level this sands. i'm gonna do it." his right hand using the mouse to level the said artifact he got, while the other slipped underneath the thick fabric of the hoodie you wore. that touch of his; electrifying, warm, perfect. it makes your heart race.

his eyes wander to his live chat that was displayed on a second monitor; no one's noticing anything off. safe.

he'll continue by carefully placing a soft kiss directly at your neck, sending a shiver throughout your entire body. kinich is also used to talking you through it; doesn't even have to be in the sexual manner.

"you're doing so well keeping quiet... such a good girl for me, aren't you?"