#Paper Rewinder Machine

[krishnaengineering25]

A Heavy-Duty slitter rewinder machine is an integral part of converting wide rolls into smaller widths of material with high accuracy. The heavy-duty type is meant to deal with tougher materials, processing those smoothly while maintaining the best quality.

the Heavy-Duty Slitter Rewinder Cylinder Machine cuts and rewinds materials such as paper, plastic films, laminates, and foils with unmatched precision. Krishna Engineering Works the reputed name worldwide as a manufacturer and exporter of industrial machinery-supplies the best Slitter Rewinder Machines with excellent durability, precision, and ease of operation.

[selfadhesivepaperindustry]

Label stock Kraft Paper Lamination Film Jumbo Roll Release Paper slitter

This model jumbo roll slitter rewinder machine mainly use for converting pressure sensitive material, such as self adhesive paper, sublimation paper, BOPP, OPP, PVC film. Differential friction rewinding shaft for better control tension.

sonia wei E-mail: sonia@makwell-mech.com whatsapp: 008613306265137

[your-shirley-xie-blog]

Jumbo Paper Rewinder Machine For Paper Making

Email: leizhanchina@gmail.com WhatsAPP: +86 18539133178 https://www.leizhanchina.com/corrugated-paper-making-line/jumbo-paper-rewinder-machine-for-paper-making/

[therapyplacebo]

𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚂𝚘 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝, 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝙼𝚎

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62475340

CROSSPOSTED ON AO3

Pairing: Zayne x f reader SMUT

Word count: 6,485

Content warning : Smut, shower sex (fingering), unprotected sex, it's your bday but Zayne missed it, apologetic Zayne, slightest bit of angst in the form of self-hatred and doubt

Zayne lets out a defeated sigh as he shoves his hand in the depth of the left pocket of his jacket to retrieve his keys. His shoulders are sunken with exhaustion, and the stabbing pain in his lower back radiates up to the nape of his neck the way it does after an excruciatingly long surgery.

Guilt gnaws at his mind—redundant thoughts swirling in a dangerous pattern he recognizes too well but is too tired to put an end to. The keys in his hand jangle as he pulls them out, staring at the small seal keychain you won for him at the claw machine. It matches the larger plushie he won for you that you keep on a shelf in your office. 

He already knows he missed the party, but somehow, the dimmed lights and empty apartment shatter something inside of him as he shrugs off his coat. There are balloons hanging down from your kitchen cabinets, confetti littering the floor and sticking to his socks. 

As he makes his way to the kitchen, Zayne has to duck under a beautiful handmade banner hanging from the ceiling with your age written on it along with birthday wishes scribbled on it. Wrapping papers stick out of your trash can—hastily shoved inside. There are several glasses of wine lined near your sink where the dirty dishes are neatly piled.

Zayne makes a mental note to put them in the dishwasher tomorrow morning. 

Silence hangs in the air, echoes of another birthday missed haunting him like an earworm he’s forgotten the lyrics of. Just as he’s about to turn on the living room light, he spots you, hunched over the kitchen table, cheek resting on your arms with a ridiculously small cardboard hat on your head. If the sight of it hadn’t instantly made him nauseous with resentment for no one but himself, he would have laughed. 

He drops the gift bag to the ground, walking around the misplaced chairs as he makes his way to you. The floor creaks, and you stir awake, meeting his eyes with a confused expression that melts away into the softer one of relief. With a tired smile, you stretch your arms above your head, letting out a groan. 

“Hey, when did you get here?” You ask him with a yawn, squinting at the lack of light as you take in the sight of him—wearing his best dress shirt and some formal black trousers. “Did you change at work?” Your eyebrow raises itself as you fail to suppress your grin. 

Zayne scoffs at your seemingly unbothered attitude, taking a seat right next to you. “I did. I packed it this morning thinking I would make it in time to…” He trails off, not knowing what to say as he cradles the side of your face and rubs your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. You nuzzle his wrist, pressing a soft kiss to the exposed skin there. “I’m sorry,” Zayne dejects, his eyes searching yours in hopes they convey the depth of his regret and how much he wishes he could rewind time. 

You click your tongue softly, shaking your head obstinately. “Zayne. It’s fine. I understand work will always be work,” you chuckle in an almost bitter way, grabbing his hand that rests on his leg to squeeze it comfortingly. 

“I really was on my way here when I texted you. There was an emergency, and I had to scrub in,” Zayne insists, looking at the two slices of cake still untouched in their cardboard plates—the candles on one of them have been reduced to a melted mess.  

It reminds him with daunting resemblance of the lonely sight of his own birthdays. 

You lean on the table, resting your chin inside your hand as you glance at the mess around the room. “Tara got really drunk and decided to kiss Greyson, believe it or not,” you laugh, reminiscing about the scene. “I should’ve taken a picture. The face he made was worth a hundred bucks.” 

Zayne forces himself to chuckle with you, but it does not fool you. With a soft sigh, you grab his hand harder this time. “You know what? Technically, you didn’t miss my birthday at all,” you say, glancing at your watch with a knowing smile, trying your best to cheer the dejected man in front of you. “My birthday officially started four hours ago.” 

Zayne scoffs softly—a true chuckle this time. “Nice try.” You roll your eyes playfully, pushing towards him the slice of cake you reserved. You know he’s always famished whenever he comes out of surgery and the adrenaline wears off. 

Relief floods you when he begrudgingly accepts the bribe and picks at the almond-flavoured cake before shoving a forkful in his mouth. “You like it? I had it made with extra frosting for you.” 

The grin on your face warms his heart instantly, but the sugary taste sours in his mouth as your mask slips a little and he notices with surgical accuracy the sadness in your gaze. “It’s good. Is it from that bakery near the hospital?”

You nod enthusiastically, picking at his slice with your fork—your own cake ruined by colourful wax. Your lipstick is smudged on your cheek, but Zayne makes no mention of it. 

“Did you make a wish?” He finally asks, gesturing to the candles. You fold your index in front of your mouth, mumbling something with your mouth full as you swallow your bite. 

His furrowed eyebrows are enough for you to repeat yourself. “I didn’t. I was waiting for you.” Zayne stands up without another word, walking the short distance to your kitchen where he knows you keep the lighter—third drawer to the left. There’s an already lit candle from your previous birthday last year. The number is one year too little, but he grabs it regardless. 

“This is all I could find,” he states, sitting back on the edge of the chair, his knees touching yours. “I should’ve brought some.” 

You make a noise of disagreement, taking a quick bite of the frosting on the side before grabbing the lighter from his hands. “Nonsense. This is perfectly fine. It’s like I’m aging backwards; this is great,” you ramble as you light the candle with shaking fingers after placing it on top of your untouched slice.

An uncomfortable quietness falls, and the two of you sit, watching the mesmerizing way the flame dances in the darkness of the room. You glance at Zayne, admiring the warm highlights that the fire casts on his face and the seemingly serene expression he bears. 

Much to your surprise, Zayne starts to hum Happy Birthday under his breath. You laugh out loud, unbridled glee shining in your gaze, which makes him blush up to the top of his ears. The intimacy of your kitchen hits you all at once. Zayne’s soft, raspy voice echoes off the walls, his coat hung by the door and his shoes lined up with yours by the entryway. 

You already know what wish to make before he even finishes slightly off-key but so endearing singing. 

“Do you also want to make a wish?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Zayne frowns, staring at you dubiously. “I don’t mind sharing.” It doesn’t seem to be enough to convince him.

He shakes his head, glancing down at the flickering flame before his green eyes meet yours once more—fleeting heartache tinting them one shade darker. “Hurry before the flame goes out.” 

Glancing at him sideways, you softly blow out the candles—making the same wish as last year and the one before that. The scent of burnt wax tickles your nostrils and almost makes you sneeze. Zayne's soft breathing reaches your ears. Linkon is asleep at this hour; the streetlights illuminate deserted streets, and only the occasional car breaks the silence with the dulled hum of their engine as they drive down your street. “What did you wish for?”

You smirk, turning your head towards him with a tired expression. “I am not falling for it this time. I want it to come true this year.” Zayne smiles softly, recalling last year when you had been tricked by Tara into admitting your birthday wish—your lips loosened by alcohol. 

“Alright then. May I get a clue, then?” Part of him wishes for you to be angrier at him, for you to not fall so easily for meagre apologies and soft looks. It makes overlooking his neglect a bit too easy for his liking. You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes glinting with mischief and affection—his heart stutters in his chest. 

Your soft sigh graces the heated skin of his cheek as you press a chaste kiss against it. His eyes flutter close, his breathing stilling as if scared that a single movement could render him undeserving of such tenderness. The hand resting on his knee instinctively reaches out to your bare leg, his thumb rubbing circles against the skin of your inner thigh.

“Is that a new dress?” His raspy tone falls flat, though his eyes convey what his voice cannot carry. You nod, your cheeks flushing the shade of a ripe pomegranate as you play with the light green fabric of the garment that you bought specifically for the occasion. “You look beautiful,” Zayne then adds, letting his eyes run over the rosy glow on your lips, the way your hair is pinned back to the sides, and the delicate bracelet he bought you that dangles from your left wrist. The briefest wave of possessiveness carries his next movements as he grabs your chin and slots his lips against yours, swiping his tongue on your bottom lip as he kisses you hungrily. 

It sends your heartbeat in a frenzy—a stark comparison with the slow and torturous crescendo that Zayne is setting up. The gentle tug of his fingers as they pull your hair loose from the pins, the unhurried glide of his hands down your arms, the steady yet shuddering breathing that fills the gap between your lips as he rests his forehead against yours—it’s all so overwhelmingly sickening, the way with which he unravels you thread by thread.

Darkened eyes meet yours, and the first genuine smile appears on his lips as he wipes the smudged lipstick mark from your cheek. “Happy birthday,” Zayne huffs, gliding the pad of his thumb against your swollen lip. Your grin spreads to your eyes—the skin at their corners wrinkling as you chuckle softly. 

A small, light blue gift bag catches your attention by his feet. You raise an eyebrow and watch the way his cheeks change colour. “Zayne,” you drag his name out. “I told you I didn't need anything.” He picks up the bag and sets it on your lap—the tissue paper sticking out has little snowflakes embossed on it, and the sight of it warms your chest.

You pull out a photo album; the cover is decorated with stickers, and a picture you thought lost to time. The corners have been flattened back into place after being folded for years, and the colours have faded considerably. 

A disbelieving chuckle slips out. “What—where did you get this?” Zayne smiles softly. 

“My parents cleaned their attic recently and mailed it back to me.” You glide your index on the protective layer on the album, marvelling at the photobooth strip that dates back from well over a decade ago. Zayne looks out of place; his pose is awkwardly static, and his expression is pinched in contrast to your carefree one. “There’s more inside.”

You cast him a glance, opening the front page with a shaky hand from the anticipation. One by one, you flip through the pages with pure shock written all over your face. 

Pictures of the two of you, coffee date receipts, movie tickets, and other memorabilia that Zayne kept. His terrible handwriting accompanies each memory, a brief description scribbled along each one. There’s a picture of your grandmother standing with Zayne’s parents at his eleventh birthday—Zayne stands by your side, matching to the best of his ability your crooked grin. Tears blur your vision, but you wipe them away unceremoniously with the back of your hand, not wanting to miss a single detail. 

He clears his throat, not too sure what to say. “I left some pages empty, so you can add the new ones we take at the photobooth.” You hurriedly flip to the last pages, fingers hovering over the empty spots in the shape of photo strips. 

“You made this? When did you even get the time?” you say incredulously, a chuckle coming out to join your words. You know Zayne’s schedule; he is either working or spending time with you. How he managed to pour this amount of effort into a gift is beyond comprehension. You tighten your grip on the album, pressing it against your chest. 

Zayne rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve been working on it for a while,” is all he says. “I take it you like it?” he asks you, having the nerve to sound uncertain. You instantly frown at him.

“Do I like it? Zayne, this is….” Words escape you, your brain scrambling to find a word that adequately conveys the meaning this gift holds.

Since the explosion, every single memory of the past was taken away from you—picture books, old sentimental letters, drawings. Nothing remained, and it left a gap that you struggled to reconcile with. You never finish the sentence, but Zayne does not need you to. His hand grips yours with a reassuring strength, and you pull him in for a hug, tucking your face in the collar of his shirt. 

He smells of the soap he uses at the hospital—it’s slightly citrusy with a lingering sterile and chemical scent.

“Did you shower?” You ask him, leaning back in the chair as you straighten the fabric of your dress where his hands had bunched it up. Zayne nods curtly, his eyes still on you when your shoulders sag in disappointment. He shakes his head in amusement, standing up before offering you a hand.

“C’mon, let’s get you in the shower.” Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, but you follow him to the confines of your bathroom regardless. The space should feel much more crowded with him standing right behind you, but it only soothes the nerves frayed by waiting for him all night.

If you close your eyes long enough, you can picture the sympathetic looks from your friends—the intensity of them growing with each passing hour. You’re used to it—Zayne’s schedule is always hectic, and the long hours mean that the time spent together is as sparse as it is precious. Whenever he is on the night shift, it can be weeks before the two of you can finally spend a night together. The reunions are always bittersweet, honeyed professions and apologies hushed against bare skin whenever Zayne finally gets his hands on you. 

You can tell the distance and time spent apart wounds him, his impatience and neediness always coming through with the way he calls out your name in the early hours of the morning.

Which is why there is lingering culpability whenever a bud of resentment inevitably sprouts inside you—whenever he misses an important event because of an emergency. The rational side of you knows that there is no malicious intent in the way he consistently misses a date, a birthday, or a ceremony. However, insecurity’s roots run deep, and their grip persists stubbornly for weeks following. 

“Are you alright?” Zayne’s voice almost startles you as you turn to him. He’s holding two clean towels against his hip. The worry etched on his face mirrors your own. You nod, swallowing the lump that peskily lingers in the back of your throat. You turn your back to him, pretending to be absorbed with the ties of your dress so he doesn’t notice the tears welling down your lash line.

Zayne comes forward to rest his chin in the crook of your neck, putting down the towels before wrapping his arms around your waist. “I’m really sorry for missing your birthday.” His tone is strained with regret, heavied by the burden you know plagues him daily—it only furthers your anguish.

You feel ridiculous as tears escape and roll down the side of your cheek. You sniff loudly, the sound of it echoing off the tiles, and you feel Zayne tense up against your back. He sighs your name tenderly—another apology. A chuckle breaks its way past your lips, muffled by a strangled sob that overtakes it. “I’m sorry. I swear, I’m fine. It’s so stupid that—” Zayne grabs you by the shoulder, spinning you around so you face him. 

You almost flinch, tempted to hide your face in the crook of your elbow to spare him the sight of your loss of temper. His eyes search for yours, visibly pained by your tears. “I know you can’t help it and that it’s work—you’re saving lives for fuck’s sake, and I’m here crying over a birthday dinner,” you bitterly let out, laughing at yourself for even being this upset about it in the first place. 

Zayne’s chest feels tight; the feeling spreads to his throat as he softens his gaze at you. “Are you done talking?” You nod, tucking your trembling lip between your teeth and biting down until it leaves indents on the plush skin. Zayne opens his mouth, carefully weighing his words. “I know how important this dinner was to you, and I still missed it. What you’re feeling is only the natural reaction to my actions.” You’re about to protest, but his stern expression has you immediately shut your mouth. “Let me apologize properly. Let me make it up to you, please.”

He casts you a heated look, hungry eyes landing on your bitten mouth—a gaze so intense that it sends a shiver down your spine. It takes you a second, but you find the strength to move, to nod at him.

Without wasting a second, Zayne’s fingers reach for the zipper on the side of your dress without taking his eyes off your face. He intently watches the small, anticipating crease in your brows and the way with which your lips part when his cold fingers finally touch the bare skin of your ribs. “Did I tell you you looked beautiful?” He speaks, lowering his lips to your collarbone as he peels down one of the sleeves. 

You let out a nervous chuckle as he traces a path from your neck to your ear. “You might have mentioned it.” Your last words are lost to him as he lets the dress fall to the tiled floor. You take it upon yourself to unbutton his shirt, focusing on the task at hand even though you feel the intensity of his gaze on your face. 

It’s a slow race—both too tired to rush but pushed by a sense of urgency to lay claim on one another. Zayne kisses you deeper as he pushes you towards the shower—he still tastes like the sugary frosting. He sighs in relief against your mouth like one does when slipping into a warm bath in the dead of winter. You let your underwear fall to the ground—Zayne’s following suit right after. 

The water is too warm—it makes his frigid touch sting, but the pain soothes something rotten inside of you, so you make no mention of it to him. Pressed against the wall with nowhere to run, you watch affectionately as he steps forward, trapping you between his arms. You’re the one reaching out this time, pulling him down for another lazy kiss, swiping your tongue on his bottom lip just the way he likes. A soft moan leaves his mouth as his breathing grows more laboured. Rivulets of water trickle a path down your sternum, and Zayne’s hand follows—it lands on your waist, where he uses the leverage to pull you impossibly closer.

His knee slots between your legs, and he swallows your whine with a satisfied grin. The friction is just enough to make your mind cloudy but not overwhelming enough to pull you away from the syrupy words that Zayne lets drip out of his mouth.

“I really tried,” he utters as his hands grip your hips, haunching you further on his thigh as it makes direct contact with your core. You mumble his name as a praise. “I even went out to that bookstore you like during a lunch break. The one where they sell the terrible birthday cards with the puns that you somehow find hilarious.”

You frown. “They are hilarious.” Your falsely offended tone visibly amuses him, but he makes no further comment. He instead chooses to kiss you, effectively shutting you up. Your hand slips between your bodies, finding his hardened length pressed against his stomach. Zayne groans softly, a shuddering moan falling from his mouth as you run your hand along, keeping the pressure light enough—just to tease him. 

“Let me take care of you first,” he insists, wrapping his fingers around your wrist to pull your hand away. You know better than to argue with him, so you simply nod—wrapping your arms around his neck and playing with the longer tufts of hair where his nape is. 

With one hand between your legs and the other resting right above your breast, Zayne wastes no time. He knows you better than anyone—which spot makes you sigh, which one makes you moan. His thumb finds your clit as he slowly dips his index and middle fingers inside of you—a small satisfied noise building at the back of his throat. You tense up at the intrusion, your back arching as a reaction. You did not expect to be so sensitive, but the slow-paced circles he rubs against your bundle of nerves send warmth in waves down to your toes—it’s addicting and mind-numbing as pleasure runs its course.

“You’re so warm,” Zayne mumbles against the skin of your neck—biting lovingly at the wet skin. Your reply starts with a pleasured gasp as he curls his finger inside of you. 

“I think your hands are just abnormally cold,” you reply nonchalantly, meeting his eyes only to laugh at him quietly at the slightly puzzled expression that he gives you. His gestures pause for a second as he processes the information.

“All the time?” The surprise in his tone makes your heart throb with affection. Pursing your lips to the side, you debate whether to lie or not. “Why haven’t you ever mentioned it before?” Looking down at his still hand, you greedily urge him to continue his ministrations with your own hand. And while he resumes, earning a soft moan from you, he keeps his inquisitive gaze on you. 

“It’s not a bad thing. I like it,” you admit, cradling the side of his face, admiring the abyssal shade of black his hair turns into once it’s wet. “It feels like you.” Zayne lets out a small hum, seemingly satisfied, as he then picks up the pace of the fingers slipping in and out of you. The sudden change makes you clench around him, and a hiccup breaches past your lips as your head thuds against the wall behind you. 

“You’re close, aren’t you?” Zayne asks, letting his free hand wander down your breasts, where he watches as his fingers sink into the supple flesh. You nod, eyes screwed shut as the pressure in your lower stomach keeps building up, tightening its hold on your limbs until your toes feel numb. “It’s alright. I got you.”

The soft reassurance he so freely gives you is all it takes. The knot finally snaps, and your back arches off the wall—your chest now pressed firmly against his own. Zayne diligently works you through the waves of pleasure, his fingers knowing exactly what to do as you come down from your high. He pulls them out, letting the warm water wash on the remnants of you on his hand. 

Boneless and tired, you lean against the wall as Zayne gently puts you down—legs wobbling as your feet touch the tiled floor. “Can you stand while I clean you up?” You nod, brainlessly agreeing as Zayne grabs your soap and a washcloth. The soft raspberry and vanilla scent fills the air—it purposefully smells like his favourite dessert. With his surgical precision, he quickly washes you off, limb by limb, as he kneels to the ground to clean your legs. 

“This is the greatest birthday gift ever,” you wearily mumble, a dumb smile on your face. Zayne scoffs softly as he washes your hair, noticing the way you sag against him at the head massage. 

“Want me to help you?” You offer him, opening one eye only as he grabs the bottle of shower gel that he leaves permanently at your place. He seems amused by your offer but shakes his head softly. 

“I’m not too sure that I trust the reliability of your services right now,” he jokes, though his tone remains dry. You chuckle as Zayne rinses out the conditioner, making sure to work through the knots with his fingers. 

“You can always file a complaint,” you deject, stepping foot out of the shower and reaching for the towels he laid out earlier. The steam inside the bathroom fogs up the mirror, and you have to reach over and wipe it to witness the extent of Zayne’s markings on your neck. Unable to suppress the roll of the eye that follows, you part your hair for it to hide most of it before roughly towel drying it.

Zayne shuts the water off, wiping most of the water from the glass door—something you never do yourself, but he diligently does whenever he uses your shower. You hand him the towel, admiring the way the light casts soft shadows on the ridges of his back as he dries himself—the freckles and scars highlighting the planes of his muscles like starlight on the night sky.

The two of you brush your teeth in silence, shoulder to shoulder, and catch glimpses of each other through the mirror—it makes him blush deep red up to the tip of his ears. 

You’ve never felt this at ease, and the domestic feeling grips you by the throat but finds you to be a willing victim. 

You shiver as you open the door, the colder air slipping inside as you walk on your tiptoes to your bedroom. The curtains flail open in the chill of the breeze, and the first rays of timid sunlight tint the sky a deep magenta that fades into a lighter orange over the lilac expanse of the Linkon skyline. The sight takes your breath away.

Zayne enters the bedroom, his towel loosely wrapped around his waist—his gaze instantly finds yours even through the low light of the dusk that seeps into your bedroom. It casts in his eyes both the longing of yesterday and the exciting promise of tomorrow. 

He stops right behind you, wrapping his arms loosely around your waist and pulling your towel to the ground. It falls with a faint thud, and the air makes your warm skin pebble as Zayne runs his palms up and down your arms.

“Do you want to sleep?” He asks you, voice low and raw—there’s an underlying question that makes you smile.

“Did you have any other plans?” The grin in your voice is contagious—Zayne chuckles. 

He presses a tender peck to the side of your neck, softly breathing in the sweetened scent of your skin—he almost salivates. “I had an idea or two in mind. The night is still young.” You turn around to face him with a mirthful expression.

“The sun is rising as we speak.” Zayne’s mouth remains a straight line, but you notice the shift in his gaze.

“Pay no attention to it,” he whispers, grabbing you by the waist to pull you down with him on the bed. The two of you fall in the tangled mess that is your bedsheet—you never find the time in the morning to make it. Zayne always silently judges you for it but goes out of his way to clean up your room whenever he comes over. 

Naked limbs tangled together, Zayne settles between your thighs, taking his time to litter your chest with kisses. Your breath gets stuck in your throat—half plea, half whine. It’s delirious, the ease with which his hands know their way around the curves of your body. As if entirely mapped out inside his head, tucked away under the knowledge he always surprises you with. 

The fear of the missed days always lurks in the back of your mind—plaguing you with stubborn grief over things that haven’t happened. That each time he cancels a date, each time he gets held back at the hospital—it’s time that you’ll never recover. It’s greedy and selfish; you are aware of that at least, but it doesn’t ease the burning betrayal you feel as the days pass by, never to be seen again. 

“What are you thinking about?” Zayne asks, raising himself on his arms to take a good look at you��he’s visibly worried, and you flash him a reassuring smile.

“I just love you, that’s all.” Zayne looks momentarily stunned by your words; his breathing stops, and you wonder if you delivered the final blow. His eyes roam over your face, retracing soft contours of it with uncurbed endearment. He seems to be thinking for a split second before he captures your lips between his.

You kiss him back devotedly, pouring all of what you cannot say into a reciprocal chase of the lips that has Zayne groan against your panting mouth. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he reverently admits, pulling your hips against his in a needy motion to feel your heat pressed against his hardening length.

Your retort dies in your throat, a soft whine that sounds like his name leaving your lips instead.

Hurried words are hushed in your ear, his breath mingling with your own as he kisses you from an awkward angle—too impatient to be parted from your mouth for more than a few seconds. “You think you can take me like this? Or do you want me to go down on you?” 

You shake your head, mind heady with both need and exhaustion that threatens to send it all tumbling down. “I’m good. You’re good.” Zayne gives you one last look, scanning your face.

He lines himself up to your entrance before pressing in, claiming your mouth in a bruising kiss as he moans softly. The needy sound he makes sets your skin on fire as he sinks to the hilt—the fullness steals your breath away. Time stops, and you brush away a few humid strands that are falling in front of Zayne’s eyes. 

“I need a moment,” he mutters, voice strained as he grips the sheets next to your head. You let him take all the time he wants, letting your hand wander down his neck, tracing invisible paths on the skin of his chest. There are small ice crystals forming down his forearms, but you smooth them over with your heated hands, the water pebbling down in his skin onto your bedsheets. When Zayne finally reopens his eyes, the evident need in them should feel overwhelming, but it serves to quench the reciprocal feeling that wrecks through you whenever he is nearby.

“Are you alright?” It’s your turn to express concern, and as per usual, Zayne brushes you off before the last syllable. He cradles your face, his irises almost entirely obscured by his dilated pupils. You swallow audibly, leaning into his palm to press a kiss on it.

Without much warning, Zayne moves his hip, snapping them forward with a soft grunt. The burn from the stretch is pleasurable—a constant reminder. Urging him, you slide back before arching your back so his length slides in. Getting the message, Zayne sets the pace—deep thrusts making your breath stutter. He drags his nose along the length of your neck to mumble your name along with a soft praise.

“You feel so good. I missed you all week, my pretty girl.” Zayne uncharacteristically blabs out of guilt, his words muffled by the delicate skin of your neck that he sucks into his mouth. His rhythm picks up as the muscles of his abdomen flex. One of his hands tightly grips your calf and brings your left leg over his shoulder. You whine—both at his honeyed words and the deeper angle at which he slams his hips into you.

“Fuck, ah—Zayne,” you pant out, clinging to his broad shoulders until your nails leave crimson streaks on his alabaster skin. 

His heavy-lidded gaze is the only thing betraying his exhaustion as he keeps up a brutal pace, taking out his week’s frustrations on you. His hands are everywhere, on your breasts, wrapping loosely around your neck as he captures your lips into a searing kiss—drinking in your sweet, soft pleas that warm him up from the inside like mulled wine. 

Each of his movements is deliberate, imbued with such care and devotion that a sob threatens its way up your throat. It’s a game of give and take in which neither feels deserving to be the winner. The both of you pour as much as you can in the hopes that as much of it can stick to the other—mending broken parts together. 

It heals old scars and soothes any bitterness that remains from the distance that creeps between the two of you whenever apart. It melts away like the frost on a cold autumn morning when the sunlight grazes the shimmering grass blades. 

Zayne’s fingers slip between your bodies and find with ease what he searches—dipping to where his cock is buried inside your heat before dragging them upward to your clit. Pleasure surges forward, and your world suddenly narrows to the rhythm of his touch, the scent of him, and the soft noises he lets out as he nips your earlobe to distract himself. 

Your breath catches—rising and falling in desperate, unsteady gasps as the pressure builds and builds. A wildfire catching ablaze and running its course through your bloodstream with an urgency that makes your head spin. Zayne follows close behind, his movements getting more erratic and less consistent as he rapidly feels the thread fraying.

He forces himself to open his eyes, struck with pure awe at the blissed-out expression on your face, at the otherworldly glow with which your skin catches the early light—a pearlescent sheen that mesmerizes him. Zayne mutters your name brokenly—a prayer, a praise, a plea for forgiveness that he earned lifetimes ago. 

For a moment, you forget everything but the warmth, the pressure, the overwhelming rush of him—of this—and when it finally breaks. Zayne is quick to notice; it’s a quiet surrender, a shiver that hums through every nerve, but he’s fluent in the tells of your body. A tremor runs through your every limb as he slows his pace down, savouring the way you clench impossibly tight around him. 

There’s a raw vulnerability in your gaze—a sudden outpouring of emotions that seeps into his skin like spilled ink on parchment. It chokes him up as the voices in the back of his head echo words he knows by heart by now. A tale as old as time that paints him as undeserving of this. Undeserving of you. You touch his cheek, and he blinks, momentarily stunned and brought back to the moment. The tender and loving grazing of your fingers against his forehead as you push his hair away from where it falls in front of his eyes.

It’s enough for him to ignore the pesky thoughts—at least for tonight. 

With a deeper thrust, burying his head into the crook of your neck where he unapologetically bites your shoulder, Zayne spills into you with a soft grunt. His hips stutter, slowing down until he is completely static and lets out the most delectable grunt that ends in a low whine that makes you acutely aware of how much he needed this. 

He collapses to your side—bone-deep exhaustion finally setting in. You wince as he pulls out of you, but he wastes no time cleaning the mess he left between your legs with your towel laying further on the bed. Sweat clings to your heated skin, but the gentle breeze cools it down almost immediately. 

“We should have showered after,” you flatly comment, and Zayne laughs—a strikingly loud and out-of-character laugh that takes you by surprise. He must be delirious with fatigue, but you tuck the sound of it away in your mind as you join him until your ribs hurt.

He exhales loudly, tracing circles on your arm. “I made a reservation at your favourite cafe tomorrow,” Zayne says, flipping on his side to look at you tenderly. He is absentmindedly playing with some unruly hair strands down your neck, his face still red. “I believe it’s in 5 hours. I can cancel if you want to sleep in.”

You huff softly, grabbing a pillow that fell to the floor and tucking it under your arm. “It’s alright. I’ll set an alarm.”

He looks at you unconvinced. “Is the alarm intended to wake me up? You’re not known to be easily awakened,” Zayne comments, an eyebrow inquisitively raised as he taunts you.

You wait a few seconds before answering, weighing your options. “What if I say it is?” As expected, Zayne rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest further. With one quick gesture, he drags the bed covers over the two of you and pulls you tightly against him. Though his breathing has returned to normal, his heartbeat betrays his seemingly calm state. 

He presses a kiss to the crown of your hair. “Happy birthday.” You hum, smiling as you tilt your head up to press a kiss on the top of his nose. “Get some sleep, doctor’s order,” he immediately adds with his usual sternness. You’re about to snarkily reply but stop yourself, knowing better than to argue with him when he uses such a tone. 

You settle against him, lulled to sleep by the steadying beat of his heart and the soft tickle of his breathing against your temple as the sun starts pouring its warm golden light in the quietude of your bedroom.

[andy-wm]

Back to WHO : the MV

This is a continuation of the earlier post that discusses the song WHO, by Jimin. That post was a first impression focused on the lyrics - while this one looks more closely at the MV.

(Remember this is my interpretation, not an official statement by Hybe)

The more times I watched the music video, the more I wanted to yell, because look...

IT'S REALLY STARING US IN THE FACE.

And again, kudos to Jimin's team because it's the most obvious thing in the world ever but only if you ALREADY KNOW what's going on.

Here's a summary:

The music video loosely represents Jimin's attraction/sexuality/love life as a timeline.

New colours - a new spectrum shall we say - filter into his life even though he's trying so hard to 'keep to the program'.

He searches high and low for a girl to love, but alas, nobody makes the fireworks happen for him. Then Billboard Boy crashes into his life, threatening to destroy everything. Jimin has to weather the storm and figure out where his place is because Billboard Boy is a major disruptor - a tornado in fact. In the end, the fireworks are popping and the chaos is happening, and Jimin has to just go with it and finds his place again. His colours have been getting brighter and louder as he goes along and in the end he's prepared to walk away from everything in order to be the spectrum he is.

<<I'm not saying it's literally a count of how many girls or boys or enbys he's kissed. I hope his kissed all of them and then some, frankly, but that's none of my business.>>

A few things to pay special attention to:

Burning cars > cars = masculinity. fire = hot. 1+1=2.

Dancers > people he's interacting with

Rough weather, as represented by the wind-whipped papers and eventually even cars being tossed about the set > His attraction to men (and dare I say it, culminating in a focus on one man in particular)

Colour flares, machine text, and marks on the tape (horizontal lines etc)

Are you ready? Let's go...

Jimin enters the scene looking like sex on legs (no surprises) and strolls casually onto the road. Immediately our view of hm is blocked by a pop-art style poster blowing across the screen. It's immediately followed by a car coming around the corner onto the road. The car is on fire. Jimin watches it pass by and follows it.

He follows the burning car.... and so it begins.

The narrative starts from before BTS even exists. Jimin encounters several female dancers who he has brief and sexy interludes with. In fact i don't think there's a single woman in this MV who he doesn't at least look at. He really does try everything (and everyone) in his efforts to find HER.

BUT WAIT.... rewind...

Let's go back to the poster... it depicts a street scene much like the one we see here, with the words:

WHO IS!! TORNADO OF LOVE

Note: those are exclamation points not question marks.

It's not a question. This is telling us UP FRONT IN BIG LETTERS that 'WHO' is tornado of love.

I could probably stop here and just say 'ok go watch it again' but it's too much fun to go through all the details.

So let's continue...

Jimin has a little more steamy choreo with the female dancers before the lyrics tell us he has so many people to see and places to go, and he leaves them and joins 6 other men in what looks like a work environment....

Hello we are BTS!

Yes you guessed it... like Yoongi did in Haegum, Jimin has his members represented here. (Fan chant going off in my head...) and more delicious choreography follows.

Notice that while Jimin was dancing with the girls, the only signs of rough weather were a few glittery specs floating through the air, barely noticable. Those bits of glitter multiply when he joins the 6 men, and instead of a sprinkling of glitter, it starts looking like a light snowfall.

That's all about to change....

The first moment of reckonning:

At the end of this section of choreo, as Jimin sings 'who is my heart waiting for' and moves into the next phase we have a barely visible flash of light across the screen and rainbow colours bleed into the footage (at 1.14).

This is also the moment the significant rough weather starts. I'd say this is where Jimin starts noticing how he feels, and the turmoil begins, because this is also where he makes eye contact with the camera (1.23).

He sees us watching.

Fuck. I had a moment here. There's a look on his face as he walks past the camera and stares right into it.

AUTO CALLIBRATION...

As another millisecond flash of light and rainbow colours seep into the footage, The machine text 'AUTO CALLIBRATION' appear on the screen and flash there for a couple of seconds.

CALLIBRATE: To standardise... by determinning the deviation from a standard so as to ascertain the proper correction factors (Meriam-Webster definition).

"Get a hold of yourself, Jimin. Reset (your behaviour and desires) to correspond with expectations"

Jimin makes a very determined bee-line for the nearest girl and dances with her, ignoring the burning car in the foreground.

This brings us to the next phase of the narrative, and the next location - the performance space in front of the OASIS cinema.

(Do you see the doors of the cinema - BTS referenced again).

As he dances with this girl, the camera zooms out and we see that a crowd has gathered outside the cinema, watching them, but the crowd does not seem friendly and the dance seems performative - the movements are exagerated and obvious. The girl has Jimin in a headlock at one point and then she pushes him away and leaves. All in all it's an unpleasant event.

At this point the BTS members return (Although now there's one missing) and they dance with and around a number of female dancers. flashes go off in the crowd as the choreo is performed.

As they dance the wind picks up quickly and papers and cans are blown about. Even when Jimin is obviously interacting with female dancers the weather continues to pick up. Dancing with the girls isn't helping.

The camera pulls back and we see the same car as before, still on fire.

This is the moment when the penny (or billboard) drops.

All the other dancers scatter, dissapearing in a matter of seconds as the billboard comes crashing down. The billboard blocks his path. Wherever he had been planning to go - or whatever course of action he had planned to take - this man on the billboard forces a new decision. Jimin has to rethink his plans.

Jimin turns and goes in the opposite direction to everyone else. (A similar scene occured in Like Crazy, Jimin going the other way, rejecting the norm, going against the tide).

The machine text flashes "REWIND ... REWIND" on the screen and we see Jimin heading back to where all this started... where the original car on fire was seen.

He's travelling his own path now, but as he walks, alone in what seems to be the wrong direction, we see the store lights brighter, reflecting off cars and filling the space around him.

He's going through the motions with the girls he passes but the interactions are brief and in one case he actually dodges the girl completetly.

He retraces his steps amidst the chaos, and the weather really goes nuts. Now there are cars being thrown through the air, streetlamps exploding. The storm is almost upon him.

As Jimin steps into that original street again, the one with the neon letters spelling BLISS, the machine text reads PLAY. It's almost ike he's having a redo, where he accepts who he is from the start and allows the chaos to happen. And the chaos DOES happen, because the tornado has arrived.

THE TORNADO OF LOVE.

There's a flash and the whole screen is flooded with colours, blanking out the footage.

Jimin can no longer dance in step with everyone else at this point. He's doubled over, belting those high notes at the climax of the song while the chaos rages in the background. Without the music to give his actions context, it almost looks like hes in agony.

Sparks fly, lights flash, even the film itself is affected...

He eventually gets it together and rejoins the choreography, picking up his life so to speak. But his callibration is forever changed. the colours that bled into his life are there for good now, and and as he walks away after the music stops, we see that those colours are not just for the performance, they exist outside of that.

A note about the light flares we see throughout the MV:

It was really hard to catch these, some of them were literal milliseconds. I had to slow the MV down to play at .25 original speed and even then they were fleeting - well hidden.

Only the one at the very end was really visible.

In this one, the word PAUSE appears, as the MV ends. I wonder if that relates to their military service?

The flares of light and colour, those rainbow flashes, aren't always easy to find. Youvhave to be prepared to seek them out.

We will find them if we look for them, but i think Jimin won't show his true colours until after the lights go down and the performance is over.

I respect his decision (if that's what that is) and i will continue to meet him here his stands. I'll support everything he does knowing what I know and I'll continue to search for and uncover the hidden messages he sends us.

[stellarislune]

Andrew x Darling ; Rewind pt. 2

alternate universe where, two years after your failed confession towards andrew, you became his teacher assistant instead! 🤭

here's the link to part one! make sure to read it first.

YOUR POV

Two weeks after that day.

Here you are at Professor Andrew's office.

It's a neat workspace with his table and swivel chair at the far right of the office. It's a new one, it seems. Probably bought not far from a month ago. How do you know? Because you’re a psychic.

You snort to yourself and then you shake your head, feeling silly for distracting yourself from what you’re doing.

Right now, you’re sorting suspended files stacked and stored on his set of cabinets and shelves lined up against the left of the room. According to him, he did not let Luca touch the files since he filed for a one year leave prior to his engagement with his boyfriend—now fiancé.

Based on his words, you quote, "With him and those files around, he won't be able to leave at all. He's far from the skittish, clumsy assistant that I knew of when he first started. He's passionate and hardworking. He's dedicated to finishing on time. He's quite the perfectionist, .. it's almost an obsession for him to perform at best. Ah— I'm rambling. Just make sure to file them per year. I bought face masks to avoid inhaling dust, it's on my first drawer on the table. Use it."

Luca probably will be reluctant to leave with work unfinished, you agree with him. So, with a mask on and a ton (you’re exaggerating) of folders and files, you began to sort each into their subjective years. A few of the files were former submissions from students throughout the years and let's say you have had a good time reading through a few funny and profound reads in between filing.

“The forbiddenness of a fruit..” You trail off, squinting. The handwriting on the paper has been smudged. You can barely make out what the rest of the sentence was. You pulled the paper closer to your eyes in hopes that, by doing so, you can see the words clearly.

“-even makes the taste of a lemon sweet’, is what it says.” A voice continues. “By Mokokoma Mokhonoana.”

The room is suddenly filled with static energy. One spark and it’ll catch fire. You hadn't realized that you were too absorbed into your work that he was right behind you already; snapping you back into reality.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

The room is on fire and you’re the only one seeing it burning.

You lifted my eyes at him in an attempt to steal a glance, and then you resigned yourself back to work.

You cleared your throat and greeted, "Good afternoon, Professor."

"Ever so polite like always, aren't you?" Andrew jests.

“Uhm, Yes..?" You reply, not sure what to say. "I'm, uh, done sorting the files from the first cabinet and it's all of the 2019 ones, Sir." Might as well give your work report instead. You hurriedly dropped the paper you were reading. While the passage was interesting like most of the submitted works, they are still not yours to mess with.

“I see.”

“Yeah.” Awkward.

"So much work done in so little time. I commend that. Here, take this."

Andrew reaches for his bag and retrieves a medium-sized can with a label named ‘Blended Brews’.

You turned to him and accepted it, seeing how it’ll be rude if you do reject it. It felt cold against your hand.

"—I was thinking of having it myself but I already picked up coffee from the main office. It's iced caramel macchiato. If you don't like it, just keep it there nonetheless. You might get thirsty." He adds, walking away to put his bag onto his desk. Stretching his arms before sitting down in his swivel chair.

You stare at the coffee he probably got from one of the vending machines for a while. Then, you responded, “Ah, y-yes. I’ll keep this for later.” You laugh sheepishly before setting it to your side. “Thank you, Sir.”

Silence follows.

If you remember correctly, he is a workaholic. Always in his office, never out, unless he has classes. While the usual professors may be glad to have their classes end, he always looks a tad bit sad whenever classes finish in your perspective.

You heave a sigh.

“You..”, Andrew began, making you glance at him. He clears his throat and continues,“-you don’t have to call me Sir or Professor, you know. We’re colleagues now, and you’re my assistant. That grants us both the privilege of calling each other by name, yes?”

That does make sense. Is it awkward for him perhaps to be called as such since you are no longer a student? Perhaps. Who knows? Another sigh follows.

“Very well,” you cleared your throat, "As you wish, Andrew.”

You did not know whether it was the way you said it but that garnered a hearty laugh from him. His eyes glistening as he shakes his head. His face is the epitome of amusement.

“With how you spoke, it almost catapults me back to the Medieval era,” His lips lifted a little to the side, forming a mischievous smile. “Are you gonna call me ‘My liege’ next, Listener?”

His gaze bore through yours, your eyes staring right into each other.

Your breath hitches.

Just like the first time your heart raced this fast. Being able to openly look at him without the fear of any other assumptions does something to you.

Andrew has always been beautiful in your eyes, and seeing him like this right now just hardens that thought in your head.

“I might?” You responded cheekily upon gathering yourself. “Or would you prefer ‘Your Royal Highness?’”

“That would be incongruent with how I am—I'd worry too much about taxes, security, and healthcare in my head, that I'll probably end up on the guillotine. Or—I'll be too strict that the commonfolk will initiate a coup against me.” Andrew chided.

“A royal advisor, then?” You grinned. You tried not to snort upon hearing the rather grim hypothesis that Andrew responded with.

“Hm, fitting. Did the option ‘troubadour’ never come to your mind?” (troubadours - lyric poet musicians who usually sing of courtly love in the 13th century). Andrew swings his chair to the left, the angle now facing towards you. He opens his mouth as if to continue further, but he closes it. Then, he says, “Nevermind. I'm interfering with your work now—”

“You'd make lovely pieces,” You interrupted as you sorted the last folders on your left. It contained nothing but old, unreadable papers so you’re keeping them for shredding later on. 

“Oh? And have you read any of my work for you to hypothesize such a statement?” His voice sounds.. intrigued. 

“You are a literature and history professor. Isn't that a natural assumption?”

“Touché.” Andrew chuckles, his eyes shining with interest. 

The atmosphere seemed lighter now. The worries you have running in your head are just melting like glaciers underneath the sun’s direct rays.

You thought working with Andrew might be too taxing for you. You fear disappointing him now, like how you feared disappointing him with mediocre submissions way, way back when he was your literature professor. 

However, thinking of it now..

It’s not so bad after all.

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ Watch out for part 3 SOON! 💖

[thehamiltonhatepage]

I hate Hamilton

Okay, buckle up, buttercups, because it’s time for a little history lesson, or rather, a history dissertation, as told by yours truly, Thomas Jefferson. And before you start with the powdered wigs and the “founding father” fanfare, let me be clear: I’m not here to wax poetic about the glories of the American experiment. Oh no. I’m here to talk about him. You know, the guy with the incessant rapping and the ridiculous hair, the man who’s somehow become the darling of the musical theater set. Yes, I’m talking about Alexander Hamilton, or as I like to call him, the “Hurricane of Hype.”

Now, let’s rewind a bit, shall we? Picture this: I, Thomas Jefferson, fresh from the intellectual salons of Paris, arrive back in this fledgling nation, ready to bring a dash of continental sophistication to the rustic proceedings. And what do I find? A frenzy of activity orchestrated by…you guessed it, the infamous Hamilton. Seriously, this man was like a caffeinated squirrel trapped in a printing press. He was everywhere, pushing his papers, scribbling his plans, and frankly, making everyone else look like they were moving in slow motion. 

My introduction to the man was, shall we say, memorable. He greeted me with all the warmth of a tax collector inspecting a shipment of contraband tea. He was all sharp angles, rapid-fire questions, and that infernal, slightly-too-knowing grin that suggested he’d already calculated ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. He looked like a particularly energetic ferret, and I, a lover of fine wine and repose, found him deeply unsettling.

The early days were…well, they were a chaotic mess. Hamilton, fueled by some kind of internal combustion engine, was determined to build his financial empire. He wanted a national bank, a federal debt, and seemingly, the personal adoration of every citizen. I, meanwhile, was trying to explain to him, in my most patient and eloquent manner, that a nation should not be run like a particularly aggressive game of Monopoly. I argued that states' rights were paramount, that the people should have a say in their own destiny, and that maybe, just maybe, we didn't need a central authority to dictate every last detail of our lives.

Of course, Hamilton brushed aside my reasonable, nuanced arguments like a toddler swatting at a butterfly. He’d talk over me, interrupting with his rapid-fire pronouncements, and always, always, with that smug little smirk. It was maddening. Truly, the man could turn a simple disagreement about the optimal placement of a comma into a full-blown constitutional crisis. He had the energy of a hummingbird after a triple espresso, and his capacity for self-promotion was truly breathtaking. It's as if he had a personal public relations firm dedicated to singing his praises 24/7.

And don't even get me started on the whole "assumption of debts" debacle. I mean, who did he think he was, some kind of financial magician, waving his wand and making debts disappear? My fellow Virginians and I were not exactly thrilled about bailing out the northern states for their… ahem…fiscal indiscretions. It felt like we were being strong-armed into a bad deal by a very persistent, very ambitious, and frankly, very annoying little man.

The constant battles over policy were exhausting. He insisted on these elaborate financial structures, while I envisioned a nation of independent farmers and intellectuals, pursuing their own path with minimal interference from the government. It felt like we were living in parallel universes, where I was trying to build a serene and contemplative garden, and he was constantly trying to build a skyscraper in the middle of it, complete with a brass band and a smoke machine.

And while I was busy crafting the Declaration of Independence, and dabbling in advanced agricultural techniques, and oh, managing my plantation, thank you very much, Hamilton was out there consolidating power and writing endless memos. He was the ultimate bureaucrat, the king of paperwork, the sultan of spreadsheets. I sometimes suspected he had a secret stash of ink and quills under his pillow. I, however, preferred to spend my evenings reading, not calculating the optimal rate of return on treasury bonds.

Later, when I became President (a position, I might add, that I earned through the sheer brilliance of my ideas and not through relentless personal promotion), I was constantly cleaning up his messes. His financial system was this elaborate contraption that, frankly, resembled a Rube Goldberg machine more than a well-oiled economic engine. I had to make sure that the whole thing didn't collapse because of his overzealous meddling. It was like trying to dismantle a bomb while simultaneously explaining the finer points of Monticello's architecture to an audience of toddlers.

Let’s be honest, the musical has painted him as some kind of tragic hero, a misunderstood genius cut down in his prime. I can hear the violins swelling already. Don’t fall for the melodrama, folks! The truth is, Hamilton was a relentless, ambitious, and ultimately, incredibly irritating man. He was brilliant, yes, but his brilliance was often wrapped up in a package of self-importance and a tendency to dominate every room he entered.

And his constant need to be in the spotlight? Please. The man was a walking, talking headline. He couldn't just have an idea; he had to have a spectacular idea, one that would be lauded by the masses and etched into the history books (preferably in large, bold font). I, on the other hand, preferred to let my actions speak for themselves, to let the quality of my work shine without the need for constant fanfare and dramatic musical numbers. 

So, yes, I hate Alexander Hamilton - not in a “villainous mustache-twirling” sort of way, but in the deeply exasperated, intellectually superior kind of way. He was a constant source of frustration, a perpetual thorn in my side, a human-sized exclamation point in my carefully crafted sentence of a life. And while the world may sing his praises, I, Thomas Jefferson, will continue to stand here, shaking my powdered wig in utter disbelief at the sheer audacity of the man. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a glass of wine and a good book to attend to. Unlike some people, I actually know how to relax. And, maybe, just maybe, I will take some time to rewrite my letters to exclude his incessant name. After all, that’s the true way to ensure he’s remembered as he really was: an irritating footnote in history.

[tyrecordmachinery-blog]

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[slittingmachine]

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[krishnaengineering25]

The Liner Rewinder Machine is an essential part of modern industrial production, whether you’re in packaging, textile manufacturing, or paper processing.

[bilimachinery]

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[your-shirley-xie-blog]

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[uvgraphictechnologies]

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Applications of UV Curing Systems:

Printing Industry: For UV-cured inks and coatings.

Electronics & PCB Manufacturing: Ensures durable protective coatings.

Medical Devices: Used for adhesive bonding in healthcare applications.

Why Invest in High-Performance Printing & Converting Machines?

Enhanced Production Efficiency – Reduces downtime and increases output.

Precision & Quality – Ensures accurate cutting, stamping, and curing.

Cost-Effective Solutions – Optimizes material usage and reduces waste.

Versatile Applications – Suitable for various industries, from packaging to textiles.

Advanced Automation – Minimizes manual labor and improves operational accuracy.

By integrating the latest slitting rewinding machine, label die cutting machines, paper core cutting machines, hot foil stamping machines, and UV curing systems, manufacturers can achieve superior productivity and quality.

Project Name: UV Graphic Technologies Pvt. Ltd

Address: Plot 15, Sector 140A, Noida UP 201305

Contact No: 919810114365

Email ID: info@gtigti.com 

Our Website: https://gtigti.com/ 

Linkedin ID: https://www.linkedin.com/company/uv-graphic-technologies-pvt-ltd/ 

You tube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EleXfuBanIk&ab_channel=AbhayDatta

[bdtissuemachine]

How to rewind jumbo roll efficiently?

In the toilet paper processing industry, the rewinder, as one of the core equipment, directly determines the production efficiency and quality of the finished product. Today we will focus on a rewinding device that is professionally used to rewind large rolls of base paper (Jumbo Roll) into small rolls of long toilet paper. By analyzing its functions, model parameters and technical highlights, we will provide selection references for industry users.

1. Core functions and applicable scenarios of the equipment

This toilet paper roll rewinding machine is designed for the post-processing of toilet paper. Through the functions of synchronous conveying of the unwinding rack, precise slitting and rewinding, and automatic punching, it can efficiently convert large rolls of base paper with a width of 1800-3500mm into finished small rolls with a diameter of 50-1800mm. Its applicable scenarios include:

Large-scale production of household rolls (medium and low weight);

Processing of customized long toilet paper in the hotel and catering industry;

Secondary slitting service of base paper supplier.

2. Model parameter analysis: How to select from 1575 to 3500?

According to the base paper width and production capacity requirements, this series of rewinders provides 5 mainstream models (1575/1760/1880/2800/3500)

 Selection suggestions:

1575/1760: Suitable for small processing plants with a daily output of less than 5 tons, taking into account cost-effectiveness and flexibility.

1880/2800: Recommended for medium-sized enterprises, which can meet diversified order requirements (such as finished products with different diameters and weights).

3500: For ultra-wide base paper (such as 3500mm), suitable for large-scale paper mills or OEM companies.

3. Technical highlights: How to achieve efficient and stable production?

Three-layer synchronous paper unwinding rack design

Adopting three-layer base paper synchronous transmission technology, it supports continuous loading of large rolls with a diameter of less than 1100mm, reduces the frequency of paper replacement, and improves production capacity utilization.

Stepless frequency conversion speed regulation system

The 5.5-15kW power configuration is combined with the frequency conversion speed regulation function, which can flexibly adjust the speed according to the base paper weight (14-40gsm), while ensuring the slitting accuracy and avoiding paper breaks.

 Intelligent punching and tension control

Equipped with 2-blade/3-blade punching knife group, the spacing covers 80-300mm, which can meet the needs of different products such as paper drawing and paper rolling;

PLC system monitors tension in real time to ensure uniform tightness of finished rolls (diameter error ≤±1mm).

Pneumatic system optimization

It needs to be equipped with a 3-horsepower air compressor (air pressure ≥5kg/cm²), and the pneumatic pressure roller can be used to achieve fast roll change and reduce the intensity of manual intervention.

4. User pain point solution

In actual production, the rewinding link often faces the following problems, and the equipment has designed a targeted solution:

Poor compatibility of base paper → Support 76mm standard paper core (other specifications can be customized), suitable for more than 90% of base paper suppliers on the market.

Low slitting efficiency → Maximum processing speed of 280 meters/minute, single-shift output can reach 15-20 tons (depending on the base paper weight).

Low qualified rate of finished products → The human-machine interface presets parameter templates, and one-click switching of different specifications reduces human errors.

[psatalk]

Lahooti Printech showcases solutions for printing, paper processing machinery at Printpack 

Mohammad Sabir, director of Noida-based Lahooti Printech, shared insights at Printpack 2025, highlighting the company's expertise in used offset printing machines, tissue converting machines, foil rewinding machines, and paper converting equipment. 

Lahooti Printech has been in the industry since 1985, supplying both pre-owned offset printing machines and its own manufactured tissue and paper processing machinery.

The company showcased a Ryobi 680 offset printing machine. Lahooti also deals in used machinery from other brands such as Heidelberg and Komori. Sabir said Lahooti Printech imports machines from Europe, the USA, Norway, and Japan, maintaining a diverse stock of printing solutions.

Discussing industry trends, he observed that the market is shifting towards packaging printing, with increasing demand for carton printing and high-colour offset presses, particularly models such as Heidelberg CD series in six- and eight-colour configurations. He said that Lahooti Printech caters to both packaging and commercial printing clients, but packaging has seen notable growth in recent years.

Reflecting on the PrintPack experience, Sabir described it as highly positive, emphasising that Lahooti Printech regularly participates in the event.