#flow wrappers

[optimaweightech]

How to Choose the Best Packaging Machine?

Labelling machines are automated systems used to package products, materials, and goods for storage, distribution, and sale. They help to improve the speed, accuracy, and efficiency of the packaging process, while reducing waste and manual labour. There are many different types of packaging machines, including horizontal flow wrappers, vertical form fill and seal machines, cartons, case packers, and shrink wrap machines. These machines can handle a wide range of products, from food and beverage products to pharmaceuticals and consumer goods. Let’s take a look at the elements for choosing packaging machines in Australia. 

Elements to Consider While Choosing a Good Packaging Machine

Choosing the best packaging machine depends on several factors, including the type of product being packaged, production volume, and budget. Here are some key considerations when choosing a packaging machine:

●      Product type and size: Determine the size and shape of the product being packaged and choose a machine that can accommodate it. For example, flow wrappers are often used for products that are small or flexible, while horizontal form fill and seal machines are often used for products with a regular shape.

●      Production volume: Consider the number of products that need to be packaged per hour and choose a machine with a production rate that meets your needs.

●      Package type: Consider the type of packaging material you will use and choose packaging machines in Australia that are compatible with it. For example, some machines are designed specifically for use with flow-wrap packaging material, while others are more versatile and can handle multiple types of packaging material.

●      Budget: Determine the budget for the packaging machine and choose one that offers the best value for money. Consider factors such as machine price, maintenance costs, and energy efficiency.

●      User-friendliness: Choose a machine that is easy to operate and maintain, with features such as a clear user interface, automatic error detection and correction, and easy maintenance access.

●      Brand reputation and after-sales support: Consider the reputation of the manufacturer and the level of after-sales support they offer. Choose a machine from a reputable brand with a proven track record and a commitment to customer service. 

By considering these factors, you can select the best packaging machine for your needs and ensure that you have a reliable and efficient production line. 

Where to Buy the Best Machines?

The packaging process typically involves several stages, including product feeding, packaging material dispensing, product filling, sealing, labelling, and packaging output. Packaging machines can be designed for specific applications, such as wrapping products in flexible film, filling and sealing containers, or forming and filling cartons. 

The use of labelling machines helps to improve the overall quality and consistency of the packaging process, while reducing manual labour, increasing productivity, and improving product safety and security. By automating the packaging process, manufacturers can reduce the risk of packaging errors, increase production efficiency, and improve product shelf life. Thus while buying the best packaging machine in Australia, we recommend checking out Optima Weightech. The company is one of the best ones out there and you can get a range of labelling machines from their extensive portfolio.

Source: https://packagingmachinesaustralia.blogspot.com/2023/02/how-to-choose-best-packaging-machine.html

[emrich]

Unleash Efficiency: Emrich Introduces the PFM Pearl Horizontal Flow Wrapper

Emrich is proud to introduce the latest addition to their lineup of innovative packaging solutions: the PFM Pearl Horizontal Flow Wrapper. Designed for maximum efficiency and versatility, this cutting-edge machine revolutionizes the packaging process for a wide range of products. Whether you're packaging food items, pharmaceuticals, or household goods, the PFM Pearl Horizontal Flow Wrapper offers unmatched performance and reliability.

The PFM Pearl Horizontal Flow Wrapper from Emrich is engineered to meet the demands of modern packaging operations. With its advanced features and intuitive controls, this machine delivers precise wrapping and sealing for a variety of packaging materials. Whether you're using flexible films, laminates, or recyclable materials, the PFM Pearl Horizontal Flow Wrapper ensures consistent and professional results every time.

Contact- Web - https://www.emrich.com.au/pfm-pearl-horizontal-flow-wrapper-machine/ Ph - 1800 801 243 / +61 3 9540 0255 Address - 1/14-18 Venture Court, Dandenong South VIC 3175, Australia.

[latiniusltd]

Flow Wrapper | Latini USA

At Latini USA, we make flow wrapper machines. These are high-speed machines for wrapping candies and other sweets. Our CFP 600 machine cuts and wraps efficiently. It's great for wrapping toffee, candy, gum, nougat, and fudge. The machine has an automatic, adjustable cutting mechanism. This helps in precise wrapping. Our flow wrappers are reliable and easy to use. They are designed for continuous operation. We focus on quality and efficiency in our machines.

[althikapackaging]

Food safety is a key aspect of the packaging industry. Our commitment is to ensure that food reaches consumers safely and without compromising quality. Therefore, we strive to develop innovative solutions that meet the highest standards of safety and protection.

We show an example of a packaging application in Flowpack for fresh lasagnas. A MAP package with a thin, shrinkable barrier film and an oven-safe tray.

Contact Al Thika Packaging for more details: https://althika.com/fm-200-flow-pack-wrapper/

[planitpackaging]

How to speed up the products with less time in flow wrapper

Flow-wrapped products, which are widely used in daily life, are over saturated in the market. The goods can be wrapped regardless of their size, shape, or feature. Common uses include those for dry fruit, baked goods, pharmaceuticals, everyday items, tools, games, sweets, and scratch cards. The fundamental draw of flow packaging equipment is its adaptability. The Net linear scales are horizontal flow wrapper encases the product in film, extending its shelf life and guarding against external contamination, wear, and damage.

Money is time. Saving time and money is possible with a high speed flow packing machine. The automated system replaces manual packaging as a packaging method. A variety of items can be wrapped with high efficiency using flow-wrap technology, which can pack up to 300 bags per minute. Consumers purchase products for a variety of reasons, including if the goods are appealing enough to capture attention. To accentuate the brand, printed flow-wrap packaging comes in a variety of hues and patterns. Customers benefit from an unimpeded view of the goods thanks to clear flow wrap packaging, which can boost product visibility.

It's simple to go from one package size to another when the product is flow-packed. Conveying systems that are incorporated can be simply adjusted to the required width. The on-board computer systems may store numerous pack specifications, and by pressing a button, the trim length and belt speed can be changed. The film will be cut to the right size before being flow-wrapped around a product. Once the goods is packed, the bag barely moves because it is produced to size on the horizontal flow-pack machine. Our skilled technical team is committed to provide the best flow wrap packing machine solutions available in the market. We provide systems for packing dry fruit, including nuts packing equipment, peanuts wrapping equipment, walnut flow packaging equipment, cashew horizontal packing equipment, and seeds flow wrapper equipment.

[bennermsagmbh]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the girl next door 7

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

Your body is stiff. You blame your late-night drawing session hunched over the folding table. You feel it in your neck and shoulder. You sit up and groan, rubbing your muscles as you try to loosen the knots. You roll your arms as you stand up, yawning as you rub your eyes. 

A dewy breeze flows in. The air feels like rain but the density has yet to break. You remember vaguely in the middle of the night cracking the window to cool off, your room stagnant and stale. 

You near the window in your baggy shirt, dampened slightly with your sweat. It’s caught under your chest as you bulge against the fabric. You pull it free as you stand in front of the pane and blanch as you see movement on the other side. Shoot. 

Your eyes meet Steve’s as he closes the window across from yours. He can feel the approaching storm too. He smiles and gives a two-fingered wave. You lift your hand weakly, barely extending your fingers before you tug shut the curtains. How much did he see? How much could he see? 

You go out to get the day started. The overhead light of kitchen blares yellow across the space and you put the coffee pot on to brew. As you wait, you tidy the table, once more cluttered with your mother’s forgotten distractions. The crossword book, several pens, a home magazine, and several wrappers. 

You slow the pour of coffee into your mug as you hear your mom’s bedroom door. You stare at the doorway until she appears. She limps to the table and sits heavily. You put the cup before her and grab another for yourself. She mutters and leans her head in her hand. She was home late last night. 

You go to grab her inhaler from the bathroom. Once more, it’s missing. You return and find it on the counter hidden beside a used plate. It's only then you notice the blackened frozen fries on the cookie sheet. What the heck? 

“Ugh, that man,” she croaks, letting it roll into a laugh, “he convinced me to have a little wine after the milkshake.” You put her inhaler in front of her. She raises her head and scowls. She rubs the furrow between her brows. “And then another. And another.” 

You don’t even remember her getting home. You were up until one in the morning drawing. She must have been much later. How hadn’t you heard her make all this mess? 

You sip your coffee around cleaning up. You wash the glass from the milkshake Steve brought over and set it aside. Your mother hacks and clears her throat. 

“Mm, he’s too nice,” she mutters, “told him you didn’t need that. Too much sugar. You don’t even like strawberry.” 

You hide your frown. You like strawberry. You’re not sure why she thinks otherwise. She’s never really asked. 

“I’ll bring the glass back--” 

“You remember your manners,” she girds before she hums into her coffee cup. She gulps through her wet lips noisily. “I don’t need you ruining this.” 

“I will, mom.” 

“Ugh,” she stands up with a groan, “I need my chair.” 

Her hand trembles and the cup with it. She spills a little over the sides but doesn’t pay attention to it. You dump the tray of burnt fries and put it in the sink. You just cleaned this place top to bottom. You don’t think you’re that messy but it’s always a disaster. 

You clean the rest of the dishes and put them away. Your mom hollers for more coffee and you bring the pot with you to refill her cup. She leans it on her chest and closes her eyes. 

“I’m going to take the glass back now, I guess.” 

“Mph, do whatever,” she utters irritably. 

You trod back to your room and change into real clothes; straight-legged jeans and a stripped jersey tee. You just want to get this over with. It’s so awkward. You would rather your mom just take it back the next time she goes over but she’s in rough shape. It must be the alcohol. She’s not really supposed to have any. 

You grab the glass and put on your shoes. As you come out, there’s a speckling of rain falling from the sky. You go up the walk and around the sidewalk, coming back down the pavement squares to Steve’s porch. You stop and look up at his front door. You climb the steps and drag your feet to the door. 

You tap the bell. It’s one of those ones with the camera built-in. You feel overly conscious as you stand before the lens. The door opens before you can prepare yourself. 

“Hey, sweetie,” Steve greets, “how are you?” 

“Erm. Okay. Here.” 

You hold out the glass. He doesn’t take it. He leans on the doorframe and smile. 

“Crummy day, huh? Supposed to thunderstorm soon,” he comments, “too bad, I was really wanting to get that pool going.” 

“Mm, yeah,” you keep the glass raised before you. 

“Oh well, guess I’ll have to figure out what to do all pent up. Maybe a movie night? With all this moving, I’m way behind.” 

You look at his chest, staring at the short-sleeved button up with chagrin. What is he talking about? Why is he talking so much? 

“You got any suggestions? You youngins always know what’s hip,” he shakes his head and laughs, “sorry, I sound old, don’t I?” 

“No,” you answer dully. 

“No what? No suggestions or no I don’t sound old?” He challenges. 

Your eyes go round and you look him in the face. “I don’t know.” 

“I’m teasing--” 

“Here,” you wiggle the glass at him. 

He takes it, his fingers brushing against yours. You let it go and recoil. You bare your teeth strangely and back away, “thanks, er. Bye.” 

You turn and cringe at the grey sky. You trudge off the porch and cut across the lawn, too mortified not to trod over his grass. You clamber up the front steps and quickly shut yourself inside the house. You hiss at yourself as you press your back to the door. 

“Don’t slam the goddamn door,” your mother sneers, “Jesus. No wonder this place is falling apart.” 

🏠

It’s one of those days where you’re just sad. You can’t pinpoint why. It’s just a vague malaise that won’t leave. Even as the sun beams and deepens to a soft evening hue, you can’t see a light among the dark. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been like that. Under your covers, crying for no good reason. It just hurts to be. You keep your arm folded over your pounding head. You just want to sleep and yet you can’t cross the barrier into unconscious. 

You give up and roll onto your back, pulling the blanket to your waist. You exhale and stare up at the ceiling. You’re head swims from the deluge of tears. You sop them up with the sheet and sit up. Your head is full and throbbing. 

You get up, bleary-eyed, and muddle your way through reality. You pull open your door and find the bathroom on instinct alone. You shut yourself in and blow your nose. The effort has you even more dizzy. You shake your head, trying to clear out the fog, and turn on the cold water. You throw it across your face, holding a wet palm to your forehead to try to ease the tension. 

Your ears tickle with a strange noise. A low drone. Like bass on the front television. Now and again, your mom will amp up the TV but it’s unexpectedly loud. You twist off the faucet and stand straight. You dry off and head back into the hall, peering down at the shifting light glaring from the living room doorway. 

“Woahhh,” the voice catches you unaware as someone collides with you from behind in the dim hallway. You stumble and turn to face Steve as popcorn scatters onto the floor, tumbling over the brim of the bowl. The smell tugs at your stomach, “sorry sweetie, I didn’t see you there.” 

You look at his silhouette, unable to make out any of his features. You didn’t even know he was there. Your mother didn’t even warn you. You suspect that may have been purposeful. 

“Sweetie?” 

“Sorry,” you back up, “didn’t mean... to get in the way.” 

You turn and shuffle back to your room. He follows, “your mom said you weren’t feeling good. Hope you get better soon, but if you’re interested, we’re watching a movie.” 

Your bedroom door is wide open. If you’d known, you would’ve been sure to shut it tight. 

“No, thank you,” you grab the handle and slowly shift the door behind you. 

“No problem,” he calls after you, “offer stands if you change your mind.” 

You click the door shut gently and stay on the other side, listening for his footsteps. He lingers, a bit too long, and it’s only as he walks away that you go back to your bed. There’s something strange about him. Or maybe it’s just you. 

[shaisuki]

“suguru...”

the name came out of the blue. your eyes closed and your head slumped to his chest. you're wasted. barely making coherent words but the the name came in perfect. he supports you with his arms. saving you from the demise of falling face first. he hears a sniffle then it was followed by burst of tears in your eyes. looking at him in a haze where you began to grab his cheeks. your body sways and he steadies you in his strong arms.

"careful." he mumbles and then you're out of cold. he smiles at your drunk form. scooping you in his arms and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"let's get you home." he says before walking towards the exit.

he gently place you in the bed. removing your coat and placing it in the chair before your shoes followed suit. he runs cold water in a small towel.

he looks at your sleeping form. how much did you change in the last years? you're not your old self anymore but your soft features remains. the dimple in your cheek where it sinks when you smile. he missed you smiling.

he sits down in your bed. the mattress dips from his added weight. wipes the sweat in your forehead, the dried tears in your cherubic cheeks and the stain of booze in the corners of your mouth.

he wasn't doing good in cleaning you up. taking care of someone. his lips forms into a thin line. you look so peaceful in your sleep and it's been a long time since he had seen you so serene, calm like you didn't carry the burden of your world.

gojo couldn't help but to bitterly smile at the name you were calling earlier. there's no way you could have mistaken him for another but with the influence of the alcohol. he understands.

he can't speak of it no more. it seems taboo. one could be cursed when he speaks the name of his deceased friend. your lover. he didn't look like suguru a bit. they were like day and night. the sun and moon.

he don't have suguru's hair. no ounce of coal-colored strands in his hair. it's white. snow white. no purples in his eyes instead he have the deep cerulean eyes of his whole holds the strongest power in the universe.

you shift in your sleep and gojo looks at you. sees a tear falls out in your eyes and he catches it with his index finger. it must have been so hard for you. to lost your other half who loves you truly.

you're good at hiding your sadness. your frustration, the disappointment of not being able to protect who you deeply loved.

then gojo realizes. you've been holding it for too long. gojo could applaud for how good you are at hiding it. the smiles you give to others but it doesn't reach your eyes. the abuse of body. empty wrappers of fast food flowing out of your trash bin. drown yourself in the pleasure of alcohol. a temporary escape for everything.

the suicide missions. where he finds you lying on shoko's table or a frantic call from ijichi.

you hadn't moved on. drowning yourself in work and the feelings still unreciprocated. gojo said he'll wait for you. mend the broken pieces of your heart but can it be mended when it's long gone?

he finds himself taking care of you. a feat he never bothered with anyone. he gazes at you. the years piling up on you.

"what have you done, suguru." he badly wants to ask his friend who left you.

he grabs your hand in his. feel the softness of your hand in his roughed hands. it's warm. you were the breath of life in suguru's. he remembers the nights with drinks in their hands. suguru would talk about you fondly. a new kind of smile in suguru's face with your name in his lips.

now, it was left of unshed tears. the words you could never say in your right mind. it hurts. it hurts everywhere.

gojo shouldn't be affected by this. he got things to worry about but when he sees you. it's a reminder he still have you and it's not the end of suguru's absence.

"fuck you, suguru."

time couldn't heal the damage that had been done. it will haunt him and you with the ghosts of the past.

your eyes flutters open, you find gojo holding your hand.

"i'm sorry, satoru. i shouldn't have dragged you into this." the tears streaming down in your cheeks.

he kisses your knuckles, wipes the tears in your cheeks and he leans forward. kissing your forehead.

"it's not your fault, (y/n)." he assures you. his face softening while gazing at you. it's not your fault. you learned to love and suguru returned it.

he says, love is most twisted curse of all. you cursed yourself with it for suguru. he finally understands why he didn't cursed suguru at the end but he don't have an explanation for it.

for the strongest like him, he exorcised the toughest curses and humans alike and yet, he couldn't shield himself from cursing himself to you.

if loving you is being cursed, then so be it. he don't care even it lasts for a lifetime.

[evilvillain123456789]

in my noble pursuits i roam the streets of oregon, writhing, throbbing hard and wet and deep in vagabondage, scrawling in shit, sharpie, blood, gel pens- whatever i can find, upon the walls of the commons such delightful designs i invented of dog girls with big sparkly eyes and their wet mouths open. and their tongue sticking out. and I draw dragon girls with big sparkly eyes and their wet mouths open, and cat girls too. but i'll reveal to you a trade secret- i make them all look like the dog girls. i do. and its good that they look the way they do.. because i'm conserving my precious brain power for what's really important things- i need to writing a speech bubble coming out of their wet mouths that reads, Were here, were queer, or, Smash, the fash.. Vaccines save lives... of course there are other slogans, but i cannot think of any more at the moment. but this work i do is important. i do this to mark my territory. in the sense that i pray a beautiful goddess will come, see me huddled. within my impressive collection of vintage lego sets and empty coffee cups, and candy wrappers. and see how many twitter likes my graffiti and opinions got and accept me into her, multi partnered sexual relations, and her home, where i may roam freely with both her and the beasts that flock to lap up my taint wounds, and sing to me beautiful songs on their ukeleles... where we may paint nude torsos covered in all manner of jagged surgical scars... where monster energy flows freely as water... i dream of it, my paradise, i'm hoping, i'm coming, i'm coming.... but i digress.. i'm getting a bit ahead of myself, ha, me and my dreamers soul. i also do it to make sure any people of color passing through my turf know that they are not welcome here.

[epigstolary]

Deaf Ears

The half-eaten burger is still sitting on top of its wrapper, right where you left it on your nightstand. Three patties, six slices of cheese, smothered in grilled onions and special sauce. Each one easily over 1,000 calories. This was the third one you’d had today.

I tried to warn you about what would happen if you kept gaining at the rate you were going. I’d hoped that one of the many red flags about what you were doing to yourself would get your attention. That you might stop and take stock of what was happening when you got too fat to fit in the driver’s seat of your car. Or the passenger seat. Or when you started needing the cane to walk because your legs couldn’t handle the weight. Or when you moved on to the bariatric walker. Or when you needed the hoists and handles just to get out of bed.

But no, none of that made any impression. If anything, as your body grew and swelled and ballooned with new fat, you relished it. You spent more and more of your time just fondling the widening sweep of your belly, the plumper and fuller curve of your chest, the multiplying peaks and valleys of your side rolls. I could tell you enjoyed the bounce and wobble of your increasingly full, heavy, pendulous ass and hips on the increasingly brief occasions when you got up to walk anywhere. Having to lumber around, lugging the weight of your burgeoning thighs and blobby calves, both increasingly shapeless and unidentifiable, was a constant reminder of just how much your fat was taking over your body.

It shouldn’t have been any surprise, then, that you let the gains accelerate — wanted them to. For every time I suggested you try to at least gain clean, you insisted on getting whatever the most fattening, sugary, greasy, caloric option might be ten times over. You kept me busy making sure you were never without something you could be guzzling down, never in any danger of not being completely full, let alone hungry. The truly embarrassing amount of food in our kitchen, all of which would get dumped down your throat in a matter of days and replaced by the next batch, never fazed you. If anything, on the rare occasions you stopped and realized how much garbage you were putting away, your pudgy face would beam with obscene pride, any hint of shame at your condition — if you even felt it — buried by lust for the next family-size serving or tray of junk food coming your way.

But today was the day you stopped being able to ignore the consequences of indulging your worst habits. Nobody but you was surprised that an 800 (900? 1,000? We’ve been flying blind since you crushed the scale) pound hog is unsteady on their feet. You were making your usual stumbling shuffle from the bed to the couch and, too eager to have your morning box of coffee cakes, sent all your fat wobbling the wrong direction. At your size the walker wasn’t any help as you twisted, heard a snap, and went down in a blubbery heap. There was no way I could get you up from there, even if your fall hadn’t broken something.

Maybe the trip with the paramedics — having to let your enormously bloated body be manhandled onto a bariatric stretcher and bundled into an ambulance — will humble you a little from here on out. Maybe you’ll ease up on the gaining, and the constant eating. Or, probably more likely, being stuck in bed while you recover and the stress of trying to rehab a broken bone at your size will just drive you to gorge yourself to oblivion.

I’m not sure you could even stop if you tried, at this point. You and your body are too used to the constant flood of calories, sugar, endorphins to give that up, or even reduce it by much. You’re probably looking at some pretty steep gains, at a time when you’re least able to compensate for them, unless you do something drastic. And like usual, you’re probably going to insist that I keep a steady flow of garbage coming to you while you’re at the hospital — which definitely won’t make it any easier for you to maintain your weight. We’ll be lucky if you’re still small enough to get you back home once your treatment is done. More likely, you’ll end up ballooning too big for any ambulance to be able to cram all your lard inside. Too big to measure in pounds anymore, but instead how much of your hospital bed you take up — or overflow. Someone the staff talk about in hushed whispers as they watch you eat yourself out of the last few things your shapeless blob body is still barely able to do.

I tried to warn you, and you didn’t listen. This is your last chance to turn things around and save yourself from spending the rest of your life like this. But the text you just sent me asking to bring another slew of burgers to the hospital tells me you’re probably not going to take it. That you’re probably ending up inhumanly fat, immobile, and helplessly buried in your own bulk, no matter how much you may eventually come to regret it.

Guess that means I get to see just how much bulk we can make in the time you have left.

[optimaweightech]

Discover the Important Features of Packaging Machines

Packaging is one of the most important steps in the product development cycle. It not only helps in keeping the products safe but also offers them an appealing and attractive look. Traditionally, product packaging was done manually. It used to be quite time-consuming. Therefore, to overcome this issue, today, industries leverage different machines for packaging. In this blog, you will get to know the important features to keep in mind when purchasing your packaging machines. 

Benefits of Using Packaging Machines

Before you dive into the features of the packaging machines, let's take a quick look at the benefits of using them. 

·        Increased Speed

No doubt, the most obvious benefit of using packaging machines is the increased speed. It enhances the speed and efficiency of packing different items. It enables you to easily achieve a greater production rate compared to manual packaging. 

·        Better Quality Packaging

When packaging is done manually by humans, the chances of errors are common. As a result, there may be damage to the products, or the uniformity of packaging might be missing. The use of packaging machines helps in overcoming all these problems and enhancing the quality of packaging. Ultimately, it allows you to easily make your products more presentable and attractive for the customers.

·        Increased Employee Safety

Packaging is a tough task. It may require the use of heavy objects. While performing such tasks, the chances of injury are high. On the other hand, leveraging the automatic packaging and labelling machines can help in reducing employee injuries and ensure their safety.

 Top Features of Packaging Machines

Now that you know the benefits of using packaging machines, it is time to know about their important features. Let's explore!

·        Reliability

When purchasing a packaging machine for your business, reliability is a vital feature to consider. It is often taken lightly and overlooked. However, the lack of reliability can lead to inefficiencies and affect your overall production and planning process. Make sure to get a machine that is highly reliable. In other words, the machine must be able to produce high-quality and consistent outcomes every time.

·        Flexibility

Flexibility is another important feature of packaging machines. Modern machines must be able to pack products of different sizes and shapes. Having a flexible machine can provide you with optimum benefits and ensure better cost savings.

·        High Level of Automation

The higher the automation level of the packaging machines, the greater the accuracy. It can help in speeding up your production process. Moreover, it can also help you save a great deal of time and effort.

·        Less Maintenance

Look for packaging machines that have low maintenance requirements. They must be easy to operate, maintain, and repair. Also, ensure that the cleaning process is simple and easy. 

Conclusion

These are some of the essential features that packaging machines must have. Are you looking for the best-quality packaging machines or flow wrappers? If yes, Optima can be the right destination for you. Reach out to professional experts and get the right machines as per your needs.

Source: https://packagingmachinesaustralia.blogspot.com/2023/01/discover-important-features-of.html

[emrich]

Elevate Your Packaging Game with Emrich's PFM Hurricane Horizontal Flow Wrapper

In the fast-paced world of modern manufacturing, efficiency, precision, and versatility are the pillars upon which success is built. When it comes to packaging solutions that meet these demands and exceed expectations, Emrich's PFM Hurricane Horizontal Flow Wrapper stands out as a beacon of innovation and reliability. Let's explore why this machine is the go-to choice for businesses looking to elevate their packaging processes to new heights of excellence.

At the heart of Emrich's packaging arsenal lies the PFM Hurricane Horizontal Flow Wrapper – a masterpiece of engineering designed to streamline the packaging process and deliver exceptional results. Powered by advanced servo technology, this flow wrapper offers precise control over every aspect of packaging, from product feeding to film handling, sealing, and cutting. The result? Consistently perfect packages that reflect the quality and integrity of your brand.

Versatility is a hallmark of the PFM Hurricane Horizontal Flow Wrapper. Whether you're packaging food items, confectionery, pharmaceuticals, or household goods, this machine adapts seamlessly to your unique requirements. With the ability to handle a variety of products – from individual items to multipacks – the PFM Hurricane ensures optimal performance and flexibility across a wide range of applications.

Ease of use is another key feature of the PFM Hurricane Horizontal Flow Wrapper. Equipped with an intuitive interface, operators can easily program and adjust settings to suit specific packaging needs. Real-time monitoring capabilities allow for fine-tuning of parameters such as film tension, sealing temperature, and speed, ensuring optimal results with minimal effort.

Durability and reliability are integral to the design of the PFM Hurricane Horizontal Flow Wrapper. Constructed from high-quality materials and built to withstand the rigors of continuous production, this machine ensures long-term operation and minimal maintenance requirements, maximizing uptime and productivity for your business.

But perhaps the most compelling reason to choose the PFM Hurricane Horizontal Flow Wrapper is Emrich's commitment to customer satisfaction. With a team of experienced engineers and technicians on hand to provide comprehensive support and assistance, Emrich goes above and beyond to ensure that every client receives the highest level of service and satisfaction.

In conclusion, the PFM Hurricane Horizontal Flow Wrapper from Emrich is more than just a packaging machine – it's a game-changer for businesses seeking to optimize their packaging processes and drive success. With its advanced technology, unmatched versatility, and unwavering reliability, this machine is a must-have for any production environment looking to stay ahead of the competition. Elevate your packaging game with the PFM Hurricane Horizontal Flow Wrapper and experience the difference it can make for your business.

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[answer2jeff]

Life Imitates Art —Carmen Berzatto.

PART 1/2.

warnings: fluff. painter!reader x roommate!carmen. unestablished relationships. clunky overly detailed writing. carmy being concerned. angsty. mutual pinning. (reader is lowkey mentally unstable like Carmen. i can't write 100% healthy relationships i'm sorry!!!)

a/n: sorry i disappeared and didn't write for weeks and decided to randomly drop this!

You needed inspiration.

With your last three pieces bought out from the French art gallery, L'art de L'amour, you hadn't touched your easel in days. Your brushes had gone dry, the paint clumping and staining every bristle. The lack of desire to make art felt like you hadn't seen the sun in 10 years.

You'd been ignoring this dreadful feeling with sleep.

Long day at the studio, the space filled with no one but younger, starving artists who wanted to admire your work for creative flow—but never wanting to know the real meaning behind every brush stroke, or why you used oil paints for specific pieces? Sleep.

The days fell shorter, the nights falling longer.

Even your roommate, a micromanager of his career, noticed.

It surprised you, possibly more than it should've. When you first moved into this apartment, you had every doubt in the world sharing a space would be enjoyable. For a while, you weren't sure if you could call yourselves "friends." Then again, living with a complete stranger—a man, no less, seemed impractical. But after a month or two, it was refreshing in a way. Carmen always cleaned up after himself, and was never opposed to splitting chores. There was no need to set specific boundaries. You felt respected, cared for. Every minute not overpowered by either of your desires to create were mostly spent with each other. It kept you sane.

You woke up to the sound of Carmen walking into the kitchen, cursing under his breath when he struggled to shut the door of your apartment behind him. Reluctantly, you dragged yourself out of bed, only to find that your bedroom door was wide open. You must've gone straight to bed after spending the entire evening trying and expectedly failing at "cleaning" up the apartment so Carmen wouldn't come home to a mess.

Bare feet pattered against the floorboards, the palm of your hand pressing into your tired eyes. You stretched your arms out, your t-shirt, who you weren't sure if it was yours or Carmen's, lifting up and showing just a sliver of your stomach over your grey sweatpants. The sunlight leaking through the windows blinded you.

"Oh, hey. You're up." A warm, welcoming voice greeted you, followed by the fridge being closed shut after restocking it with the necessities he picked up from Whole Foods.

You blinked to see Carmen hovered over the kitchen counter, clad in a navy-blue crewneck and gold chain dangling from his pale neck. His hands pried at a familiar brown wrapper. Blueberry muffins.

"Hey, yourself," you slurred, barely able to keep your eyes open as you hoisted yourself up onto the marble surface. You gazed down at him, grinning at his messy blonde curls.

Carmen smiled back, blue eyes admiring the sight of you: half asleep, your voice raspy while still having that airy cadence, your hair messier than it was the last time he willingly saw you—which he couldn't totally remember. He came home to the sight of your bedroom dimly lit by your bedside lamp.

"It's noon," he muttered, glancing from his phone on the counter, and back to you.

"Shit. Really?"

"Yeah. You've been sleeping a lot lately," he kept his stare on you as he opened the cabinet beside you, reminding you to 'watch your head' as he grabbed a ceramic plate.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

Your mind wandered to your exhibit. The thought of never having the ability to create such extraordinary work terrified you. So much that you hadn't even tried. It was almost embarrassing: Carmen seeing you like this. Rid of the one thing you convinced yourself you knew how to do.

"Not really."

You wanted to laugh. Maybe he just didn't get it.

If you could make even the painfully mundane into something more, than maybe you were more than just existing. Carmen was actually astounded by you and your work, even with the lack of knowledge in other art forms. Culinary was his calling, but for you? Oh, how he tried to grasp every concept you conveyed in your creative works. All in attempt to comprehend every thought in that pretty little head of yours.

Maybe he didn't understand as much as he wished, but maybe he didn't have to totally 'get it' to get you. Carmen found it hard to read people, their feelings, their true intentions, his whole life. But for once, he had confidence in his intoxicating marvel for everything you did. Even the way you covered your mouth when you laughed around everyone except him, or the way you styled your hair

"Well, it was for the sake of art," you smiled, extending your hand out to accept the plate that held the beautifully baked blueberry muffin. "Thanks for these, by the way."

"Pleasure. And I was actually gonna ask you about that. The—the art. Your art." Carmen joined you on the counter, his feet dangling beside yours. Your shoulders bumped past each other, a laugh coming from the both of you.

"Yeah? What about it?" You bit into your muffin, your gaze never leaving his.

"Well, I uh—I kinda wanted to visit your exhibit, y'know? Get to see it in its full form. I would've asked sooner but—"

"Yeah, yeah, it's okay. I know. Um—that'd be great. That's really nice of you, Carm."

A part of you wondered why he wanted to see it. But it wasn't all too surprising. Carmen took every chance he got to see your studio—even taking the initiative to drive you home from it on late nights, where you'd be endlessly analyzing your works even hours after Carmen would leave what was now, The Bear.

"Nah, I mean, I've just seen all that y'do and it's—" Carmen shrugged, struggling to find the right words to express his admiration without changing the atmosphere, "really cool. It's you, y'know?" His bottom lip was barred by his teeth and he looked into you for an answer.

You wished you could understand how the complexities of a kitchen; how it could clutch Carmen's attention to the point of no return, but you were happy for him. He was making something more of "mom and dads piece of shit," as he called it.

You never thought it was anything short of fucking awesome. He had all of this experience, drive, passion. Carmen felt more real, more rawly human to you than anything. Or anyone you'd met before.

He changed you. You were softer, calmer.

And still, you worried for him, dragging him out of the ever all consuming anxiety. Sometimes this was through watching X-file reruns on the couch. And every night, you'd move a little closer. By now, he'd keep an arm around you as your eyes became heavy and the room stirred with darkness and comfortable silence. He prayed to whatever ruled above him that you wouldn't notice, simultaneously wishing you'd want him to hold you gently like this. Even grocery store trips, something so simple, felt this way—which you missed out on this morning. You'd stand on the edge of the cart, your hands supporting your weight as Carmen pushed the handle with both hands, eyes scanning the isle for whatever obscure ingredient he needed for the dinner he planned on making you that night.

Every time he looked away, you stared. His beautifully carved nose, the way he bit the inside of his cheek and furrowed his blonde eyebrows when he tried to focus on making a decision. You were afraid, in a weird, animalistic way. You hadn't stopped yourself from relying on him. What if loving him this way made him pull away–or worse, you? You had to admit, having something this painfully simple in your life that made up for the chaos, was a little hard to accept.

It took everything in you to pretend you didn't notice him cleaning up the bathroom you shared whenever either of you left your belongings lying around. You wanted to convince yourself it was because he didn't want to come off as a slob, or influence you to be one yourself. But it always felt more like he was looking after you. Nothing that belonged to you would ever be misplaced again. Not with Carmen around.

You took pride in the little things. Your shoes placed next to each other near the front door, your toothbrushes leaning against each other with corresponding colored clips to cover their bristles. This was good. Change was good.

[green-eyedfirework]

The car drove smoothly and silently, a dark shadow on the dimly lit streets of Bludhaven.  The interior was muffled—Dick couldn’t hear any of the city noises, or the car, or the driver and the guard sitting up front, neither giving him a second glance.  It left him along with his mind, which made it really hard to pretend like he didn’t know what was going on.

He’d been accosted on his way back from the corner store.  They’d taken his grocery bags too, the driver slipping the two recyclable cloth bags from his hands like a poised valet while the guard opened the door for him, dropping the bags in the trunk like that wasn’t where Dick’s body was going to end up.  Politeness masking threat.

They hadn’t even flashed a weapon at him.  They hadn’t needed to.  Slade Wilson’s name was enough of a loaded gun.

Dick had thought things were getting better.  He’d made a new life for himself, a quieter one, less concerned with the shifting flows of power in the city.  He’d thought that if he left them alone, they’d leave him alone.  He was a fool.

The dread sitting in Dick’s gut grew larger as they passed through the wrought-iron gates of the Kane family home.

The drive up was a familiar home, the sight of the front door a looming omen.�� His first step inside felt like something was strangling his lungs, wrapped tight and squeezing like it wouldn’t let go.

He shouldn’t be here.  He shouldn’t be here.  He’d quit the police force, he’d squared his debts with the Kanes, there was absolutely no reason for him to be dragged back here.

Except for one.

Dick wasn’t led to the parlor he’d visited last time but down, into the basement.  They were stopped outside a guarded door.  “Mr. Wilson wishes to see Richard Grayson,” his escort said.

The pat-down was impersonal but thorough.  Dick’s wallet, phone, and keys were all taken from him.  Even a couple of empty candy wrappers were yanked from his pockets.  Dick’s stomach twisted into knots as his belongings were taken away, leaving him standing in front of the door with no weapons and no help.  He felt uncomfortably bare.

There was a knock before Dick was motioned inside.  The room was another parlor—bigger, with groups of armchairs by an electric fire, light dim and intimate.  A bar spanned the back wall and shadowed mirrors gave the impression that the room was larger and more maze-like than it actually was.  A smoking room, though Dick could smell no smoke.  Where men of a certain affiliation could drink and play cards while they discussed business.

The room was nearly empty.  Guards at each corner, silent and still, like statues in the darkened room, and Wintergreen, sitting by the fire, watching Dick with a solemn expression.  And, of course, Wilson himself, leaning against another armchair and watching Dick approach, his face so rigid it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Grayson,” Wilson said, voice cold and sharp, like a blade of ice scraping down Dick’s spine.  His eye glimmered in the low light, his gaze searing.  There was no scowl, no raised voice, no narrowed eyebrows, and yet all Dick could sense was burning fury.

Wilson was not a man inclined to rage.

“Mr. Wilson,” Dick said, as evenly as he could manage, resisting the urge to cross his arms.  He didn’t ask any questions.  He wasn’t sure Wilson’s control would stretch that far.

“I had to visit the hospital yesterday,” Wilson said, steady and even.  “Do you know why?”

Dick swallowed.  The sound felt obscenely loud in the silent room.  Dick wasn’t sure if anyone else was breathing—he certainly wasn’t.

“Rose,” Dick said quietly.  “Rose broke her arm during class yesterday.”

Working at a gym was a breath of fresh air and Dick loved teaching.  Even the addition of Rose Wilson to his class, signed up by her fiercely glowering older brother, hadn’t rung the warning bells.  Rose was a kid, after all, and Dick didn’t judge children for their parents.  The Kanes made no motion to interfere at the gym and Rose was treated like any other student, albeit one dropped off and picked up by an armed driver in a bulletproof car with a bodyguard lurking in the lobby all session.

“Mm.  At a class we send her to for her enrichment and entertainment.  A class we’re certainly not expected to being contacted by to relate a major injury.”  Dick winced as Wilson straightened fluidly off of the armchair, his presence a black hole of fury.  “What.  Happened.”

“It was an accident,” Dick said weakly, trying not to flinch back as Wilson strode towards him.  The man’s hands were empty but that didn’t help the shrieking klaxons in Dick’s head.  “A couple of girls got tangled up when they were practicing on the mats.  It’s no one’s fault.”

“No one’s fault,” Wilson repeated in a tone of polite skepticism, like he was giving Dick the opportunity to correct himself.

“It was an accident,” Dick said again, for a lack of anything else to say.  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilson, but there’s always an element of risk in practicing—”

“Give me your arm.”

“What?” Dick asked blankly.

Wilson didn’t repeat his question, merely held out his hand, waiting.  Dick swallowed, the knot in his stomach a living, growing thing, and offered his hand to the man.

The grip was firm but gentle, not bruising or twisting.  “Rose broke her right arm,” Wilson informed him, as though Dick didn’t know, as though he hadn’t been there, consoling the crying girl as he called for her bodyguard and an ambulance.  “Clean break.  At least a month in a cast.”

Wilson eased the cuff of Dick’s shirt up past his elbow and observed his arm, turning it from side to side.  Dick let him, heart pounding his ears, not daring to put up any resistance.

“Have you broken an arm before?” Wilson asked conversationally.

“Yes.”

“Remember what it felt like?”

“Yes.”  His throat was as dry as sandpaper.

Wilson traced lightly across the skin, finally gripping Dick’s elbow in one hand, his wrist in another.  “It takes somewhere around a hundred and fifty pounds of pressure to break a human bone,” Wilson informed him.  Dick didn’t move.  Dick didn’t breathe.  Dick didn’t dare.  “An injury here would hobble you for a month.  Are you right-handed?”  Dick mutely shook his head.  “I suppose it won’t cause too much hardship then.”

Wilson’s grip tightened—and let go.

Dick took in a shuddering breath.  He choked on it when Wilson stepped past him and behind him, fitting himself against Dick’s back.  He could see the man in the mirror opposite them, looming behind Dick, his expression shadowed and his stare dark.

“But here—” a finger jabbed at Dick, low on his spine—“here, a fracture would do considerably more harm.  Leave you lying on a bed for weeks.  If the bone doesn’t displace further and slice the spinal cord.  Then you’d never be able to walk again.”

Dick stared at himself in the mirror, ashen, wide-eyed, and utterly still.

“Up here,” the finger traced its way up his spine, stopping mid-back, “it’ll destroy a lot of voluntary organ signals.  Things like pissing and shitting.”

Wilson spoke with the kind of unconcern one would use to talk about the weather.

“And up here,” Wilson murmured, voice dropping to something low and gravelly as his finger traced up to the base of Dick’s neck, “you’d never be able to twitch a finger again.”  Dick’s fingers jerked.  “What a shame that would be, for such a star acrobat.”

The lump in his throat was too big to swallow.  Too big to speak.  Wilson wouldn’t, he couldn’t—but he could.  No one could stop him.  Dick was all alone in the lion’s den and no one was interested in saving him from being mauled.  He couldn’t even turn to look at Wintergreen, to beg him with a beseeching gaze, still transfixed by the sight of them in the mirror.

He looked small, standing in front of Slade.  Fragile.  Breakable.

Wilson met his gaze in the mirror.  “Who caused the incident?” he asked evenly.  His fingers curled around Dick’s neck, thumb pressing in at the top of his spine.

Dick distantly registered his mouth opening.  “It was an accident,” he said, hollow and faraway.

“Give me the name.”

Wilson was scowling now, visible anger to match the obvious fury.  Dick remembered the stories of what happened to the people that hurt Joey.  The darker rumors that they all pretended didn’t happen.  The lengths Wilson would, could, and had proven to go to when his family had been harmed.

When Dick blinked, a tear traced its way down his cheek.

“No.”

It came out strangled, but still it came out.  Dick wanted to close his eyes, to turn away from the impending violence, but he was frozen in place by nothing more than the threat of a single hand, watching the predator at his back.

He couldn’t twitch a single finger.

“Excuse me?”  A hint of fury.  An out.  Offering the opportunity for Dick to change his answer, to throw himself on whatever mercy the mobster possessed by selling out another.

“No.”  This time it came easier.

Wilson held his gaze, a long, unbroken moment that felt half like a dream.  Like Dick was already dead and this was what his mind had clung to to stave off the realization.  The world was reduced to Wilson’s single burning ice blue eye and the intent in them.

The fingers uncurled.  Dick didn’t fully register they were gone until Wilson stepped back, turning away from him and heading to an armchair.  “Make me an Old Fashioned,” he said curtly, joining Wintergreen near the fire.

Dick turned to look at him, still rooted to the spot.  “What?” he scraped out hoarsely.

“The drink,” Wilson clarified.

Dick stared at him a moment longer before he forced his legs to move.  The first one felt like walking through toffee, his limbs jerking like they were attached to puppet strings, but he managed to head towards the bar.  The thought of it was slightly ludicrous—Dick was going to be tortured, but goddamn if Wilson had to make his own drinks—and Dick clung to that as he stumbled to the bar with shaking legs.

It was an additional barrier between him and Wilson, as paltry as the protection was, and Dick gripped the wooden tabletop tight.  He tried to slip into a breathing exercise, taking the pause to reorient himself.  There had to be a way to change Wilson’s mind.  He couldn’t let Wilson do whatever he’d planned to that poor girl.  It had been an accident.

Dick found the sugar, the bitters, the glasses and the muddler, plotting furiously, and he was searching for the ice in the freezer when Wilson spoke again.

“Annalise Stryker.”

Dick hit his head on the underside of the bar trying to scramble back up.  “What?” he asked, chest squeezing tight again.

“Annalise Stryker is the girl that fell onto my daughter,” Wilson said, watching Dick.  “Or at least, that’s how Rose tells it.”

Of course Rose would tell her father what happened.  Of course he already knew.  The whole thing was—what?  An attempt to see how much Dick would volunteer?  Whether he would give him a different name?  Dick just—there was too much information swirling around his head, combining with panic, lending terror and adrenaline to his muscles.

“It was an accident,” Dick said.  He made no attempt to confirm or deny the name.  “It was an accident, Mr. Wilson, it was unfortunate, they mixed up a movement and tumbled into each other, that’s all it was.  There’s no one to blame.”

“There’s always someone to blame.”

“Mr. Wilson—”

“My drink,” Wilson said, already turning away from him.  Dick cursed under his breath and dropped a sugar cube into the glass, his hand trembling as he splashed bitters in after it.  The muddler wasn’t a proper weapon, but Dick felt slightly better with it in his hand.

“Please, Mr. Wilson, no one intended to hurt your daughter,” Dick tried again.  The sugar cube was breaking apart rather forcefully under his shaky grip.  “They’re just children—”

“I was sixteen when I murdered my father,” Wilson responded, not looking back at him.  The sugar cube was in as few fragments as Dick’s strained nerves could bear, and he hunted for ice.  “It was entirely premediated.”  There was a tray with ice blocks and it took him four tries to pry one free with shaking fingers.  “Children can be capable of cruelty, Grayson.”

“It was an accident,” Dick repeated, staring at Wilson, willing him to understand.

“Is my drink done?” Wilson asked, disinterested.

Dick’s fingers contracted around the glass.  He turned to stare at the wall of bottles, scanning over labels and distantly noting that most of them cost more than a single one of his paychecks.  He grabbed the first bottle of whiskey he found.

There’s always someone to blame.

More whiskey sloshed into the glass than he expected, but it didn’t matter, the drink didn’t fucking matter.  He dropped a cherry inside and stuck an orange slice on the rim before carrying it to Wilson.  Not, altogether, one of the better products of his mixology skills.

Dick waited until Wilson took the glass from him before he spoke.  “If you need someone to blame,” he said quietly, “blame me.”  Wilson’s gaze tilted back up towards him.  “I’m the teacher.  It’s my responsibility to watch the class.  It’s my responsibility to keep them safe.  If someone gets hurt, it’s my fault, not anyone else’s.”

He didn’t know if Wilson had already gone after Annalise.  If any of his kids were safe.  If this would be enough.  But he had to try.

Wilson took a slow, measured sip of the cocktail.  “Not bad,” he said.

Dick closed his eyes for a moment, balling his hands into fists before loosening them.  “It’s hard to mess up an Old Fashioned,” Dick said tightly.

“I wasn’t talking about the drink.”  Wilson was smirking now, amusement lurking in his eye as he leaned back in the armchair.  “I know full well that accidents happen, Grayson, and especially during athletic training.  But a good teacher minimizes risk.  A good teacher protects their students.”  He considered Dick, gaze wandering all over.  “Even at the cost of themself.”

Dick didn’t understand.  The mood in the room had shifted and it didn’t make any sense.  Wilson no longer looked like a stalking wolf but a satiated one, indulgently watching the others take their fill.  The aura of threat that had hung over Dick like a weighted cloak was abruptly gone.

“I’m not going to harm a single hair on Stryker’s head.  Or yours, for that matter.  It does Rose some good to see firsthand the price of not being careful enough.”  Wilson shrugged lightly.  “Children will never learn if you wrap them in a bubble.”

There was no air in the room.  Or at least there was none in his lungs.  Dick’s legs wavered and Wilson’s eye narrowed when Dick knocked into a side table stumbling back.

“This—this was a test,” Dick said numbly, trying to square together actions and words, trying to fit the terror-inducing fury with the milder amusement.  “You were—this whole thing was a test.”

“You might want to sit down,” Wilson said, voice still amused but expression narrowing further.

Dick hadn’t been in danger.  The threats weren’t real.  Wilson wasn’t going to cripple him, wasn’t going to rend him into little pieces for the affront.  Or at least, not since he passed the test.

His hand found the side of an armchair and Dick let himself collapse into it, heart beating violently and fingers still trembling.  They were getting worse, in fact, and Dick buried his face in his hands and took several shuddering, choking breaths, each higher and sharper than the last.

He didn’t know when he started crying, but hitched tears masked any sign of footsteps and Dick startled out of his skin when his hand was tugged free and wrapped around a glass.  The drink he’d made.  “You look like you need it,” Wilson said.

Dick knocked the drink back in one long swallow, sugar crystals crunching in his mouth as the ice kissed his lips.  It didn’t make him feel any better, it just added a slow burn to the twisting in his chest.  Dick’s next shaky inhale dissolved into fresh tears.

“You’re safe.”  Wilson took the glass from his hands and gently set it down on the side table.  “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

Dick almost choked on the ridiculousness of it, of being reassured by the man that had him brought to his dungeon and intimated slow, personalized torture.  “Says the wolf to the sheep,” he muttered.

Not quite under his breath, apparently.

“You’re hardly a sheep, Officer Grayson,” Wilson gave him a languid smile, thumb settling on Dick’s jaw and nudging it up.  “You have claws.”

“I’m not a cop anymore,” Dick pointed out.  Strangely, the hand on his face was grounding, settling him in place.

“I’m aware.”

“Then why?” Dick asked, waving a hand at the room.  “Why do all this?  Why the inquisition?”

Why me?

Wilson’s thumb drifted higher, until it was brushing his lips.  The look on Wilson’s face was a threat again, dark and predatory and full of desire, the kind that sent a thrill down Dick’s spine.

“Because you interest me, Richard Grayson.”

Dick swallowed.  Watched Wilson follow the movement.  “I don’t think it’s a good thing.”

A slow, wicked smile.  “Probably not.”  He pulled on Dick’s chin and Dick followed the movement, rising up to his feet, transfixed by Wilson’s gaze.  “I’m not a good man.”

Wilson kissed gentler than Dick expected, firm but not demanding, languorous and attentive, like he was trying to taste every drop of whiskey still clinging to Dick’s lips.  Dick’s legs felt weak again, his grip on Wilson’s shoulders feeble, feeling not unlike a leaf being tossed by the raging current.

[planitpackaging]

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