#Fermentation Tank

[pureyindustry]

Wine Fermentation Tank and Beer Fermentation Tank: Necessary Tools in Making Excellent Beverages

Are you curious about how the right fermentation tank can elevate your brewing or winemaking process? Our beer fermentation tanks, crafted from stainless steel, ensure durability and precise temperature control essential for quality brews. Conical designs facilitate easy yeast and sediment removal, enhancing clarity. For optimal results, choose PureyMech’s fermentation tanks, engineered for excellence. To know more or to visit our website, explore our offerings today!

[sinoprettech]

Open Top Fermentation Tanks

| Product specification

The Open Top Fermentation Tanks is designed for the fermentation of red wine, offering unrestricted access to the grape cap while facilitating convenient cap submersion. Its spacious, inclined bottom ensures a seamless and effortless removal of skins and seeds post-fermentation.

| Certificate

Over 100 patents including utility,invrention and industrial design.

Pass through ISO certificates of ISO9001/22000/ 45001, and other export certificates of CE, PED, API650, AS1210, AS1692, CSA.

| Processing Machinery

Pretank use advanced processing machines to fabricate our stainless steel tanks,including auto Robbot welding machine,laser cutting/welding machine,CNC lathe,plasma cutting and automatic welding machines.

The machines replace labor working and minimize the human fault& tanks defects,improve tank quality, shorten construction period.

| About Company

Pretank is established in 1971, it’s the largest-scale and longest-history stainless steel vessels manufacturer in China，with 4000 staff, 666,000 m㎡ floor space and US$240 million annual sales. We have the most advanced technology, R&D capability in the industry,adopt solidworks and AutoCAD to design vessels, Engaged in formulation of National Standard in designing, producing, inspection and transportation.

[brewscoop]

Caught on camera: A craft brewery explosion in Minnesota sparked a viral sensation, reminding us all of the unexpected and often explosive nature of brewing. Discover the story of resilience, humor, and community that brewed from the incident. #CraftBreweryExplosion

[ndpaccom]

10 BBL Uni-tank Fermenter Jacketed & Insulatedx

Fully equipped pressure resistant, glycol jacketed, stainless steel cylindroconical vessel designed for fermentation, maturation and carbonisation of most types of beverages.

Unitank is a new model that has all the bells and whistles of our regular fermenters (Fermenter Tank CCV) but also comes with a more durable EPDM manhole gasket, solenoid valve for coolant, a larger 30% (instead of 25%) tank headspace and has the carbonation stone and sampling valve mounted on the cone.

For more Information: https://www.ndpac.com/product-category/food-processing-industry/beer-fermenters-tanks/

[ske-equipment]

If you're looking for a complete craft brewery solution, look no further than SKE Equipment. Founded in 2000, SKE Equipment has been at the forefront of the brewing industry for over 20 years, providing turn-key solutions for craft breweries of all sizes. From design and engineering to installation and commissioning, SKE Equipment offers a complete range of services to ensure your brewery runs smoothly and efficiently. With a focus on quality, reliability, and innovation, SKE Equipment is the ideal partner for brewers who want to take their craft to the next level.

[homestucky]

so what im picturing is like. say theyre invited to a house party. dave is deposited by the snacks where he will delicately graze like a cautious gazelle for the duration of their visit. karkat is deployed to stomp around until he locates the host and can yell "YOU HAVE A LOVELY HOME". he returns to the snack table and pulls the still chewing dave out of the door. surgical precision. theyre back at home in bed eating a dinner of stolen party provisions and watching The Wedding Singer (1998) starring Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore by 9:30pm. they suck so bad. do you see my vision? is this valid? I dearly hope so. im in my late 20s

davekat to me is like. two loser dudes who superficially seem like theyd be constantly blazing it but they both have too much anxiety to actually obtain weed. theyre stone cold sober 99.999% of the time and make their stupid decisions with every faculty they have functioning exactly as intended.

[onceuponatown]

The Great Molasses Flood was a disaster in Boston that occurred after a storage tank collapsed on January 15, 1919, sending more than two million gallons (eight million litres) of molasses flowing through the city’s North End. The deluge caused extensive damage and killed 21 people.

The tank was built in 1915 along Boston’s waterfront on Commercial Street, opposite Copp’s Hill. It was operated by the Purity Distilling Company, a subsidiary of United States Industrial Alcohol (USIA). At the time, industrial alcohol—then made from fermented molasses—was highly profitable; it was used to make munitions and other weaponry for World War I (1914–18). The tank’s immense size reflected the demand: it measured more than 50 feet (15 metres) high and 90 feet (27 metres) in diameter and could hold up to 2.5 million gallons (9.5 million litres) of molasses. Built quickly, the tank was problematic from the start, leaking and often emitting rumbling noises. Nevertheless, it continued to be used, and after the war’s conclusion USIA focused on producing grain alcohol, which was in high demand as prohibition neared passage.

At approximately 12:30 PM on January 15, 1919, the tank burst, releasing a deluge of “sweet, sticky death.” According to reports, the resulting wave of molasses was 15 to 40 feet (5 to 12 metres) high and some 160 feet (49 metres) wide. Traveling at approximately 35 miles (56 km) per hour, it destroyed several city blocks, leveling buildings and damaging automobiles. Although help arrived quickly, the hardening molasses made rescue efforts difficult. In the end, 21 people were killed, many of whom were suffocated by the syrup, and approximately 150 were injured. In addition, the Boston Post noted that a number of horses had “died like so many flies on sticky fly paper.” Clean-up efforts lasted for weeks, and Boston reportedly continued to smell like molasses for years afterward.

Numerous lawsuits were filed in the wake of the disaster. While victims alleged that the tank was not safe, USIA claimed that it had been sabotaged by “evilly disposed persons.” In 1925, however, it was ruled that the tank was unsound, and USIA was ordered to pay damages. In addition, the disaster resulted in stricter construction codes being adopted by states across the country.

For years, questions were raised over how such a seemingly benign substance could have caused so many deaths. In 2016, researchers released a study that placed the blame on cold temperatures. While warm weather would have caused the molasses to be less viscous, the winter temperatures made the syrup markedly thicker, severely impeding rescuers.

[storiesofsvu]

Solace

Rita Calhoun x reader warnings: language, brief mention of svu style angst, smut, dirty talk, thigh riding. sub!rita

Rita was home late, later than usual and much later than she had intended when she originally left her office. It was only supposed to be a drink, maybe two while she vented to Elana about the bullshit direction her case was going but one thing always led to another and this time that meant nearly finishing a bottle of wine. Normally these evenings were spent complaining about how annoying her client was, how stupid they were when they thought they were a genius, how the only reason they were on her client list in the first place was daddy’s money. Tonight it was the complete opposite, she’d taken a pro-bono, suggested through Rafael for an incredibly tricky case where she knew that her client was innocent, that they didn’t deserve suffering through a trial much less the prison time they were likely now facing. It was rare that she felt this defeated, that things didn’t feel right and it was eating away at her from the inside out.

The only light left on in the kitchen was the one above the stove, the living room dark and she felt a pang of guilt wash through her at the thought of you waiting up for her. A sliver of light shone down the hallway from the ajar bedroom door, soft music wafting through the air and she took a breath of relief, at least you weren’t already asleep. Nudging the bedroom door open she caught you coming back from the en-suite in a pair of thin beige joggers and a tank you usually slept in.

“Hey.” You greeted with a warm smile, making your way over to her your hand braced on her elbow you leant in, pressing a tender kiss to her cheek and Rita felt the warmth soothe through her veins at the touch.

“I’m sorry I’m so late.”

“It’s alright.” You squeezed at her elbow, “you’ve had a rough week.” You took the blazer folded over her arm, adding it to the dry cleaning pile in the walk in, “did you eat?”

There was a slight pause, “does a salad count?”

You popped back into the room with a brow raised and Rita knew she was already caught, “not if the salad was made up of fermented grapes.”

She let out a soft sigh, stepping out of her shoes and moving through the room to take out her earrings, “fine.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Am I going to wake up to you nearly burning the house down at three in the morning?”

“They have delivery apps for that.” She nearly scowled, looking at you through the mirror and you laughed, wrapping your arms around her from behind.

“Well… if you don’t want food… and you’ve already had something to drink…” your lips brushed against her neck once, twice, “I can think of something else that might make you feel better?”

“Darling…” she sighed, her shoulders sinking at the thought of disappointing you after leaving you hanging all evening, “I just really don’t have the energy—”

“Who said anything about you having to do anything?” You asked, a gleam in your eye as your hands moved to her hips and turned her around to face you, “you’ve had a long week.” Leaning in, you kissed her softly, your lips brushing against hers as you spoke, “let me take care of you, hmm?” Your hands began tugging at the hem of her shirt, untucking it from her skirt so you had access to her skin underneath the fabric as you leant in again, kissing her gently. She let out a soft sigh into the kiss, her arms instinctively wrapping around your shoulders as she melted into your embrace, feeling a tingling starting under her skin, her head already beginning to get fuzzy.

“I do suppose that might help.” She murmured.

“I thought so.”

You playfully nipped at her lower lip before kissing her again, letting her relax into the embrace as your hands slid under her blouse, cold fingers running paths on her heated skin. She sighed into the kiss and you took the opportunity to slide your tongue into her mouth, gracefully rolling along with hers. When your hands crept upwards, gently pawing at her chest she let out a soft moan, her body melting even more into your arms.

“That’s it baby.” You cooed, your lips kissing across her jawline, finger curling under her chin to tilt her head away from you so you could trail kisses down her neck. “Just relax for me. You deserve it.”

When you nipped at her neck she let out a quiet hiss and you couldn’t help but chuckle against her skin, your hands tugging her shirt over her head before tossing it in the direction of the laundry. Her bra was quick to join it, her nipples hardening in the cool bedroom air as you kissed her again, tongue immediately slinking into her mouth. Your hands found her hips, backing her up until her back hit the wall and she let out a small ‘oof’ into the kiss, your lips curving up into a grin at the noise. You tugged on her skirt, yanking it upwards until you could feel the hem of it and you were able to bunch it up around her waist.

“Think we can get rid of these.” You murmured as your fingers slipped into the waistband of her panties, tugging them down her legs and she was quick to kick them off, her hands grasping at you to pull you back into another kiss.

Your hands slid up her body, cupping her chest, thumbs rubbing back and fourth over her nipples before pinching them. Rita broke the kiss with a gasp, her head dropping back against the wall and her hips rolling toward your body. Rather than walking her to the bed like she expected, you slotted a leg between hers, nudging your knee right against the wall so her bare cunt was right on your pant leg.

“Someone’s getting antsy…Go on, ride my thigh.”

“Fuck.” She muttered, her hands bracing on your shoulders as she ground down onto your leg, letting out a whimper as her pussy dragged across your thigh.

“That’s it,” you murmured, placing a kiss right under her ear, “grind that pretty pussy on me, I know you want to.”

Rita groaned softly, her arms tightening around your shoulders as one of your hands slunk up her body to pinch and toy with her chest again. Your lips made a home in the crook of her neck, alternating between biting, sucking and kissing at her supple skin. A shuddering breath escaped from the back of her throat when her clit pressed down onto your thigh, her body shivering as tingles started moving through her. She had already completely forgotten about work, the stressors beginning to melt away from her body the moment your lips touched her. She could feel the tension she’d been holding all week dissipating, dripping away all the way from her head to her toes to be replaced with tiny bursts of fireworks as pleasure took over her only thought process. The lazy roll of her hips was just enough to get her going, her pussy beginning to flutter around nothing as you nudged your leg harder against her.

“C’mon baby, let go. I wanna hear you, you can get louder, can’t you?” You pinched her nipples as you spoke, pulling a low swear from her before one of your hands ran down her side, wrapping around her hip and you began to guide her.

“Oh god..”

“That’s it.” You purred, nipping at her earlobe, your hand guiding her faster as you flexed your thigh, pushing her harder down onto it and she moaned again. “You like that? Hmm?” Your lips brushed against her skin, “that feel good?”

“Mmhmm.” She did her best to nod as her pulsing clit brushed against your leg, her thighs trembling around you.

“You’re so good for me.” Your thumb brushed over her nipple, flicking gently at it, “so good to me. Need to make sure you relax more often, you’re too stressed.” Your hand pressed her down onto your thigh with more pressure and she groaned right into your ear, her fingers clawing at the fabric of your shirt. “Need to play with that pretty pussy more often, don’t I? I bet you’d like that. Already struggle to keep my hands off of you, may as well play with these perfect tits before even getting out of bed.” You enunciated your words by squeezing at her chest, rolling her nipple between your finger and thumb. “Could probably start fingering you in the shower, make you nice and relaxed to start your day off? Hmm?” Your teeth scraped against the column of her neck and Rita ground down onto your thigh, her hips rocking faster now as your words egged her on.

“Fuck…”

“Yeah, I think I’d like that too, feeling your warm pussy wrapped around my fingers, always so fuckin’ wet for me, dripping down my wrist as you squeeze around me.”

Rita’s whimpering grew louder and more frequent, she could feel the wetness between her legs growing with each time you spoke, juices no doubt smearing all over your pants as she rode your thigh. Her cunt pulsed, clit swollen and needy and she had to angle her hips perfectly to get it to grind against your leg. She was starting to lose her breath, caught up in the dirty things you were saying and the pleasure coursing through her entire body. She felt a flame burning inside her, prickling under her skin as your hands toyed with her body in the utterly perfect way, you always knew the exact places to touch her to make her come completely undone.

“Course, I couldn’t let you leave the house without getting my mouth on you.” You husked and she could practically hear the smirk in your voice, her body shuddering at the thought.

“Oh god… fuck..”

“Catch you right before you’re out the door, pin you to the wall just like this.” Your thigh surged up, pressing hard against her cunt and she cried out, her body trembling in your arms, “skirts give me such good access. Just have to pull those pretty lace panties to the side and have my way with you. Be so nice to have the taste of you on my lips for the rest of the day.”

“Darling…” she panted and your hand wound around her body, cupping at her ass, squeezing hard as you urged her to move faster, “oh god…”

“I know you’re close.” You murmured, pressing kisses along her neck, nosing at her jaw to try and gain what little attention left you could, “let go for me baby. I wanna see you come.”

Rita’s nails began to dig into your back as breathless whimpers escaped her lips, her hips rolling faster and harder against your leg, guided by you, urging her on, sweet nothings whispered right into her ear as she buried herself into the crook of your neck. Heat pulsed through her, exploding in her core as she cried out, her pussy clenching down, pulsing harder than she’d expected as she hit her peak. Her head dropped back against the wall, her lips parting as she panted, her body slowly decompressed. Your hand continued to guide her hips, rocking her gently across your thigh, each drag slower and lighter than the one before.

“That’s it gorgeous.” You placed a kiss on her collarbone, your lips making a pathway up her neck until you captured her lips in a small, breathless kiss, “you’re so pretty when you’re coming for me.” Your hand cupped at her cheek while you kissed her again quickly, your thumb rubbing across her skin soothingly.

Finally your hand dropped from her ass, your knee falling from the wall to let your leg relax and your warms wound around her waist, making sure she was stable on her legs as you kissed her again.

“Christ.” She muttered, pulling a small laugh from you.

“I’ll say.” You pinched gently at her sides, guiding her gaze down towards your pant leg, “look at the mess you made.”

Rita felt a flush of heat surge into her cheeks when her eyes landed on the soaked patch of the fabric, a nearly embarrassed chuckle leaving her lips. “Sorry.”

“No need.” You laughed, leaning in to kiss her cheek, winding an arm around her waist, “seems like you really needed to get off, and I was gonna wear shorts to bed anyways.”

“Thank you.” She replied with a very satisfied sigh, finally reaching behind herself to unzip her skirt, stepping out of it as she scooped up the other pieces of discarded clothing.

“Feeling better?” You asked, following her into the walk in to swap your stained pants to a pair of shorts.

“Much.” She smiled softly at you, pulling a robe from the closet to wrap around herself and you couldn’t help but laugh as her stomach let out a growl.

“Sounds like someone worked up an appetite.” You teased, prodding at her side and she scoffed at you, “why don’t you hop in the shower and I’ll put in for some takeout.”

“Sounds perfect.” She leant in, kissing you gently as she squeezed at your hand, a look in her eyes that you knew all too well, “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

________

@hbkpop @mickey-gomez @red1culous @imlike-so-gaydude @altsvu @svulife-rl @svushots @wannabe-fic-reader @bumblebear30 @alexbllake @australiancarisi @cerberus-spectre @emskisworld @ex-uallyactive @dead-of-niight @multifandomlesbianic @dxtery @momlifebehard @poisonedcrowns @when-wolves-howl @godard-muse @itisdoctortoyousir @httpjupiterbby @somethingimaginative17 @alexxavicry @daddy-heather-dunbar @evilregal2002 @dextur @disneyfan624 @svushots @happenstnces @onmykneesformarvel @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble @valentinesfrog @noahrex @wittygutsy @chimnlex @i-lovefandom @ralla-ralla @chestnutninny @gamma-rae-bursts

[nevadancitizen]

-> HURTING, LONGING, LOVING – DANCING TO DISCO MUSIC

synopsis: you wake up and have no memory of simon. you can only hope to find him among your fractured memories and the scattered lights of a disco ball.

word count: 2.3k

characters: simon "ghost" riley, amnesiac! gn! reader

trigger warnings: transient global (aka temporary) amnesia, mentions of canon-typical violence/interrogation

notes: heavily inspired by disco elysium and part one of @roosterr 's amnesia series. go give it a read if you haven't already (＊๑˘◡˘)

Nothing surrounds you. Only warm, primordial blackness – the pond you learn about in Biology 101, the one where everything and everyone comes from. You don’t know this, of course, because you’re curled up in it, your mind fermenting in it. You’re no larger than a grain of yeast. You don’t have to do anything anymore. Ever. Never, ever.

But you’re growing. Gram upon gram of yeast, slowly morphing into meat. Muscles and bones and organs and a beating pig heart, decaying as soon as they grow. Soon you’ll need to do things. There’s a faint tickle of an idea. Soldiers. Battlefields. IEDs and tanks. You don’t know what to do with this information.

Somewhere within the idea – a sensation! Pain. Arcing, shooting pain, lightning through every new nerve in your new body. The limbed and headed machine of pain and barely-dignified suffering is firing up again. It wants to walk the streets of Manchester. Hurting. Longing. Loving. Dancing to disco music.

It wants someone. You want someone. A blurred-out face, someone you’re kneeling at the feet at. A ghost of a man. So lost he doesn’t even know what his face looks like. 

“I swore I wouldn’t let you go,” your barely-formed mouth mumbles. Your teeth are hot, melted-together plastic and your tongue is jet-fuel-fired rebar. 

Look up. No. You were just talking to yourself. That’s all you ever do. Even in this primordial pool. And the act is wearing thin, the spots of the disco ball fade around you…

The warm blackness is instantly replaced with a cold, artificial light. You bring your hand up to block it – since when have you had these? Gangly things with a red wire further down in… your elbow. That’s not a wire – that’s a tube. Of blood? Your blood. You have blood.

You remember now. You were born with hands and elbows, knees, feet, organs and fat and a copious amount of blood. A collarbone you’ve broken more than once. A body that was molded in the crucible of battle.

And holy shit does that body hurt. That hindbrain wasn’t exaggerating when it said that you are a being of suffering. 

A dull throbbing is behind your eyes as they rove around the room. They land on a button neatly labeled Call Nurse. You press it and wait.

Everything after that is a blur. Nurses, doctors, “Follow my finger with your eyes, but don’t move your head,” poking and prodding with various instruments, “Tilt your head back so I can feel your neck,” blue latex gloves, “How much do you remember?”, bright lights in your eyes.

One nurse checks the dressings on your forehead. It’s just above your temple. His hands are rubbery and unfeeling as he re-dresses it. A trickle of cold liquid dribbling down from an alcohol swab. Bandages press against your skin. “What’s your name and date of birth?”, “Can you name the members of the task force you’re a part of?”

A man cuts through the blur as he comes thundering through the door. A balaclava with a skull pattern. Three men are behind him, hanging in the doorframe, out of the way. But the man moves quickly towards you, standing on the edge of the crowd of medical professionals, pacing back and forth, eyes on you, like how a sheepdog circles its sheep. Longing, waiting. Held back by an invisible leash of respect.

After a while, most of the personnel disperse, leaving you with a transient global amnesia diagnosis, a nurse, and the men. But even then, they leave after casting a glance at the sheepdog.

He moves closer, then stares at you for a while. He’s expecting something. His brown eyes are like sodium lights. A small trickle of streets and the sky. In your mind, you know he’s the place to be. You’re still alive while he’s around. 

Yeah. He’s groovy. You want to disco with him. He is disco. But somewhere, a deep unaccessed area of your mind is saying, “You don’t want to disco like this. Not really. Not in the deepest part of your soul, where blond eyelashes only make you sad.”

Wait – come on, what are you talking about? Sad blond eyelashes? Blond eyelashes are fun!

“Why do I hurt all of a sudden?”

“Hey, it’s alright, darl.” He kneels by your bed and takes your hand in both of his. They’re warm, rough, calloused in places you thought couldn’t be calloused. “It’s me, it’s Simon.”

“What?” You pull your hand away from his. “I don’t know a Simon.”

Simon scoffs, but it’s more of an exhale of disbelief. “Don’t you remember me?”

“No.” You narrow your eyes. “Should I?”

Simon crumbles before you. His sodium streetlight eyes go out with an explosion of guilt – the bulbs pop with a fizzy sound. He looks like he should be groveling at the feet of a feudal lord, providing excessive evidence of his crimes, or throwing a cat-of-nine-tails over his shoulder and ripping the flesh from his own back. Whatever made him this way – you can be damn sure it was your fault. Those three simple words, instead of “I love you,” are “No. Should I?” 

“It’s me.” Simon’s voice cracks as he speaks. Tears flood his waterline. He takes off his mask, revealing his pale face and dyed-blond hair. “It’s your Simon.”

“Simon,” you say softly. You look at him and hurt. A hole in your still-beating pig heart. Blood spills out from where the bullet went in. 

“No. Nothing.” You look down at his hand. It’s palm-up, splayed out where you let go of it. It curls up into a fist, then Simon pulls it into his lap.

He says nothing. Just stares at you like you’re familiar yet somehow unknown. 

You don’t know what to say. You just can’t conjure up any thoughts as you stare back. The morphine can’t be the cause of your dumbness. And it certainly isn’t the new modafinil that was just introduced to your system. 

You search his eyes and feel, above all things, lost. Lonely in a hospital full of people. 

Simon pulls away. His breathing is heavy and labored. A single tear slips down his scarred cheek. He doesn’t look like he’s one to cry. The tear leaves a trail of wet that looks like a new scar.

He tugs his balaclava back on and shuffles out, casting one last longing glance over his shoulder before closing the door behind him with a soft click.

That’s where it is. He is disco. He’s stumbling through the streets of Manchester. Hurting. Longing. Loving. Dancing to disco music.

You’re stuck in the hospital for a week for physical therapy and observation. Simon visits intermittently. He brings things to jog your memory – men that are part of Task Force 141, small snow globes from where you and he have apparently been deployed. Some of them work. But none of them bring back any memory of your apparent relationship with Simon – your boyfriend.

Today he comes in with a small device. It’s not a phone, but resembles it. A small wire comes from the amp and ends in a small circle of plastic.

You point at it. “What’s that?”

“It’s a contact microphone.” Simon settles in the chair that’s set up by your bed. He points at the blocky part of it. “This part holds the recording. You can play it back if needed.”

“Are you going to play it back?” You ask.

“No,” Simon says. “This one is blank.”

You take it from Simon’s hand and turn it over, looking at it. Examining. “Then why are you showing me this?”

“You are…” Simon sighs, trying to find the words. “You were a profoundly talented interrogator. You used contact microphones to record the interrogation, the confessions, the works. There’s a specified interrogation chamber underground. Contact microphones pick up the noise better down there.”

You continue looking it over. Fiddling with the wire. Running your thumb over the mesh of the microphone.

“Anything?” Simon says.

You close your eyes and think. Contact microphone… violence, blood. There’s a welding torch in there somewhere. The smell of bubbling flesh and burning hair. Cauterization without anesthesia. It was that way on purpose.

You open your eyes and look at Simon. “Interrogation.”

“Obviously.” Simon huffs out a laugh. It sounds forced. “I told you that.”

“Yes.” You sigh, looking down at the contact microphone. You try to think more. Contact… physical contact. Your fist making contact. Something hard. Solid bone breaking under your hands. 

But also… something soft. Something that smells good. Smells homey. A black hoodie with some cheesy skull pattern on it. Actually, a closet full of black and grey clothes. A monotone voice to match a monotone closet.

The clothes smell faintly of cigarettes. A carton that’s mostly empty. They taste better than regular cigarettes – they’re some European brand. 

“Do…” You look up at Simon. “Do you smoke?”

“Why?” Simon asks. “Do I smell like cigs?”

“No. Just…” 

You close your eyes and try to remember more. The carton is a brown-orange color. The back is plastered with warnings about nicotine being an addictive chemical. No filters. A smooth, walnut-esque finish.

“Revaality,” you finally say and look up at Simon. 

“Yes! Yes.” Simon takes your hand instinctively, excitedly. He smiles. Like crying, it doesn’t really fit him, but you’re glad he’s smiling anyway. “That’s the brand I smoke. I smoke Revaality.”

He takes your face in his hand and guides you to look at him. His sodium light eyes are bright once again. “Anything else? Lovie, please…”

You cringe away from his touch. Again, Simon is punched in the fucking face when he remembers that you don’t know him. Not like that. 

Simon pulls his hands away. “Shit. I…”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “I know.”

I know you know a different version of me. The thought lingers, loud and unsaid. Simon, you’re a man with a lot of past, but little present, and almost no future. I’m sorry we only live in your memories, because I don’t even have those.

“I’m trying.” You look down at the contact microphone. “Believe me, I’m trying.”

“I believe you,” Simon says. “It’s just… it’s hard.”

Silence for a while. The artificial lights above you buzz and cast harsh shadows on Simon’s face. He looks… tired. 

“I still love you,” he says quietly. Almost a whisper. “I… you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

He rests a hand on the railing of your hospital bed. “I’m not the best. I drink. I smoke. I have a laundry list of mental issues and types of trauma. So much it’s not even funny.”

“But you…” he sighs. “You fell in love with me anyway.”

You look up at him. He’s crying again. A pang of empathy in your heart. You don’t know why, but you don’t want to see him cry. The tears that cut through the dirt on his face are unbefitting. 

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is a mirror of Simon’s. Soft and wavering. “I want to remember. I don’t even know what happened to me. The doctors always dance around it when I ask.”

Simon bunches the end of his sleeve up in his hand and wipes away his tears. “You were a fucking idiot. That’s what happened.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

“Not in a bad way.” Simon lets go of his sleeve and rests his hand on the railing of your bed again. “You love too much and too hard. You saved me.”

“It… the building…” He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his waterline to clear of tears. “The building was coming down. We thought we were out of danger close. But there was a piece of rebar that…”

Simon looks down at his lap. He’s ashamed. “It was supposed to hit me. I was supposed to die. I’m used to it. I’m used to close calls and blood transfusions.”

“But I’m not used to…” He glances up at you through his eyelashes. His long, blond eyelashes. “People I care about being hurt. Or people caring about me in general.”

“Simon.” You reach out and lay your hand over his where it rests on the railing. He holds his breath like he’s afraid.

A pause. You want to be sure of your words before you speak. 

“I’m going to try my damndest to remember,” you say. “Even if I don’t remember everything, I – I want to try to learn to care about you again. Because, based on our limited interactions, I know you’re a good man. Even if you drink and even if you smoke and even if you have a laundry list of mental issues and an assortment of trauma.”

Simon slowly brings his other hand and rests it on top of yours. His callouses brush against your knuckles. Abrasive yet comforting in a way you barely remember. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Really, truly. Thank you.”

And, in this moment, Simon finally has some sense of control in an ever-turbulent world. The world that tried to take his one and only love. The world that has taken his one and only love and is only now feeding him droplets of what he knows – what he once knew. He must exercise this control carefully, lest he lose you again. 

In the sky, there are no dogfights and no silverplate bombers. Only stars and the rabbit curled up on the moon and a singular winking comet. God is in Heaven. Everything is normal on Earth.

Somewhere, the spots from a disco ball freckle the dance floor once again.

[voluptuarian]

I'm not buying the "elf food is bland" propaganda-- the closest I'll allow to that is just the flavor profile doesn't work for anybody else. And I'm certainly not going to believe the "elf alcohol is weak" crap. Anybody who lives that long has gotta be fermenting shit like crazy. Imagine. My man Thornflin put a little hooch in the toilet tank 20000 years ago and now the US government is asking if they can use it to clear jungle in Vietnam. He thinks it still needs a couple hundred more years before its ripe.

Elf kombucha that is literally indescribable, like a beverage Cthulhu. Cheeses infused with ancient forest molds that are incompatible with most creature's digestive systems. People go to fancy auction houses and pay out the ass to buy elf mustards. Actual thousand year egg.

They like matcha but wish it tasted more like grass. Entire genres of cooking devoted just to forest fungus. Nobody has created more varieties of carrots. They eat those delicious ass berries that are poisonous to everything but birds and tell you they're delectable but of course you can't try them. Your elf friend pulls out a whole raw onion and eats it like an apple. Don't even ask about what they've done with tea.

[pureyindustry]

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[mychlapci]

Robutt vampires, you say Other than the sexy bloodsucker Prowl thing, the first thing that comes to mind for me is the worldbuilding lore from Vampire Hunter D, where the Nobles reared humans like cattle for sustenance. Aaaaaand my brain just made it weird again.

Imagine a bloodsucker senator breeding slavebots as bloodbanks, but he goes an extra mile. Before he culls them, he ferments them first. Inject yeast and bacteria into their lines and seal off every vent to create and anaerobic environment. Storing them in little casks until the bots' lines rupture from the gas bloat. He claims that the flavour of the harvested energon is unrivalled, but who knows. Not even Sentinel Prime himself has tasted it. Maybe he's full of shit and is just killing bots in such a manner for absolutely fucking nothing. Maybe it does actually work.

Senator Shockwave would set out to prove this in his own ways, I bet. With a still living Orion Pax. Big bots like him have plenty of space inside, he won't face much of a risk from gas buildup implosion. So imagine IDW1 OP having to run around Iacon with the heat of fermenting energon in his tanks and lines, building up into a nigh unbearable boil inside him, hoping that Shockwave wouldn't be waiting too long to drink from him this time lest he burns up from within. I bet it makes him extra horny too, so Shockwave would spend most of their feeding sessions perched on his fat spike. As a little apology for the discomfort, see? (I… wrote this before the Prowl one actually)-🔌

oooh that’s interesting, vampires keeping humans as cattle is always so bonkers, and we’re all into farms in here. just look at my blog. bots fermenting the energon inside of unsuspecting victims so they can have their fill is hooot. Especially when Shockwave is so nice about it, grinding onto Orion’s spike to keep him still and pleasured as he sips from his lines,,...

Optimus misses that. It’s his greatest shame.

[fuselsstuff]

🍇 Maybe Buck going on about different types of wine and Tommy being completely enamored by him?

i...i dont know what happend, but this just poured out of me and Buck and Tommy did what they wanted, i didnt have any controll anymore, i need sleep. but thank you so so much for the ask, i truly felt inspired<3

🍇The Winemaker AU

“Oh, Merlot, I had that before, I liked it.” Tommy points at one of the bottles in the shop display. After Buck gave him a quick tour of the cellar, they were back in the wine shop.

Evan frowns. “Did you ever taste my wines?”

“Ah... eh... no, but isn't it the same grape?” And Tommy knew in the same moment as he saw something flicker in Evan's eyes that he couldn't be more wrong.

“How much time do we have?” 

“Like an hour I th…” He didn't let Tommy finish his words, he stepped behind the counter, took three glasses from the rack, and placed them in front of him. He then continued to open three different bottles of red wine and poured a bit from each bottle into one of the glasses. 

Tommy watched him, the white shirt scrunched back to his elbows, revealing the ink on his arms, the curls falling into his face, the smoothness of how he poured those glasses; Tommy was mesmerized.

“Tommy? you with me?”

Evan grins and pushes the first glass in front of Tommy. “This is our regular Merlot. I let it ferment and sit in the steel tanks I showed you today. Taste it!”

Tommy takes a sip, and… well, it tastes like red wine should taste. But he can't say that, that would be rude, right? So instead he says, “It’s nice,” and puts the glass back down.

Evans's grin was still there. “I should hope so, it's one of our best-selling.” He points to the middle glass. “Now taste this one.”

Tommy did as told, took a sip, and oh, this was different. “ It tastes similar, but kind of...earthier?”

“Okay, I never heard someone describe it as earthier.” Evan laughs, “But you are not wrong; it's the oaked merlot. I put the wine into an oak barrel and let it sit for a year so the wine can extract all those earthy oak notes.” He winks and points to the last glass. “Last one, Tommy.”

He didn't know what he expected, but this was delicious. “It's... wow... it's rich, sweet, but not sticky, it feels dark?! but good” Tommy babbled, trying to put taste into words, “What did you put in here, Evan?” He takes another sip; this time he lingers it in his mouth for a bit before he swallows.

“Just merlot.”

“But these were three completely different wines? especially the last one. This can't be the same.

Evan snorts, an adorable snort, that has to be said, he steals the glass off of Tommy's hands and takes a sip before he puts it down.

“You see, everybody can make wine, everybody can grow grapes, and everybody in this whole wide world could make Merlot wine,” he begins, “but next to the grape quality, it's the technique that makes a wine a wine. This last one you tasted is our selection wine; I only make a few bottles a year. We handpick the grapes, only the ripest and healthiest. Then, when they are in the cellar, I don't use our modern machines on them; I crush them with an old wooden crusher, let them sit for a week so they can extract color and taste, then I press them in a hand press and put them into barrels where they live for two years until we bottle and sell them.”

Evan only stops talking to take a breath.

“so yeah, it's not just the grape, but what you make of it. Sorry for the whole info dump, but I can't let you walk around thinking that every merlot is the same.”

Tommy couldn't help but stare, totally in awe of the gorgeous man in front of him.

“I would kiss this wine and all those words from your lips, Evan, but if i do that, we are definitely gonna be late.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

So, yesterday, we saw a huge modern, all-white estate vineyard in Napa, California. Today we have another Napa Valley vineyard in Helena, California, but this one is very different. Actually, the other one was kind of boring, and this one is unique. The carriage house dates back to the 1880s. The main house has 3bds, 2.5ba, and costs a lot less at $3.25M. (The other one is $22M.)

Isn't this nice? A sunroom and pergola with vines.

Clearly, this is a rustic style home with a high vaulted living room ceiling, and a stained glass window.

There's a lofted space above the living room, which is very nice as well.

The large kitchen is light and airy.

This looks like a workroom or office and it has a great fireplace that looks like it was well-used.

Looks like a family room.

The primary bedroom is a good size.

There are about 4.59 acres of property with the vineyard.

But, where the other property was just vineyards, this is where this property gets interesting, b/c it ain't just grapes.

Check it out- it has a cave, b/c this property was also a winery. The cave is protected by heavy wooden doors and iron gates.

This was a serious winery. Look at the bottles and supplies, plus the fermenting equipment.

This is cool.

The fermenting tanks look in pretty good shape.

Remember that this cave dates back to the 1880s. It's ancient.

Look at these delicious grapes. Every fall I wait for the stores to have Concord grapes b/c my grandparents had a huge grapevine and they were so good.

There's a barn on the property, but it looks like there's an apt. above it.

Workshop in the barn.

The main house has a large patio with growing beds.

I'm thinking that this rusted old tractor is art?

Looks like a pond. Maybe for crop irrigation.

The house, on the bottom right, is surrounded by many neighboring vineyards.

[t00thpasteface]

I think The People deserve to learn about Catfish: King of Taste from you

that powerpoint i'm making for ichthyology is for a presentation that's going to be RIGIDLY timed to eaxctly five minutes. as in if i go over time, i get cut off, no negotation. and it's TRAGIC. i wanna be loud and theatrical about this huge, hilarious, delicious fish. i wanna do a tap dance about it.

their full-body tastebud situation is bizarre, but it makes a lot of sense to me given my own experience with them. i grew up catching them with my dad, and i don't know how common this knowledge is with people who don't fish, but catfish bait is absolutely fucking FOUL. it comes in a lot of different shapes/consistencies, but the general trend is that it will absolutely knock you on your ass, it smells so bad. think rotten meat and septic tanks. catfish are practically blind because they live in such turbid water, so prey-shaped lures and live bait don't do much for them.* they need to be able to taste it from a mile away.

i have a friend from rural arkansas who had a family recipe for catfish bait that was incredibly complex, and i don't remember all the details, but it involved chicken, mayonnaise, pickle brine, direct sunlight, and fermenting at ambient temperature for several days in multiple steps/locations. it was a crime against god and it worked beautifully. but the best bait she ever used was when the family took a city-slicker relative along with them to go catfishing for the first time. the relative took one whiff of the secret-recipe catfish bait and hurled over the side of the boat. THAT, apparently, got the catfish biting like nothing else!

*note: famously, some people simply go "noodling" instead of using bait, which is where you wade out into a muddy body of water and catch huge catfish just by feeling around on the substrate for them and letting them swallow your whole arm up to the elbow. it's much safer than grabbing them on the outside, because it avoids their poison fin spines!

[aflockofseacows]

The currants and gooseberries are ripe!

Don't really know what to do with them, so I decided to try to make gooseberry wine. Added the redcurrants and blackcurrants to the mix. If this turns out horrible I'll give most of the shrubs away next year.

Ooooo bloody nice colour. I don't think it will survive fermentation, but still.

Ended up with roughly 3,5 litres of gooseberry/currants juice mixed with 9 litres of boiled water and sugar.

Hot dang that colour. New fermentation tanks! These ought to make the process a lot cleaner and easier. They were selling them cheap, so I grabbed 3 as an early birthday present for myself.