#a concrete mixer’s nipple

[saffronscales]

It's the healthiest thing in cooked meat I believe? But I don't personally wanna tempt it because that's also where blood usually is left while cooking especially in chicken wings

Although most bone marrow eaters order beef or pork bone I think? Like you get a chunk of bone to scoop it out of

my mom says that beef/pork bone marrow is better so

[cutieunidentifiedremains]

[fic] narrative voices [suzalulu]

♥ title: narrative voices ♥ summary: poorly timed business trips have suzaku and lelouch missing each other, but they'll manage. (suzalulu, domestic AU.) ♥ rating: NC-17 [PWP ahoy!] ♥ pairing(s)?: suzalulu ♥ author’s notes: author’s notes have been uploaded along with the fic @ ao3. please read the tags also for potential squick/warnings.

wanted to upload something for lelouch’s birthday.

enjoy!

Normally, Lelouch didn’t mind Suzaku’s business trips too much.

It was, after all, not as though Lelouch himself had any right to complain. He knew that. After all, unless you could count his 30-minute commute to work, or the odd house call to a client’s out-of-the-way ranch or seaside villa a business trip— which Lelouch hardly could— Suzaku only travelled for business once a year. And even Lelouch told himself that the yearly Symposium of the American Board Of Veterinary Practitioners (even if it took place in Florida for some Godforsaken reason) was, at least on paper, a more practical reason for travel than, for example, Lelouch’s impulsively booked plane tickets to Italy “for research”. He smiled softly, reminiscing to himself about how he must have spent hours of those two weeks curled up in a Roman hotel, Skyping Suzaku to tell him about the spoils of that day, how he’d gotten lost trying to hail a taxi cab or been mistaken for a tourist.

But you are a tourist, Suzaku had said, warm and sleepy and sipping coffee in his white bathrobe, his voice rough from the call’s static and from the time difference. Aren’t you?

It doesn’t count when you’re a novelist, Lelouch had said, and sniffed. If I were here on vacation, I would have taken you with me.

And it was true, too. He’d missed everything about Suzaku terribly. Lelouch had melted into Suzaku’s arms upon his return, pulling him close by his tie and biting along his jawline the second he got home from work, stopping by his ear to whisper how much he’d longed for his voice, his touch, his hour-long political digressions. Afterward, they’d just held each other, Suzaku rubbing Lelouch’s shoulders and both of them just basking in having the other there again. Yes, the I-missed-you sex was fantastic. But it always came with a price.

Lelouch sat at his writing computer in the office nook of his and Suzaku’s apartment. It was a nice apartment for a couple their age; split-level, with a lofted bedroom to save space, as but a lovely view from the window above their bed. It was located in a middle-class area of town, and as for the interior, Lelouch had mapped out and maintained a calculatedly minimalist aesthetic, with a white-and-off-white color scheme— despite the fact that Arthur, their housecat, had black fur. Lelouch, being that rare, shiny breed of novelist with a flair for storylines both superficially thrilling and timelessly intellectual, actually did make a decent amount of money; which, combined with Suzaku’s pay from his veterinary practice, allowed them to live comfortably. Or uncomfortably.

Today the apartment was silent. The rainstorm of clicking computer keys that normally heralded Lelouch’s alone time was nowhere to be found. It was a Bad Writing Day, and on a Bad Writing Day everything sucked, the weather, the lunch Lelouch tried to cook, the Spotify playlist Lelouch put on, everything. Lelouch glowered at the newton’s cradle on his glass desk, pinched one of the sleek metal balls, and sent it swinging, watching the wonders of earthly physics get to work. Maybe he’d gone stir-crazy. It was going on to the end of the afternoon, and Lelouch had written a total of one hundred words today. Maybe fine if he were a writer of flash fiction, but alas, Lelouch did not work in that form. The worst part about today, he decided, was that Suzaku, his muse, was not here.

Suddenly a coil of furry warmth slithering around his slippered feet. “Arthur,” he said. Arthur mewled in response. Grateful for the distraction, Lelouch picked him up, and Arthur happily began to purr. “You must be hungry.” Lelouch murmured. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

~

Lelouch was just cracking open a can of Fancy Feast when his phone rang.

He had a custom ringtone for his fiancée set in his contact book, so he didn’t even need to look at the screen to know who was calling. Dumping Arthur’s food onto his plate, he smiled as he slid his thumb across the touch-screen surface of his phone and brought it up to his ear. He had missed Suzaku terribly all day, but held back from calling him because he knew he was busy with his conference. The call from his lover was a welcome relief, one like stepping into a warm bath.

“Hi, honey,” Lelouch said, putting the empty can of cat food into the trash. Arthur leapt up onto the counter and began to eat.

“Lelouch,” breathed Suzaku into the phone. “Are you alone?”

Heat flared through Lelouch’s body, but, ever the one to be in control, he decided to play it cool. “Whoa there, tiger. Why the rush?” he said quietly, his eyes shining, a smile already playing on his lips. It wasn’t a serious act of chastisement. It was a flirt; a game. Even as he spoke, Lelouch’s feet were already carrying him to his and Suzaku’s shared bedroom.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I miss you.” Suzaku said plaintively. It was all true, too. He was on the other side of the country, alone in a queen-sized hotel bed, buried in clean white sheets that smelled like detergent and sterility and nothing like Lelouch. He loved taking care of animals, he loved saving their lives, he loved his career, his line of work was exciting but God, there had been one snafu after another and this conference was gradually driving him up the wall. He missed Lelouch. Even knowing he would come home to him soon, he missed Lelouch. He missed being able to show him how much he loved him with his body. “I want to touch you.”

“I miss you, too.” Said Lelouch, his voice and eyes both tender. The room was comfortably dim with sunset. From the angle, it was unlikely that anyone would be able to see into their bedroom window anyway, but Lelouch shut the blinds just in case. “… You know, it’s only been a week.”

“Six days.” Suzaku corrected. “All of them torture.” Which wasn’t exactly true. Suzaku had wholeheartedly enjoyed the first few days, before the tropical storm or the concrete mixer incident, but none of that seemed to matter now that full Lelouch withdrawal had set in.

“But Suzaku,” said Lelouch, sitting down on the edge of the bed and leisurely beginning to unbutton the plaid pajama top he may or may not have been wearing all day, “You love being tortured.”

Suzaku bit his lip and groaned through it. “You didn’t answer me, Lelouch… are you alone right now?”

“Do you think I’d be talking to you like this if I weren’t?” Lelouch said, and his voice was like a whip, how it could go dark and taut all of a sudden, how it could snap sometimes and flit others and reduce Suzaku to a delightful, quivering mess. He could hear Suzaku’s almost-gasp at the change in tone. A smile played at the edge of Lelouch’s lips as he found himself slipping into persona; oh, this could be fun… Suzaku loved being bullied during sex. While Lelouch never felt comfortable going beyond some light verbal teasing, whenever he did get into a dominant, haughty mood, Suzaku found himself coming so hard he saw stars. Their current circumstances, Lelouch realized, created the perfect storm; phone sex depended on dirty talk, and words were Lelouch’s modus operandi. “Do you think I’m some kind of pervert? Answer me, Suzaku.”

Suzaku tripped over himself answering.

“No, Lelouch, never; I don’t think you’re a pervert.” He felt so hot, he couldn’t help but writhe around a little. Before, he’d been touching himself—nothing heavy, just teasing himself with the tips of his fingers, he didn’t want to really start working himself until Lelouch was feeling good too, whenever Suzaku felt good he wanted Lelouch to feel good with him, together— and he was hard, but now he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to do that, yet. Not when Lelouch sounded so pushy and bossy and… and hot. Suzaku pulled his hand away from his dick, involuntarily whining. He tried to be quiet, but Lelouch caught him anyway.

“What was that, Suzaku?” Lelouch’s pajama shirt was completely unbuttoned, but he didn’t bother to take it off yet, instead crawling back over the bed to lean against the pillows. He lifted his hips to wriggle his sweatpants down until they were around his thighs. He was half-hard already. “Did you say something?”

“N— no.”

“No?”

“I didn’t— just say anything.”

“Hm.” Lelouch hummed coldly, like he knew Suzaku was lying, and began to suck on two of his fingers.

“I— I mean,” Suzaku stammered. God, how was it that he was getting harder and harder from this when he wasn’t even touching himself? “I didn’t, it’s just that, I was touching myself before, and I stopped, so…”

There was a wet sound (Suzaku bit back a groan) as Lelouch pulled the two fingers out of his mouth and rested them on his soft, white chest, near a pink nipple.

Lelouch didn’t even bother to touch himself yet. After all, he knew that if he got started now he would never be able to stop. Besides, there was another, far more gratifying game he was interesting in playing first.

“So?” said Lelouch. And normally Suzaku would have taken this cue to jump into a good few paragraphs, written out, of dirty talk just from a stream of his own consciousness, the kind of material that would have Lelouch begging to come if their situations were reversed. But Lelouch had spoken as if prompting serious conversation rather than filling dead air between them, enough to give Suzaku pause— like maybe Lelouch hadn’t heard him?

After waiting a moment that was filled with silence and static, Suzaku, a little awkwardly, said “Ah?”

“So? How’s the Symposium?” Lelouch saw slowly— almost condescendingly, and Suzaku could tell, and— and Suzaku had a million hangups from a probably very traumatic childhood, but God, if Lelouch talking down to him didn’t turn him on. Ah, so they were playing this game. Suzaku groaned, and the first half was clearly exasperated, but the tail end betrayed his full, totally helpless arousal. Heat curled in Lelouch’s belly at the sound.

“Ah… Didn’t I already tell you the other day? Lelouch…”

So Suzaku began, except as he did so he was idly rubbing the heel of his hand against the base of his dick and Lelouch could tell from his breathing because suddenly Lelouch’s voice was dark and militant and commanding: “Don’t touch yourself. Do not touch yourself until I say that you may.” Heat flushed Suzaku’s body, and he pulled his hand back from his dick like he’d been shocked. When Lelouch spoke again, his voice was back to how it had been when he’d first picked up the phone, the way he usually sounded when he spoke to Suzaku, mellow and sweet: “You told me about it yesterday, Suzaku, when I called you to check on you, and wish you goodnight… Remember?”

Suzaku’s hand curled up into a fist as it lay still and helpless at his side. “Yes, I remember.”

“So what happened today?”

Suzaku swallowed and closed his eyes. The memories of the day floated in a hazy wave before his eyelids. It was legitimately hard to think when he was this aroused (what the hell, what the hell) and it felt like he was swimming, trying to find some detail or other to cling to. “Nothing super great,” he heard himself say. “Was giving a presentation and stepped on the foot of— you wouldn’t know his name— guy I really admire—“

“A guy you really admire?” Said Lelouch, all faux-ingénue wounded, and Suzaku tripped over himself addressing it.

“Not like that, I mean, as a vet, Lelouch. Lelouch, please…”

“I’m hurt, Suzaku. Don’t you like your Lelouch best of all?”

“Of course I love you most of all, Sir,” said Suzaku, drunk on heat, and even in the state he was in he couldn’t repress the tiny smirk at the moan he heard Lelouch have to muffle at him dragging out that old pet name. They’d used it a few times before, mostly only when talking like they were. It worked perfectly for the dynamic they played at to get each other off, it rolled easily off the tongue, and they both hated Master. Lelouch wasn’t a master of anyone or anything. And Suzaku really, really enjoyed sir, maybe even more than Lelouch did, because along with that stifled moan was Lelouch’s free hand flying down between his thighs and around his own cock before he could help it because fuck it, fuck it, he hadn’t come in a week, he needed this bad, he was touching himself now.

He would retain some self-control, though, he told himself. And he was a marvelous actor; he tilted his head back and his voice was only slightly strained when he said, “And how much do you love your Sir, Suzaku?”

“So much, sir, that I’d— that I’ll— ah, ah-ha, fuck, I’m no good at this please, please let me touch myself Lelouch please—”

“You’re better at it than you think, Suzaku,” Lelouch breathed into the phone, tone and body shifting again on the phone and the blankets. “But go on, then. Touch yourself. My, what a mouth you have on you. You haven’t jerked off in a while, have you?”

“Please—"

“It sounds like it’s been a few days.”

“Please—”

“I bet your cock looks delicious right now. I’d do anything to be there, to eat it right up. Ah—” Lelouch moaned into the phone. He was coming unhinged, his voice leaping out of his control, and there was nothing in the world more exciting to Suzaku.

“Lelouch.” Too good, too good, Suzaku thought wildly. The second Lelouch had given him permission, he’d started pumping himself at a full clip, and he’d held back so long that every single slide of friction felt like skating across the surface of utter heaven. He kept thinking that the surface tension would have to break sometime soon. Instead the pleasure kept building and building on top of itself and Suzaku felt—  Suzaku was— he was going to— he was going to lose his mind—  but hadn’t he already? He didn't want anyone but Lelouch to hear him, but ah, he was being so loud…

“Suzaku.” Came Lelouch’s voice, clear to Suzaku past all of the haze. Always like a lighthouse to him through fog.

Suzaku felt so much gentleness toward Lelouch and he also— “I wanna—  ah—  fuck you so fucking hard.” It was not what Lelouch had been expecting, and Suzaku took delight in the surprised choke he heard through the telephone. “And I want you to love it. I want you ordering me to never stop. I want to make you come so hard you black out. And then I want to wake you up by kissing you.” Lelouch whined on the other end of the phone, high-pitched and reedy, and Suzaku was stumbling over his own words, was tripping and stumbling the last stretch up the hill. He was almost there, he could taste it, it was on the tip of—

“You’re coming, aren’t you? Suzaku?” Was what came in Lelouch’s breathy, wrecked voice across the phone, and Suzaku’s back arched. His body was scrambling out of his control. He felt his hips twist into his hand on their own, he felt his body arc impossibly, he was moaning and half-shouting nonsense and Lelouch’s name.

When Suzaku came back to himself, he could hear Lelouch was right on the edge, silver tongue reduced to tripping over the three syllables of Suzaku's name in blissful repetition, "Suza-ku, Su-za-ku, Suzaku, Suzaku," his voice itself shuddering with a pleasure his body couldn't contain.

"That's it, Lelouch, you're almost there." Suzaku whispered, voice low and husky with gentle warmth. Lelouch let out a low whine of pleasure of gratitude, and safe in the sound of Suzaku's voice, he came, a short, sharp shout telling Suzaku that his job was done.

Suzaku was perfectly content, then, to sit on the phone, listening to Lelouch catch his breath while he did the same. It always took Lelouch a little bit after coming for his head to clear. He distinctly heard Lelouch say "Wow," at one point, and laughed.

"Yeah. That was really good."

"As usual." Lelouch agreed wistfully.

Suzaku hummed, happy endorphins buzzing through his bloodstream as he sank deeper into the mattress. He was on the phone with his boyfriend, he'd done everything he needed to do for the day and could go straight to sleep, his presentation had gone well, there was… a wet spot on the sheets and comforter above him.

"Oh, crap," he muttered, standing up buck naked. "I got— on the—"

"Again!?"

"Let me live… I have to at least try to clean this up." Suzaku replied, still smiling, as he started walking to the bathroom. “Did you want to stay up and talk, or…?”

“I always want to talk to you,” Lelouch said without thinking, and Suzaku’s heart fluttered because he knew it was true. He wet a washcloth, wiped off his thighs, then rinsed it clean and wet it again. “But,” Lelouch continued, yawning, and Suzaku couldn’t help but smile fondly (even as he scrubbed his own semen stain from the comforter) “I think I may have tired myself out… a little bit, there.”

“Get some sleep, Lelouch.” Said Suzaku. “I’m flying home tomorrow night. I’ll be landing at seven, we can talk then.”

“I know. May I pick you up from the airport?”

“I’ll take a taxi. Make me dinner instead?"

“Mm.” Said Lelouch. In the time after he’d come (they kept a tissue on their bedside table to avoid the exact sort of problem Suzaku had just found himself in), he’d wiped himself off, tossed the tissue in the wastebasket, pulled his pajamas back into order, hit the light switch, and curled up underneath the covers, ridiculously cozy and snug. The soft whir of Arthur’s distant purring grew louder as he trounced up the stairs to the loft, sensing that his owner was no longer distracted, and in fact in the perfect state of mind to snuggle. He jumped onto the bed and headbutted Lelouch’s hand, mewing in appreciation when Lelouch began to pet him. “Roger that, generallll.”

“You are asleep.” Suzaku said. His voice was full of love. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

It was ridiculously early, but they both went to sleep that night with smiles on their faces.

[hellohaomeimachinery]

How to Extend Service Life of Self Loading Mixer

How to Extend Service Life of Self Loading Mixer

When buying and operating self loading concrete mixer truck, the customers will definitely pay attention to its service life. How to effectively extend its service life and improve working efficiency?

1. The operator should clean the dirt on the roller and the raceway at least once a month; inject grease into the roller through the grease nipple on the roller. And it must be ensured that the…

[lydiagledhill-blog]

Artist Statement

i want to make objects that represent women. Concrete is a material with hard connotations. It’s minimalist, modernist, constructivist, masculine. I want to make concrete objects that subvert this meaning whilst maintaining it’s blatant materiality. Concrete inherently references the grandfathers of minimalism; Judd, Serra, Le Witt. By using concrete to represent women, I am referencing a history of male artists, almost disrupting their narrative. I want my sculptures to denote female emancipation through a minimalist aesthetic. I measured the distance between four woman’s nipples and her vagina to create a triangle. I then used these exact measurements to create moulds, and cast them in concrete. These small womb-like inverted triangles were displayed on the wall. They seemed heavy and static on the wall, so I decided to ask women to wear them like clothes or jewellery against their bodies. This gave the sculptures a relevance that they didn’t previously have. You could see that they came from women. I then created larger triangles, measurements of women’s shoulder width down to their feet. These created formal sculptures what were a lot bigger, 1ftx5ft. I decided that I would display these on wheels, and that they would be able to be pushed around the gallery space. This bought back the idea of interacting with the sculptures in a similar way to wearing them did; the sculptures no longer seemed static. Each sculpture was named after the women from whom it’s measurements came; Laura, Dominique, Sarah, and Katie. I am also interested in the context of production; I created a film, an audio piece, and a performance of me using my cement mixer and a power hose. By doing this, the audience is able to see and hear a women mixing cement, and using very ‘masculine’ materials within her work. Many theorists and artists inform and contextualise my work. In Valie Export's 1970 piece Body Sign Action, through the use of a tattooed garter on her thigh, Export literally couldn't take off her male imposed sexuality, thus rejecting objectifying stigmas attached to female sexuality. Export’s work informs my practice in regards to how she responds to how women are viewed in society; just as Export subverts female sexuality through the use of a tattooed garter strap, I subvert the use of concrete as a male material and use it to create a female narrative. Furthermore, Laura Mulvey’s 1975 Male Gaze theory contextualises my work, as she states that all media is shot from a male’s perspective; if all we see is from a man's viewpoint, women's wants, needs, and perspectives are never explored and presented in the media. My work attempts to address this theory, questioning and criticising the Male Gaze by presenting the female body sculpturally in a frank and unwavering way, through the perspective of a woman. Simone de Beauvoir's book The Second Sex also informs my work. Her idea of 'female' being the secondary sex to 'male' is intriguing. De Beauvoir suggests that women are women because they are not men. My work explores what it is to be a woman within a patriarchal climate, while rejecting the pretence that femininity is the absence of masculinity. I have developed a present perspective on contemporary feminism, and reading the Xenofeminist’s 2016 manifesto informed much of my work. The Xenofeminists want to emancipate women and embrace all people. They are anti-naturalist and anti-essentialist; they reject the determinism of nature, believing that gender traits shouldn’t be assigned to specific genders. Other contemporary feminist manifestos impact on my work also; the Feminist Art Action Brigade’s 2003 manifesto asks many questions of female artists that I have attempted to answer though my work. Silvia Ziranek’s 2013 manifesta blatantly asks women to make art. These contemporary manifestos give my work a present perspective of what the feminist art climate is like, and contextualises my work in a contemporary art setting.