#raw material for cement

[amritf5]

Raw Material for Cement | Cement Blending | Amrit Cement

Our raw material for cement manufacturing process ensures usage of advanced machines to get the best quality cement for our customers

[emmaameliamiaava]

A Complete Guide on Cement Raw Materials - UltraTech Cement

Explore the composition of cement and essential raw materials used for manufacturing cement. Understand their roles & how they influence cement quality.

[wondercementpvtltd]

Procedure of cement manufacturing in six simple steps

Cement is an essential building material that plays a crucial role in the construction industry. It is the binding agent used to create strong and durable structures. Wonder Cement Ltd is dedicated to providing high-quality cement to meet the diverse needs of the construction sector. 

In this blog, we will take you through the six simple steps involved in the cement manufacturing process. We will shed light on cement manufacturing.

Step 1: Mining the Raw Materials:

The first step in cement manufacturing is the extraction of raw materials from the earth's crust. Limestone, clay, shale, iron ore, and other minerals are obtained through mining operations. These raw materials are carefully selected to ensure the desired chemical composition of the final cement product.

Step 2: Crushing and Pre-Homogenization:

Once raw materials are mined, they are transported to a crushing plant. Here, the rocks are crushed into smaller fragments to facilitate further processing. After crushing, the materials undergo pre-homogenization, where blending techniques are employed to ensure a consistent mix of raw materials. This step helps achieve the desired cement chemical composition and quality.

Step 3: Raw Material Grinding and Drying:

Crushed and pre-homogenized raw materials are then ground into fine powder in a raw mill. The grinding process utilizes rotating drums and steel balls to pulverize the materials. To prevent excessive moisture content, the powdered mixture is dried using hot gases before moving on to the next stage.

Step 4: Clinker Production:

In the clinker production stage, ground raw materials are fed into a high-temperature rotary kiln. The kiln operates at temperatures exceeding 1400 degrees Celsius, where materials undergo chemical transformation known as calcination. During this process, the raw materials are heated to the point where they form small, dark grey nodules called clinker.

Step 5: Cement Grinding:

The clinker is then finely ground with a small amount of gypsum in a cement mill. Gypsum is used to regulate cement setting time and enhance its properties. The grinding process transforms clinker and gypsum into a fine powder known as cement.

Step 6: Packaging and distribution

Once cement is produced, it is stored in silos before packaging. The final product is carefully packed in bags or loaded onto bulk transportation vehicles such as trucks or railcars. Proper packaging and handling ensure cement quality during transportation and storage. Wonder Cement Ltd maintains strict quality control measures to deliver a consistent and reliable product to its customers.

Cement manufacturing involves six simple steps, from mining raw materials to packaging. Wonder Cement Ltd follows these steps meticulously to produce high-quality cement for various construction needs. Understanding the cement manufacturing process provides valuable insights into the importance of each stage and the efforts required to ensure consistent quality. As a leading cement manufacturer, Wonder Cement Ltd remains committed to producing top-notch cement to contribute to the construction industry's growth and development. Their commitment to producing the finest quality cement is reflected in their use of state-of-the-art German machinery and innovative technologies like the ROBOTIC LAB. To learn more, click here.

[evie-sturns]

Cry - Matt Sturniolo

summary: you and your boyfriend, matt, have spent the day together. you've been snapping at him the whole time, until it gets too much for matt and you accidentally make him cry. you find a way to make everything up to him.

contains: sub!matt, nsfw, blowjob?, matt crying, angst.

------------------≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫-----------------

matt and i have been dating for 7 months, sure, we’ve argued before but it’s never lasted more than a day and it’s never affected us that much. i’ve never seen matt cry, according to his brothers he hates crying infront of people, or even talking about it. 

today we’ve been bickering non stop, i’ve been making snarky comments and snapping at him for pathetic reasons, matt’s just been ignoring it.

9:24pm

i sit on the dining table, matt directly opposite me on his phone as he takes small bites of his dinner. “matt.” i say, my voice almost like a robot.

“mhm?” he hums, his eyes fixed on his screen, i groan, “for fucks sake matt.” i huff under my breath. 

“what is it?” matt asks, his finger continuing to scroll across his screen. 

i don't know why i've been so on edge today, everything matt's done has pissed me off. the way his hand is cemented onto his phone pisses me off.

“fucking stop! you don’t even care about me the only thing you do is go on your phone, your an actual excuse of a boyfriend.”

the words leave my mouth quicker than i can process, i don’t even fully comprehend what i’m saying.

i finish off my yelling fit by slamming matt’s phone out of his hands.

he stands up abruptly, his bottom lip shaking as his eyes well with tears. “don’t fucking say that.” 

i scoff, folding my arms and playing with my nails. matt lets in a sharp inhale, a shaky sob exiting his mouth.

my head snaps up to look at him, he’s got tears soaking his pink cheeks, his lips a raw red. he reaches his ringed fingers up to rub his eyes before speed walking out of the dining room, directly towards our bedroom.

my heart drops, an aching infecting my body. i feel a wave of guilt wash over me, tears somehow prickling in the corners of my eyes. i wipe my face quickly, 

i’ve just made matt cry. shit.

i stand up from my wooden chair, the chair legs screeching on the wooden floor. 

my footsteps tap on the ground as i slowly walk towards matt and i’s shared room, the door is shut. 

i stand outside for a few seconds, pressing my ear, which is decorated in sets of earrings, up to the wooden planks.

i hear sniffles coming from inside the room, and small crys. my heart pounds against my ribs as i twist the door handle.

i’m met with matt’s body which is sitting at his desk, his back facing me. i’m not sure he heard me, so i walk over to him. 

i tap his grey sweater, the cute wool sweater that he wears whenever he’s cold, the sweater his mom gave him in high school, which still fits him.

i feel him tense under me, he swings his head round to look at me, his eyelashes are dark and wet, his cheeks a deep red and his lips swollen. 

i take one look at him and my stomach forms a pit, i wrap my arms around his neck, yanking him into a deathly tight hug as i bend down to his seated height.

matt doesn’t hug me back, his arms hang loosely by his sides. i bury my head into the crook of his neck,

after a few seconds i pull away, visible nerves on my face, matt’s tilts his head down to his lap, where his hands rest, fiddling with his rings.

“matt please, look at me.” i say, my voice barely audible. his head shakes, i nod my head “okay.” i whisper.

“i’m so sorry sweetheart, i didn’t mean any of that, i promise it’s just the week before my period. you know i get in these stupid moods that i can’t handle.”  i say softly,

matt continues to stare down at his lap.

i get down on my knees my hands resting on his thighs, my nails scratching the material of his sweatpants.

im at the height where i can see his full face, his lips slightly pouted. i stare up at him, his eyes lock with mine for a split second. my hands travel to his waistband and grip the elastic, i look up at him again, asking for permission. matt's gaze drifts to my eyes again, he nods, his top teeth sinking into his lower lip.

i pull down his sweatpants to his midthighs, he's got no boxers on, already half hard.

i brush my thumb over his tip, earning a shaky groan from matt. i maintain eye contact with him, i feel him grow fully hard in my hand. i run my hand up his length a few times before taking my hands off him completley.

"please" matt clears his throat, "please what?" i tease, resting my hands on his thighs, he almost looks as though he’s going to cry again,

i can see his breathing intensify, "tell me what you want." i say calmly, matt lets out a whine, his leg bobbing up and down on the spot, "please." matt breathes out again.

i lean foward, wrapping my lips around matt's tip, a soft moan exits his mouth as he gentley tangles his fingers into my hair. i swirl my tongue around his tips before taking more of him further down my throat.

"close-" matt warns, bucking his hips up as his hands grip my hair tighter. i pull off his cock for a second to catch a needed breath,

"i need to." matt protests as his cheeks flush, small droplets of sweat gathering on his forehead, he runs his hand though my hair. i wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, "i know, i know." i say, quickly wrapping my mouth around him again as i scratch his thighs with my nails.

i bob my head up and down quicker, matts whimpers filling the room. i look up at him with doe eyes, he squeezes his eyes shut, thrusting his cock deeper into my mouth.

i can see his breathing intensifying before he releases in my mouth, i pull off of him.

matt leans back in his chair, before quickly reaching a hand down under my mouth, i spit it out into his hand "sorry.." matt laughs slightly, grabbing a bunch of tissues and cleaning his hand and my lips.

"don't say sorry matt, my fault for getting you so worked up." i say, standing up and grabbing matts arm, pulling him up onto his feet. i lead him towards the bed, he stumbles slightly as he recovers from his orgasm.

i sit down on the bed, my back resting against the headboard. matt lays down next to me, i pull his head onto my chest.

"matt, i feel really bad." i start,

"what? for what? that was the best fucking experience i've had all month, the nails did somethin-" he rambles, i cut him off.

"no! about the things i said, and.. you know.. making you cry" i say with a small laugh.

"trust me, you made up for it, can you do the same tomorrow so i can get another blow job." matt smiles, i run a hand through his hair, shaking my head with a scoff.

---------------------

[doliacuddles]

ৎ⸝⸝⠀UNDER HIS SHADOW ! —

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: 𝖸𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾! 𝖠𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋. ᴄᴡ: 𝖯𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀����𝖼𝖺𝗅 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅, 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗎𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺𝖼𝗒, 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄, 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌. ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: 𝖨𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝖾𝗅𝗅, 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗑𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. 𝖠𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋, 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖾, 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌, 𝖻𝗅𝗎𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗋𝖾. ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 649

The first time he saw you, newly arrived in Hell, he thought you were an anomaly. Your eyes shimmered with a humanity that this place had long since smothered in everyone else. And when you extended your hand toward him—fearless, free of ulterior motives—something ancient and dormant within Alastor flickered to life. A spark he had forgotten could even exist. He couldn’t fully grasp it then. It was something raw, almost primal—a tangled knot of fascination, gratitude… and a hunger coiling deep inside him like a serpent, patient yet unrelenting.

You became his salvation. His anchor. The sole sweet note in Hell’s cacophony of screams and despair. But what began as gratitude swiftly evolved into something far more potent, more consuming, and even he couldn’t fathom its intensity. Every gesture of yours, every smile, every soft-spoken word was a rope tightening around the withered thing that passed for his heart, binding him, claiming him.

Soon, he couldn’t bear others approaching you. Why should they? What could they possibly offer that he couldn’t? To Alastor, they were flies—petty, insignificant nuisances buzzing too close to something that was never theirs to touch. To you. Every glance, every shared laugh with someone else was a sting in a place he hadn’t thought capable of pain. But that ache only fed his resolve. You were his. You knew it, even if you refused to admit it, even if you didn’t yet understand it.

He relished appearing without warning, materializing at your side with a disquieting ease. Always grinning, always charming. Yet there was something in the way his eyes lingered, in how his attention pinned you like a spotlight, that left you feeling cornered. He never said anything overtly inappropriate. Never crossed an obvious line. But he was there, always.

At night, he found excuses to linger close. At first, it was just the sound of his voice breaking the silence as you tried to sleep. Then, bolder still, he began sharing your bed. Subtly, of course—everything he did was shrouded in a careful veneer of innocence. A casual touch, a fleeting brush of his hand. You’d wake sometimes to find him lying beside you, perfectly composed, as though that was where he’d always belonged. And though his presence unsettled you, there was something oddly comforting about it that you couldn’t quite name.

For him, those moments were everything. The vulnerability you showed in sleep, the quiet trust in not pushing him away—it fed the flames of his obsession. Each night spent near you cemented his conviction: he couldn’t let you go. He wouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

The endless solitude he had endured before finding you, trapped in his own despair, had twisted his need for connection into something dark and insatiable. He didn’t just want your company—he wanted to consume you, to absorb every fragment of you until there was nothing left for anyone else. And though he knew the weight of his devotion might crush you, he couldn’t stop himself. You were his only light in a world he had embraced as hollow and black.

There was something almost beautiful in the way he saw you. To Alastor, you weren’t merely a person. You were an idea, a necessity, the answer to questions he hadn’t realized he was asking. And while he tried to convince himself that his attachment was love, deep down, he knew it was something far more ravenous. Far more selfish.

In his rare moments of honesty with himself, he admitted it: he didn’t want to protect you. He wanted to own you. And though his smile never faltered, though his words remained warm and honeyed, his thoughts were a maelstrom of jealousy, longing, and an unquenchable desire to make you his. Forever.

Intellectual property of @doliacuddles.

[apas-95]

In most city builders the unofficial (sometimes, explicit) goal is to grow your city - get a large amount of money, a large population and large tax income, unlock cool buildings, etc - and, while you can play it that way, the real unofficial goal of Workers & Resources is self-sufficiency.

While in the early game you're necessarily reliant on foreign trade to purchase raw materials, even hire foreign skilled labourers, and depend on exports to make up your currency deficit, the excitement of the game comes about once you fully control all steps of a given production process. You go from importing electricity - to mining, transporting, and refining coal for your own domestic power plants. And that applies to every single resource chain in the game, from bread, to concrete, to railway carriages.

What really sells me on the whole thing is this - in 'realistic' mode, the ability to construct buildings purely from money is removed. You can still import materials and labour, but you need to actually get them there. The process for starting out your city goes like this:

Set up mud tracks (the only free road type) from a border customs office. Build the free versions (which is to say, designated dirt lots) of a construction office, a fuel depot, and a road logistics office. From the border, buy vehicles with cash - cement mixers, dump trucks, asphalt pavers and steamrollers, a bus to bring foreign workers to your construction site, and don't forget a fuel tanker to supply your fuel depot. At this point you have a muddy construction site with some cars parked on it. Start construction on worker housing, the electrical substation for the housing, a water pump and water treatment plant (or, just a water tower to import water into), a small store to feed them - and hopefully it's not cold enough that you need a central heating block. Congrats, now get your construction offices carrying out each individual stage of construction in turn, requiring different resources and vehicles at each part, until, over dozens and dozens of workdays, you've finally built a single worker accomodation. Take in some workers, who are probably a bit annoyed that there aren't any bars or sports complexes around, and you've finally, after months of construction works, got your first residents. Now they need an actual workplace - and, luckily, you've now got a local workforce to construct it. Give it time, and this remote patch of dirt will be constructing nuclear power stations.

I feel like, in the way games like Banished (or, more topically, Manor Lords, I think? I've never played it) turn city-building into a survival game, by just semi-accurately portraying the precarity of a peasant economy, Workers & Resources definitely makes you feel like a stressed planner fighting against production itself, rather than your own citizens, like in Cities Skylines or the like.

[almostempty]

Maladaptive Coping Mechanisms

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: Looking for an escape from a horrible day, you take a sexy stranger home from the bar. 

Warnings: drinking, smoking, smut, glorification of substance use as a coping mechanism, using sex to avoid processing emotions, PWP, like mostly just porn and emotions, spit, one (1) pussy slap, pussy pronouns, size kink, sort of pleasuredom!javi, AU unprotected sex has no risks bc i like it that way, piv sex, fingering, creampie,

Notes: cigarette vending machines were real, part 2 exists and if one single person asks for it i’ll post it 

please leave feedback! open to constructive criticism or delusional inspiration

Thanks: to @auteurdelabre , u know what u did 

WC: 6.7K

AO3: here

Part 2: here

Masterlist: Here

It’s not enough.

You feel the inescapable temptation racing like wildfire through your veins. Thick, hot air whips your hair into your face, and you laugh, throaty and as loud as a barking German Shepherd with saliva frothing against their teeth. The thought of jerking the wheel and rolling your car into oncoming traffic causes your fingers to twitch. The roar of the semi-truck you pass drowns out everything else, your music, the wind surging through the windows, and your violent intrusive thoughts. You decide not to opt for a head-on collision. Heading towards your side of town, you slow to a less reckless speed, immediately missing the road noise. 

The temptation still pounds in your head, unbearable. Something stronger. You need something stronger before you drive to his house and choke on the smoke while you burn it to the ground. 

But you’re free! You grin as you race directionless through the streets, the kind of grin that would unsettle a small child. The evening sun blinds you whenever you choose a street facing west, and you welcome the jarring obtrusion, the pain. But driving into the sun isn’t enough. 

You pull over at the first parking spot you can see, ripping off your seatbelt and twisting around to dig under your seat. Nails catch on the carpeting, but you only recognize some change, receipts, and a petrified french fry. The muscles in your shoulder could tear from the tendons for all you care as you contort yourself to check under the passenger seat before digging through every compartment you can fit your fingers into. 

A cigarette seems healthy in comparison to crashing your car or lighting your ex’s house on fire. You swore there was a forgotten pack of smokes under one of the seats in your car, stashed away in case of emotional emergencies months ago before you committed to quitting. Nate must have found them and tossed them. Of course, he could still keep making this day worse. Even after you’d walked out on him mid-rant about how it was somehow your fault that he’d become even more of a repulsive asshole during the months you’d spent apart. “Hope you’re happy with how you chose to use your last ‘second chance,’” you had spat at him, already halfway to the door. You imagined the look cemented on his face as you left. You hope to never imagine his face again. 

Dried tears sting the corners of your eyes. Rubbing at the raw skin burns. You stare at your red eyes in your rearview mirror, and you can see the flicker of your soul nearly snuffed out from the years of despair. Blood pounding in your ears, you roll your head on your shoulders, and popping and grinding noises in your neck add to the symphony of your pulse. Tipping back against the headrest, you refocus and take in your surroundings. A bar. A beacon in the fading golden hour as dusk overtakes her glow. 

Bars have cigarettes. A drink, or four, would help, too. You need to feel something else. Find something strong enough to break through the numbness of anger and embarrassment. Something to override your loquacious internal monologue. It’s not enough.

Your demons materialize on your shoulders, prepared to fight your morality. The neon beer signs in the window sing a siren song. Temptation wins in the first round, she’s a seductress not to be outclassed. 

The gravel crunches under your feet as you cross the parking lot, kicking up little clouds of dust in your wake. Inside, you swerve between the pool tables, crossing the dimly lit space in a beeline to the cigarette vending machine for a new pack and matches before lasering in on an empty stool at the bar. Tunnel vision. 

Cold beer soothes the burn in your throat from the tequila shot you slammed before you even settled your full weight on the barstool. The liquid waterfalls down your throat until the bottle runs dry. The surly bartender replaces it with another, and her eyes flick from yours to the empty shot glass and back. 

“I’ll just stick to beer for now,” you answer. A barely perceptible snicker yanks your attention to your right. He’s smirking to himself, trying to hide it with a swig from his bottle. Your scowl softens by a hair as you rake your eyes down his profile. Strong features, sparkling dark eyes, well-groomed, and an open collar that teases you with a glimpse of the skin of his chest. His look piques your interest. But that smug curl of his lip raises your hackles as you return to your mission: a neurochemical intervention. Maybe he knows where you could procure a lobotomy if nicotine and booze don’t help. 

You slam the second beer, signaling for another. Your head weighs heavily on your shoulders, but you can start to feel the warmth of the alcohol blooming within your chest. A welcome warmth despite the suffocatingly thick air in the bar. You feel the layer of sweat coating your torso. The skin bared on your thighs sticks to the vinyl stool, but you don’t care about being warm and sticky. Your assignment is simple. Get the liquor to your brain before you recruit Smug Mustache and Silent Barkeep to your crew. She can drive; he can be the lookout. Accomplice to arson shouldn’t be a hard sell.

You smile to yourself at the thought. 

The tiny muscles in your face start to relax, and the line between your brows softens. The racing thoughts get quieter, and you can process your environment more easily. The clack of the billiard balls on the pool table, the rock ballad barely audible over the buzz of the patrons. A variety of mostly bald or bearded men occupy different seats, and women with brassy hair and loud laughs hold all the secrets. You and the man seated next to you don’t quite fit the demographic, but nobody seems bothered. 

You slide a cigarette out of your pack, and before you tuck it between your lips, the man next to you pushes the amber-colored ashtray he’d been hoarding towards you and offers you a light. 

Leaning towards him, you’re hit with an intoxicating rush of spicy aftershave, leather, and tobacco. You seize the opportunity to take in his features head-on, inhaling deeply while he unabashedly sweeps his dark eyes over you in turn. Sinfully dark, they flick back up to yours. He drags his thumb across his bottom lip, and you’re entranced momentarily by the need to feel that plush lip between your teeth. 

Sex. 

That could work. Ease the restlessness and the deepening impulse to scream. Maybe that’s the third ingredient to your impulsive master plan. 

“Thanks,” you exhale, breaking the heady silence. The rush of nicotine entwined with alcohol begins to replace the rage in your veins. Vengeful racing thoughts are replaced with a mantra. A dull pounding in the back of your skull. More. You smile. More. More. He tracks your mouth as you press the cold glass bottle to your lips. You swallow and swallow. He raises one eyebrow, head cocked, as you drain the bottle. 

“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but I’m not sure you’d taste it at this rate,” he teases in a voice thick as molasses. 

You consider your frenzied rate of consumption. Might be time to slow down. 

“Maybe you could convince me to savor it,” you challenge. He nods and orders. He studies your lips as you take another drag from your cigarette. More. He doesn’t shy from holding your gaze. Not when you smile or when you look him up and down again. You usually aren’t so forward. The cocktail of substances and the emotional hangover from your failed reconciliation emboldens you. But, one tiny crack fractures, and for a brief moment, you’re gone. 

Your eyes lose focus. Disconnected from your body, the bar, and reality. He watches with amusement. He knows that look. He wears it often. 

Your thoughts flash and crack like a lightning storm. Nate’s face. Livid, red, and sputtering foul insults at you. Enraged that you’re drinking, smoking, and desperate to whore yourself out to the first man you see. Worse. You don’t care. Nate wasted your time and shattered your goodwill. You want to be set free. Erase him and his pathetic voice altogether. 

You take another sip and another drag, hoping one of them will detach his grubby claws from your conscience. You blink, and the horrifying hallucination is gone. 

“Drinking to forget, cariño?” the man you’d been staring past interrupts your thoughts. His tone is genuine. But why? Is that his schtick? Offering to fix broken women with a well-timed light and teasing glance?

“Something like that,” you muse, taking another drag. You hadn’t realized how close you were sat until now. It’s intimate. Smoke curls in a delicate dance between you, alluring as it winds and flares. You feel drawn to him, connected by chance. Something new to focus on. To study. He watches you with such intensity you note. Unwavering. Too sober and too shiny to be a regular old barfly. It’s not a bar full of singles. He’s out of place. Maybe he got lost along a warpath like you. Good. More.

He’s still watching. Waiting for you to elaborate? You let your knee slide forward until it’s pressing into his firm thigh. “Just trying to feel something,” you answer honestly. 

“Mm,” he takes another swig, and you watch his neck in slow motion as he swallows. 

“And you?” 

“Same goal, I guess,” he confirms. His hand drags slowly down his thigh and slides onto your knee. Your mouth parts at the contact of his palm. A new fire rips through your veins, but it’s not rage. More. 

“Would you say it’s working?” you gesture to the bottles coated in beads of condensation on the bar top. 

“No.” He stares at you openly. His carnivorous mouth splits into a grin. 

His boldness makes a giggle bubble up in your throat. You tilt your head back with a laugh. Your hair slides behind your shoulders, exposing the delicate flesh of your neck.

“No,” you repeat in agreement. You match his physicality and grasp his own thigh firmly with your hand, studying his face for any hint of a response. “It’s not enough,” you add, dragging your hand further up his leg. Slowly. 

“You’re looking for more, cariño?” he dares with cloying charm. Yes! More!

You might've rolled your eyes at the whole situation if you weren’t so many drinks in with a sinister desire for escapism. You’ve barely spoken to each other, engaged in an elite-level erotic staring competition instead. 

The best you could do was exchange names. 

“Javier Peña,” you repeated back to him. Deciding if you liked the way it sounded on your tongue. You wet your lips. 

“Just Javi is fine,” he counters while leaving enough cash on the bar to cover both your tabs with a generous tip. 

“Smooth, Just Javi,” you bait, looking at the cash and back to him. He flashes a wolfish smile back. It makes you want to fuck him right here on the bar. More, you scream at him with your eyes. 

He removes the nearly finished cigarette between your much smaller fingers, takes the last drag, and stubs it out in the ashtray. 

If you weren’t so aroused by everything about him, you’d chastise him for trying to get you out of here so quickly. But you feel it rolling off of him, too. It feels like taking a narcotic. Time is syrupy and slow. You feel your smile sticking longer than you meant, your eyes linger hotly, and you squeeze his upper arm harder than intended. It’s an addictive rush to feel your desire reciprocated. And with such urgency. You take in his height and broad frame now that you stand face to face. He stills. Observant. You don’t need any more time to decide what you want. You need to feel him and only him as soon as possible. 

“Let’s go. Now,” you order as you lead him out of the dingy establishment into the clear night. 

You expect him to cage you against the cool metal of his pickup, but he’s a suave gentleman opening the passenger door for you instead. Fine. You slide across the bench seat just as he’s turning the key in the ignition, pressing your curves into the side of his firm body. Restless and grabby, your fingers dance over him, unsure where to start when he grips your chin in his large palm and tilts your face towards his. 

Rage flashes behind your eyes at his interruption. Never far from the surface, ready to lash out.

“Be good for me, cariño,” he says sternly. 

“Oh, I’ll be so good,” you purr, dragging your hand down his chest towards the bulge in his too-tight jeans and batting your lashes before he grabs your hand. 

You huff, indignant. Rolling your eyes. 

 “I’d like to give you my full attention.”

“You can have mine.” 

“No.” 

“Who put you in charge?” you spit out with a fierceness. 

He laughs, harsh and mean. You flush with irritation, recoiling like his grip suddenly burned. What is this? You thought you were reading everything right; you’re in his truck, ready and wanting. Frustrating man. You need something to ease your anger, or you’ll spit venom. 

He leans into your ear like he has a secret despite the privacy of the cab of his truck. Dragging his voice over broken glass and gravel, he murmurs, “You want to feel something?” his hand is suddenly wedged between your legs. “You want more?” He squeezes tight, pressing his fingers against the seam of your denim shorts, and you choke back a moan. His spiced scent fills your nose. You feel his smile against your ear. Your head spins. Yes. You need it now. No games. Your nails dig marks into his wrist, pleading. 

“You get to touch, but I don’t? What is this, Javier? Afraid you won’t last?” You jeer at him. 

His hot laugh fans down your neck. Your body betrays your mind in search of friction. Shamelessly, your hips roll against his hand. 

“Such a sharp tongue,” he tuts at you, pulling back to look into your eyes, “for such a needy pussy,” he pulls his hand away. You fight to still your body and level his stare, feeling the heat of anger and lust in your face. He lists his demands. 

Be good for me. Until we get home. 

Simple. 

Then I will give you what you need. 

Bold. 

Something different washes over you, but you keep pushing at him. 

“And what do I need, Javi?” 

“Need to be stuffed full of this cock until you forget what ‘more’ means.” 

Soaked. Your traitorous pussy floods your already ruined panties. But you can’t shut yourself up. You have to push him harder. 

“Awfully confident, Javi. Hope you aren’t the type to oversell and underdeliver–” Your snide remark is cut off when he covers your hand with his and presses it into the hard bulge in his jeans. 

“Does it feel like an oversell?”

You barely hear him over the sound of your heartbeat pulsing in your ears. No, it most definitely does not feel like an oversell; you refuse to admit it out loud. He grazes the edges of his teeth down tender skin. At the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, he snaps you back into reality with a sharp bite. A small gasp escapes you that he definitely doesn’t miss. 

You catch the smirk. Cocky bastard. 

“Now,” he demands your attention, “you’ll be good for me all the way home.”

It’s definitely not a question, but he stares like he’s waiting for a response. 

You fold your hands in your lap begrudgingly and nod. But something in your chest blooms brightly. The dance for dominance does exhilarate you. He grips your upper thigh like he’s the only thing holding you to the earth. Like you might fly out the window if he lets go. Or, like you might crawl into his lap, sink down onto his cock, and cause you both to launch through the windshield when he crashes into a ditch. 

His fingers tease under the edge of your shorts, white-hot flesh against flesh. You’re wired.

You direct him to your place. It’s close, and you’ve no patience. He doesn’t argue. 

..

You lead him into your home. He doesn’t take you ferociously against the back of the door. Infuriating. You behaved all the way home. He’s a curious juxtaposition of lewd and polite. Restrained, he takes his shoes off at the door and asks for a glass of water. Like he’s your neighbor invited over for tea. But, you can feel the carnality radiating off him as he watches to see if you’ll show good manners. More.

“That’s good, cariño,” he praises, soft and raspy, taking the icy glass from your hand. “Show me your room,” he instructs. How is it your turf, but he’s still in charge? You glare at him briefly before you acquiesce and traipse down your hallway to your bedroom. 

He places the glass of water on your nightstand, still full, and turns to assess you. You furrow your brows. Was the water some kind of test? Whatever. You behaved in the car. You behaved all the way to your bedroom. You’re nearly dizzy with need. Every breath feels like a lifetime.

His golden skin glows in the lamplight. You’d describe it as angelic if he wasn’t driving you mad. Morbid desire crawls under your skin, itchy and tense. He gestures for you to sit on your bed, and you do. If he insists on leading, you’ll follow. 

You fold your hands in your lap again as if awaiting his next command. He cradles your cheek in his palm, and you look up through your lashes. You are not the saint of patience; your fingers twitch with the urge to tear his clothes into shreds. Why is he taking his time? Your mind is racing for a snarky comment when he interrupts your thoughts like he could hear them. 

His touch is so gentle. Patient. Like he’s experienced in domesticating rabid animals. 

“Shhh, I know,” his voice is earnest. Not teasing. Not mocking. 

It catches you off guard. Grounding you. Strange. 

His expression seems to slip into something unguarded as well. A moment of understanding. You see him. Something is building in the distance in your mind. Like the shore is receding before a tidal wave hits. But it’s too quiet without the waves breaking on the rocks. More.

“Make me feel something, Javier,” you reply. 

It hangs delicately in the air. You aren’t provoking or begging. It’s a genuine expression of your desire to run from your internal state.

“I intend to,” he confirms with confidence. Like that’s the permission he was waiting for, the wait is over. Your lips connect. He kisses you with a bright and burning passion. Plush lips and wet tongues slide together expertly. Sharp little nips pull whiny melodies out of you. Your hands tug and pull at his hair, shoulders, and shirt. It’s not enough to just have his mouth. 

“More,” you demand into his tongue. 

“So needy,” he condescends, and you feel your cheeks warm. 

He peels off your shirt, and his hands fly to exposed breasts.

“No bra?” he tuts as if he didn’t put that together while ogling you at the bar. You shake your head in response as he kneads at your soft skin. “Of course not.” He pinches at your nipples with precision, pleasure bridging on pain coursing through your body. You feel your chest arch towards him for relief, deep moans falling from your mouth. You want him to consume you. He looks like he might. 

..

Javi hums at the way your body responds to him. Pliant but strong. You move into his touch, seeking intensity. He increases pressure and maps out your body. 

He lets all his thoughts be filled with you. Your warm skin and soft vanilla scent are hidden until his nose trails behind your ear. You freely let all the sounds and breath spill from your mouth as he caresses you reverently. He wants to know how many sounds you can make. 

You were a delightful surprise, crashing into the bar next to him. He recognized the look in your eyes. He’s going to give you what you need. Because you want it. And because he wants to drown himself in it. He feels drawn to you somehow. 

..

Despite how good it feels to have his hands and mouth on your body, your neglected clit aches for attention. He continues on, almost obliviously, and you reach a fever pitch that splits your eyes wide open. Possessed by one word. More. 

Your fingers come to life and work rapidly, yanking at his belt and the button on his jeans before slipping a hand in to feel. You’re struck with a surge of delight as your hand skates over his hot flesh and coarse hair. A hedonic sense of imminent victory unfurls in your core. 

“No underwear?” you tut back at him. 

“Nope,” you swear he winked at you as he said it. 

He pulls you up to stand, stripping the rest of both of your clothes off quickly. You push him back a step to get a better look at his now fully naked form. 

“Shit.” “Fuck.”

You mutter over each other at the same time. Like you’ve been compelled, you reach for him, needing to immediately taste and touch him everywhere. You knew he was a gem in that dive bar, but in front of you in your bedroom, you realize: he’s fucking gorgeous. 

Of course, he won’t allow you to touch him. Nasty man with his beautiful body and devilish disposition. He scoops you up like the petulant child you are about to become and drops you onto your back in the middle of your bed with ease. You bounce against the mattress. 

He catches the sour pout on your face as he settles himself between your legs. 

“No need to think now, princesa,” he kisses just inside your left knee, “that’s my job now.” His mustache tickles the soft skin of your inner thighs, but it’s the spark in his dark eyes that makes you squirm. You groan in frustration at being deprived of the freedom to touch him once again, but you remain malleable. 

“I need you to lay back and spread these legs for me.” 

You comply. Parting your legs wider as his hands slide towards your center. Your eyes are locked on his, and his eyes are locked on your glistening folds in front of his face. 

“Fuck, cariño, yes, just like that.” 

You curse your body for needing to blink. Enraptured with the look on his face, you don’t want to see anything else. Floating and lightheaded, nobody has ever seen you like this. Seen the truth in your eyes so easily. Seen your blaring evidence of need pooling and dripping. And still looked at you the way he does. Desperate to be touched, you are grounded in the present. No other conscious thoughts. More. 

He pulls at the skin on the top of your thighs, nowhere near close enough for your liking, but fully exposing your achy clit and fluttering entrance to his eyes. You’ve needed his touch since you left the bar, or maybe since you first felt his husky voice frazzle your brain. 

He stares and stares as you watch impatiently. 

“Such a gorgeous pussy,” he says to himself before he hovers closer and blows a stream of cool air over your swollen folds. 

You could slap him for that or scream, but what comes out is a breathy “fuck,” and you clench your fists in an attempt to remain composed through this macabre sexual torture. You feel like he’s been down there for an eternity. And still, he’s given you no relief. 

You brace for another stream of air, but instead, you watch agape as a glob of spit falls in slow motion from his lips to your clit. The barely there sensation snaps something in your mind as his saliva flows downward. 

“You just gonna look, or you gonna touch any time soon?” you goad. 

Javi’s eyes shoot to yours, narrowed. You’ve interrupted a private conversation. Vague and meaningless threats start flowing from your mouth, and you shift to reach for him when an abrupt slap to your pussy jolts your nervous system. 

Before your brain and mouth can comment on his audacity, your body betrays you. You feel the patchy flush on your chest burning and the gush of lubrication in anticipation. He clocks both signs. 

“Cariño,” he coos at you darkly. “I told you,” head shaking with disappointment, “no need to think.” He looks back down, “Now look, she’s crying for me, and I haven’t even had a taste yet.” 

Your head sinks into your pillows with an exasperated sigh. How can torture feel exquisite? Wretched man. 

“No. You don’t take your eyes off me,” the edge in his tone suggests you don’t want to disobey. 

You find the strength to tilt your head back towards him. And it’s just in time to watch as he runs two fingers up and down your glossy folds. He ghosts around your clit, avoiding what you need most until he’s satisfied with his coated fingers. He plunges them both into your eagerly awaiting hole, petting at your velvety walls. An animalistic noise that must come from you fills the room in competition with the slick, wet sounds of his fingers. 

“That’s right. Keep those pretty eyes on me while I play with your pussy.” Javi looks down to watch for himself. “You look so good swallowing my fingers,” he rasps thickly. Your walls clench and constrict around his fingers as his voice carves out a home in your mind. 

Your room is cool, thanks to the hum of your window AC unit, but your body runs hot. You’ve never had a man in your bed who was this good with his words before. It forces you to stay focused. Present and aware of every sensation. Your ex was too insecure to be vocal. Other partners lacked tact or creativity. None of them ever took charge like this or took their time. You feel your chest heaving and see the wide smile break across his face. Your skin tingles as a sheen of sweat breaks out.

Javi takes his time experimenting with the ways your body responds. He speeds up and slows down, changes pressure and patterns, tapping and tracing, petting and prodding. It’s like the nine extra settings you don’t need your vibrator to have, but better. It’s not careless. You watch, like he instructed. He seems studious, observing how you respond, scanning your face and body. Microexpressions on his face calculating and plotting. 

You flex, tense, and writhe as much as you dare, trying to maintain some control over your body. Your eyebrows are pinched, and your hips are tight as you strain. 

Javier can tell. Do you not trust him? He needs you to give in to him. 

“Let me take you there, cariño,” he urges. “Can feel she wants it; just relax for me, breathe.” 

“Fuck,” you confirm with a whisper and do your best to let go of some of the rigid tension. He maintains a steady rhythm for you to focus on. He slowly builds in intensity, and he continues to murmur encouragement to you. Breathe. There you go. Easy. 

You slowly melt into it and let him puppet your mind and body. Building and building. Breathing and breathing. Allowed to be out of control. That does it. Your climax crashes violently against your loose frame. Yes, cariño, just like that, fuck. Contracting muscles in your core pull your chest forward. Jerking and spasming, you raise with stuttering gasps. You aren’t sure if you should laugh or be embarrassed as you pant, feeling like he just performed an exorcism on you. His expression settles you. Pleased with an edge of ravenous. 

He slides his fingers from you and sits up, looming tall and strong on his knees over your damp, limp body. Your eyes are glued to his weeping cock, softly bobbing at your eye level. Saliva pools in your mouth, craving the weight of it sliding over your tongue. You swallow and blink. Recalibrating your senses and figuring out what he just said to you. 

He runs his fingers back through your overly sensitive folds to get your attention. Your entire body twitches, wrenching your attention to his face. He already has you at his mercy. 

“Close your mouth, baby,” he commands. You weren’t aware it had been hanging open and snap it shut. He laughs gently at your stupor. Enamored. Then he’s running his slick coated fingers over your lips like a debauched lipgloss. Your mouth parts to question him, and he slides them onto your tongue before a word gets out. 

“Good,” he praises, “suck.” You do. And as he drags his fingers out he replaces them with his tongue. He sucks and nips at your lips, tasting everything. The bright flavor of your arousal, the lingering beer from the bar, the smoky tobacco, and the gum you tried to sneak on your way out of the bar. It’s a potent concoction, and it fuels his thirst. You run your tongue along his neck and commit the flavor of his sweat-salted skin to memory. 

You can feel the rumbly groans filling his chest, and you’re back to needing more. Clawing at his skin and tugging at his hair. One of your soft hands finds his throbbing cock, and wrapping your fingers around it causes you to exchange throaty moans. You slip your thumb around the head, coating it in precome and using it to glide your full fist down his shaft. It’s stupid how big his cock is, and part of you is loathe to admit it. You just know he’s already aware, but a mindless so big slips out of your mouth anyway. You feel him smile against you. 

“Y’think so?” he breathes against your neck. 

You roll your eyes at him and tease, “Don’t be trite, Javi.” You tug firmly at his length. “I’m sure all the ladies you pick up in shitty dive bars fawn over your pretty cock.” 

A distant look flickers across his face before he flashes a sly grin at you. 

“Y’think it’s pretty?” Is that all he heard? 

“Oh my god,” you groan in feigned annoyance at him. 

He looks down to watch your hand stroke him and decides that is a pretty sight. 

You hope he was right in the cab of his truck. That when he fills you up, you’ll forget how to think. He pulls back from your greedy little grasp. I know, I know. He says with the marks he leaves along your skin. 

“You think she’s ready for me?” he asks as he adjusts to line up with you. You’re too entranced to respond. He slides himself through your folds, and you whimper at the pressure. He’s still waiting for an answer. He pauses and stares at your face. He gives your clit a playful swat with the weight of his cock. 

You blink back up to him, “huh?” 

“You think she’s ready to take me?” he repeats. 

“Yes, Javi, m’ready.” 

He gives you a disapproving look, for god knows why. And shifts further away from you. You feel your face shift into a pout. 

”I think she can give me a couple more first.” 

Something in you loosens, and you realize you’re defenseless. Willing.

This time, he doesn’t toy with you. He strikes swiftly. Overwhelming your senses when his fingers slide back inside of you and the hot furnace of his mouth envelopes your no longer neglected clit. He brings you over the edge rapidly with the combination of his curling fingers and the firm pressure of the flat of his tongue. 

He praises you adoringly, but he doesn’t let up. That’s it. Dámelo. Breathe. You can take it. Another. Know she wants it. Like that. Taking you further than you thought you could go. Again and again. You’re blind and boneless, a sticky mess. He could watch you like this for hours. Writhing against his fingers as his other arm wraps over your belly, holding you in place. 

“What’d you say?” he asks as you come down from another flood of endorphins. You weren’t aware you could form words. You blink dazedly before you can figure it out. 

“Please, Javi, please,” you repeat. You don’t know what you’re begging for anymore. 

His lips are pressed to your sweaty forehead. When he pulls back, a mischievous grin spreads across his face. You’re trying to think of what you were trying to communicate, but it’s hazy. 

“Doing so good for me, cariño, you deserve it now.” 

You can only nod and whisper another “please.” He slides the head of his cock through your dripping, sensitive folds. That’s what you wanted. More.

“Yes,” you chant, “please, oh god, yes, Javi, please, fuck.” You exercise the full extent of your current vocabulary in quick succession. 

“Beautiful, cariño,” his words drip over you like honey. 

“Yes, Javi, please,” you continue your chant. 

Slowly. Painfully slowly, he begins to feed his cock into you, eyes rapidly flipping between studying the expressions crossing your face and the view of your pussy stretching around him. 

“Oh god, oh,” you repeat mindlessly as he works his way inside of you. 

“Fuck” he exhales and locks his eyes on your face before pushing the rest of the way in. When your eyes widen, and your jaw falls slack, he knows the image will be seared into his memory. 

“Yes, Javi, fuck��” your mantra is cut off with a deep moan as he grinds his hips into yours. You're so full. You run your hands down his back, trying to force him closer. Trying to merge solid bodies into liquid pleasure. Transform physical vessels into the intangible. More.

He begins to slide in and out, never leaving the clutch of your warm walls all the way. His pace steadily increases, along with the intensity of the snap of his hips once he’s as deep as possible inside of you. He folds your knees towards your chest and thrusts with fervor, captivated by the way your tits bounce. 

A cacophony of lewd noises bounces off the walls in your room. Your shared panting, the rocking bedframe, the wet slip of his cock sawing into you, the skin-to-skin slap of his heavy balls bouncing against your ass, it’s all a debased symphony together. 

A delirious giggle pours from you as the realization strikes. He was right, no need to think; all you need is to feel how perfectly he fills you up. He’s not thrown by your fit of laughter. You think he knows. His mouth is moving, though. He’s speaking to you. You focus with all the effort you can muster. 

“Again, cariño. You’re going to come on my cock for me,” he breathes like he’s the one ready to beg. You obey. It takes the slightest touch, swirling your fingers around your sensitive nerves. Watching the tense expression on his face. The weight of his body fucking you into your mattress. You’re clenching around him like you could pull him any deeper.

“Fuck, that’s right,” he drops his mouth to your salty neck, “so well-behaved for me.” 

You preen at that. Breathing each other's air. 

“These legs still work?” he asks, swatting at your thighs. 

“A little,” you shrug. 

“Good.” He sits up, pulling your chest into his, breathing with you for a minute as you wrap your legs around him and settle on his lap. “Not done with you yet,” he growls into your hair. You think about the moment at the bar earlier, when he lit your cigarette for you. You hoped he’d be good. You didn’t think he’d be this good. 

“Yes, Javi,” you agree as if you know what’s next. He shifts, and you let him arrange your body as he pleases. It’s blissful. Not having to think. He maneuvers you like a doll, but you know you aren’t an object to him. Not with the way he gently rolls you onto your belly, arranging a pillow under your head. You rest your cheek against it and peer dreamily at him. He lifts your hips, propping you up on your knees, and pauses for a second to admire the way your pussy glistens readily for him. The way your smooth back arches in presentation just for him. But it’s the expression on your face, the insatiable more in your eyes, that gives him purpose. 

He kneels behind you and sinks in easily, a groan ripping through his throat as you push your hips back into him with more energy than he expected. You moan loudly in response, attempting to muffle it into the pillow. 

“Oh my god, Javi,” you rasp at him. “How can you possibly get any deeper?” you ask incredulously. 

“How are you still talking, cariño?” he taunts, picking up an unyielding and brutal pace. 

“M’not” you decide, “no thoughts.” 

“Fuck” you both echo as he hits a new angle. 

“Please, don’t stop,” you beg openly, “just like that, Javi, holy shit.” He slips one hand underneath you to play with your swollen clit. 

“Yes,” you begin chanting again. But you want him to come. You need it. You slide your own hand under his to replace it. Reaching further to feel the way you’re stretched around him. You wish you could see it. The feeling alone turns your brain to mush. 

“Javi?” you plead for his attention. You could sob with the intensity building in your core. 

“Yes?” he asks without slowing down. 

“Need you to come,” you whine into the pillow your face rocks into. 

“Yes, cariño,” he consents. 

“No, now. I need you to fill me up, please; I need to feel it,” you beg like you were invented for him in a dream. So perfect. 

“I know,” he asserts, “gonna stuff you full,” and that sends you. 

“Fuck, Javi, yes, I need it,” you sob out as your muscles flex and contract around him once more. 

He grips your spineless frame and tugs your back into his chest. You might be drooling as your head rolls into his shoulder. You register a hand squeezing at your tits as he gives you what you want. A few more harsh thrusts and he’s filling you up. You can feel his cock flexing and straining to give you everything he’s got. Javier’s rough breaths reverberate through your blissfully quiet mind. It’s enough. 

He lowers you back to your pillow, still on your knees, and he slides out of you with a soft groan. You echo it, feeling immediately emptier without him.

You stretch across the bed to fish for your cigarettes in your pile of discarded belongings from earlier or maybe a lifetime ago. 

He accepts one when you offer and, in turn, offers you the water he asked for earlier. You gratefully accept. You ask if the water trick works on all the women he picks up in dive bars. He argues that it’s not really a trick if the sex happens before you drink it, and you share a real belly laugh at that, realizing he’s right. You finish your cigarettes in a calm silence next to each other. Your mind is quiet. You let out a satisfied little sigh. 

He gets up and starts pulling on his jeans. Reality hits you like a brick smashing into your skull. Leaving blood and bone fragments across your pillow. Substances and sex are temporary. Distractions, not solutions. A fleeting release to quell your demons. The ones that reappear back on your shoulders, cackling with glee over the chaos. Your mind is back in action racing. You drag your hands down your face. Holding your eyes shut tightly. You wait, holding your breath. Listening for the sound of your front door opening and closing any second. 

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

Introduction

The 1968 Dodge Charger R/T stands as an enduring symbol of American muscle car history. With its distinctive design, powerful engine options, and thrilling performance, this legendary vehicle has captured the hearts of car enthusiasts for generations. In this article, we’ll take a closer look at the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T, exploring its history, specifications, and the enduring appeal that makes it a true automotive icon.

The Birth of a Legend

The story of the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T begins with its debut during the golden age of American muscle cars. Dodge, a brand known for its commitment to performance, introduced this model to compete with other muscle car giants of its time. The Charger R/T was an instant hit, thanks to its sleek, aerodynamic design and powerful engine options.

Design and Styling

Striking Exterior

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

One of the most distinctive features of the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T is its unforgettable exterior design. The fastback roofline, hidden headlights, and full-width grille give it an aggressive and unmistakable presence on the road. It was a design ahead of its time, setting trends that would influence future generations of muscle cars.

Luxurious Interior

While the Charger R/T was known for its performance, it didn’t compromise on comfort and luxury. The interior featured high-quality materials, bucket seats, and a driver-oriented cockpit. This combination of style and comfort made it a versatile car, equally suitable for daily driving and spirited weekend getaways.

Heart-Pounding Performance

Engine Options

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

Under the hood, the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T offered a range of powerful engines. The most iconic choice was the 440 Magnum V8, producing a whopping 375 horsepower. For those seeking even more power, the legendary 426 Hemi V8 was available, delivering an astonishing 425 horsepower. These engines ensured that the Charger R/T lived up to its reputation as a high-performance machine.

Thrilling Performance

With its potent engines and well-tuned suspension, the Charger R/T delivered an exhilarating driving experience. It could accelerate from 0 to 60 mph in under 7 seconds, a remarkable feat for its time. The combination of raw power and precise handling made it a favorite among drag racers and car enthusiasts.

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

Enduring Popularity

Cultural Impact

The 1968 Dodge Charger R/T wasn’t just a car; it became a cultural icon. Its appearances in movies and television shows, most notably in “Bullitt” and “The Dukes of Hazzard,” cemented its status as a symbol of American automotive excellence. Even today, the Charger R/T continues to inspire filmmakers and car enthusiasts alike.

Collector’s Item

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

In the world of classic cars, the Charger R/T holds a special place. Its limited production numbers and timeless design have made it a sought-after collector’s item. Restored and well-maintained models can fetch impressive prices at auctions, reflecting the enduring demand for this iconic muscle car.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T remains a timeless classic in the world of American muscle cars. Its bold design, powerful engines, and cultural significance have ensured its place in automotive history. Whether you’re a car enthusiast or simply appreciate the beauty of a well-crafted automobile, the Charger R/T is a vehicle that continues to captivate and inspire.

1968 Dodge Charger R/T

FAQs

Is the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T still in production? No, the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T is not in production today. It is a classic car from the late 1960s.

What is the price range for a well-maintained Charger R/T from 1968? The price of a well-maintained 1968 Dodge Charger R/T can vary widely, but it often falls within the range of $50,000 to $100,000 or more, depending on the model’s condition and rarity.

How fast can the Charger R/T accelerate from 0 to 60 mph? The Charger R/T could accelerate from 0 to 60 mph in under 7 seconds, thanks to its powerful engine options.

What are some notable appearances of the 1968 Dodge Charger R/T in pop culture? The Charger R/T is famous for its appearances in movies like “Bullitt” and “The Dukes of Hazzard,” where it played iconic roles.

Were there any special editions of the 1968 Charger R/T? Yes, Dodge offered special editions and performance packages for the Charger R/T, including the 426 Hemi engine option, which was a favorite among enthusiasts.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Engineers have developed a device that can generate temperatures of over 1000°C (1832°F) by efficiently capturing energy from the sun. It could one day be used as a green alternative to burning fossil fuels in the production of materials such as steel, glass and cement. Manufacturing these materials involves heating raw materials to above 1000°C by burning fossil fuels, which is extremely energy intensive. “About half of the energy we use is not actually turned into electricity,” says Emiliano Casati at ETH Zurich in Switzerland. “It’s used to produce many of the materials that we need in our daily lives and our industries.”

[...]

While this is just a proof-of-concept device, Casati hopes that it will one day be widely used as a green way of producing the high temperatures needed in manufacturing. “We really need to tackle the challenge of decarbonising these industries, and this could be one of the solutions,” he says.

[peachiejeongin]

The Phantoms Part 1: Hollywood Tragedy | Bang Chan

Part 1 (You are here) | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

Synopsis: It was supposed to be a huge night for Chan, Changbin, and Han; they would be playing their biggest show yet at the Orpheum! Yet, it all slipped from their grasp within a matter of a few seconds, as all three passed away just hours before the show. What happens when they end up on their old garage floor and meet a someone who can make their dreams come true again?

Pairing: phantom!Bang Chan x fem!reader (Reader takes the place of Julie Molina from Julie and the Phantoms) [Does not occur in this chapter]

Genre: Julie and the Phantoms/3RACHA AU, Crack, Angst

Warnings: Mentions of death

Notice: Another idea that has stemmed within my brain! I have decided to take 3RACHA and Julie and the Phantoms, combining them into an alternate universe! In this series, Bang Chan will represent Luke Patterson, Changbin will be Reggie Peters, Han will be Alex Mercer, and y/n will take the part of Julie Molina! As with every series I write, I do NOT own the rights to 'Julie and the Phantoms!' I only hold the rights to the scenes and descriptions I create! I am excited to write this series, and I hope you all enjoy :)

Hollywood, California, 1995. The night that everything changed.

Last night was destined to be momentous for Bang Chan, Seo Changbin, Hwang Hyunjin, and Han Jisung - a triumphant step into the spotlight for their band, 3RACHA. The Orpheum, an iconic venue synonymous with "making it" in the music world, had finally opened its doors to them. It was not a simple accomplishment. Even after people knew who the band was, they still had to use every ounce of effort within them, calling in every favor they had from friends, family, and befriended executives to secure the opportunity. The day Chan received the fateful phone call inviting 3RACHA to perform a showcase at the infamous theater was unforgettable. The boys erupted into jubilant chaos in the cluttered garage - cheering, leaping, and shouting as if their dreams had materialized before them. Chan, the ever responsible leader, motioned for them to stop acting a fool as he attempted to remain professional for the secretary on the other side of the line.

Alas, 3RACHA had finally made it. The hours leading up to the performance were a blur of rehearsals, their focus razor-sharp as they fine-tuned each guitar riff, tightened every bass groove, and perfected the rhythm of every drumbeat. They poured themselves into the music, all in hopes to make the night one to remember for their fans and for cementing their place in the music industry. The night would be unforgettable, but not in the way the boys envisioned.

---

Microphone feedback rang out briefly through the stage room as 3RACHA ran through one last song before the show. Chan began the guitar riff for the band's lead track, 'Now or Never,' followed by three raps of Han's drumsticks.

"1, 2, 3!"

"Take off Last stop Countdown till we blast open the top Face first Full charge Electric hammer to the heart"

Chan's rich, melodious voice resonated through the venue, each note carrying a raw, electrifying energy that sent shivers through the crowd. His fingers kept up expertly with the fretboard of his guitar, each strum perfectly synced with the driving beat. As the lead guitarist and vocalist, the weight of the performance rested heavily on his shoulders, but he fulfilled it with grace and passion that was nothing short of breathtaking A confident smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced at the audience, their cheers spurring him on. Moments later, Changbin and Han stepped forward, their voices blending seamlessly with his for the pre-chorus, creating a harmony that seemed to light up the entire room.

"Clocks move faster 'Cause it's all we're after now"

Chan motioned subtly for Changbin, signaling him to join him at the microphone for the next verse. It was a part of the song they always sang together; although it had originally been written it in a tune solely for Chan. However, sharing the lyric with Changbin brought an undeniable sense of ease, grounding Chan even in the most nerve-wracking moments, whether performing or during a simple soundcheck.

Changbin instantly caught the cue, shooting Chan an exhausted yet eager grin, the exhaustion from rehearsals evident in his eyes but overshadowed by his enthusiasm. He approached the microphone stand, his movements quick yet deliberate, until his face was barely inches away from Chan's. Their voices joined in perfect harmony, a combined energy radiating through the air as the two began their shared lyric.

"Won't stop climbing 'Cause this is our time, yeah"

Changbin and Chan moved effortlessly back and forth to the tune of their own song, their bodies rocking and swaying with the beat. Grins stretched wife across their faces, uncontainable and almost goofy, as they fed off each other's energy. Chan pushed Changbin back with a playful shove, reclaiming the microphone and belting out his independent verse. As he hit the final note, he raised a hand from his to pump a triumphant fist in the air, a singature habit he had in between rest notes.

"When all the days felt black and white Those were the best shades of my life!"

Chan expressed pure joy as the band launched into the chorus, his smile wide and unrestrained. Beads of sweat glistened down all of the band members' foreheads, a testament to the energy they poured into every note and lyric. Their hearts pounded wildly, each beat louder and more intense than the thunder of Han's drum set; it was as if the music itself had fused with their very beings.

"Don't look down 'Cause we're still rising Up right now And even if we Hit the ground We'll still fly Keep dreaming like we'll live forever But live it like it's now or never!"

With three exaggerated guitar crescendos and a rapid-fire drum fill, the boys shifted in unison, turning to face Han as he prepared to take the spotlight. Their smiles were full of encouragement, silently cheering him on as he began his solo verse. His voice rang out clear and commanding, each word carrying the weight of the song's energy, filling the room with an electric charge that left the Orpheum hanging on every note.

"We ain't searching for tomorrow (tomorrow) 'Cause we got all we need today (today)"

Changbin served as backup vocals for the verse. His mid-pitched voice complimented Han's higher tone in an ethereal way. "Living on a feeling that's been running through our veins We're the revolution that's been singing in the rain"

As the four guys sang the final chorus, they clapped to the beat, their movements aligning effortlessly with the sharp rhythm Han's drumsticks repping through the air. Chan, being the performer that keeps the crowd on their toes, pulled off a fresh trick - swinging his guitar in a smooth loop around his body before catching it flawlessly. As he caught it, the guitar riffs kicked back in, powerful and precise, while smoke uprose dramatically from below the stage, shrouding the band in a haze of light and sound. The boys jumped all across the stage, their infectous energy igniting the room. Despite the hullabaloo of movement, their vocals remained impressively steady, demonstrating their dedication to the art.

"Keep dreaming like we'll live forever But live it like it's now or never It's now or never (now or never)"

The final high note was always difficult to warble, but Chan delivered it flawlessly, his voice unwavering and powerful. As the song, reached its climax, 3RACHA ended the song all facing Han, each member locking in for the finale. Changbin, Chan, and Hyunjin poured all of their energy into their final, thrilling guitar plays, while Han punctuated the moment with an impactful cymbal crash that seemed to reverberate throughout the entire building.

With the last note hanging in the air, they spun around to face the crowd, with Chan raising his forearms above his head in a motion of triumph. Their hair stuck messily to their necks and foreheads, and adrenaline still coursed through their veins; all four had one thought cross their minds simultaneously: the ride home was going to reek of straight teenage boy body odor - and it was one-hundred percent worth it.

The crowd for the group's soundcheck was modest yet attentive; said crowd consisted of two members of the audio crew, a couple bartenders lingering in the back of the room, and one girl wiping down tables. From the small audience came a plethora of applause, as well as a few cheerful "Sounds great, guys!" comments that echoed in the near-empty space.

One girl in particular stood out - the one wiping down tables. She clapped the loudest, her enthusiastic applause adorned with spirited cheering. Her encouragement drew grins and chuckled from the band as they wrapped up their set. Still laughing, they carefully put their instruments back onto their proper stands, the girl's reaction making them feel as if they just played a packed stadium.

"Thank you! We're 3RACHA!" Changbin grabbed his mic for one final quip, which he complimented with a swift wink at the girl. He readjusted his microphone to its previous stance before rejoining the other guys.

"Too bad we wasted that on the soundcheck," Hyunjin, the rhythm guitarist of the group, commented. "That was the tightest we've ever played!" He and Chan fist bumped as the latter adjusted his necklace back to the front of his shirt. Han was given the same fist bump from the former as he attempted to one-handedly comb through his disheveled hair.

"Wait until tonight, man, when this place gets packed with record execs!" Chan exclaimed, turning his attention back to the center of the crowd, his eyes widened in hopeful expectation. Chan's ultimate goal for the band was to secure a record deal, and tonight was the perfect opportunity to turn his dream into a reality. After all Chan had sacrificed to keep 3RACHA alive, from running away from home to countless late nights producing and writing, they deserved at least a couple of deals, right?

"Han, you were smoking!" Changbin commented towards the brunette drummer.

"Hm? Oh no," Han denied, waving his hand dismissively. "I was just warming up. You guys were the ones on fire," he finished as he motioned to the other three members.

"Could you just own your awesomeness for once?" Changbin held up his pointer finger accentuatedly as he raised his eyebrows at Han. Han turned to the rest of the guys for approval, his blank expression slowly turning into one of meek self-appreciation; his nervous glances were met with nods from his band mates.

"All right, I was killing it!" he finally admitted in the tone of an energetic yell as he turned back to Changbin. Chan rubbed his shoulders in an animated manner before the brunette went in for a hug from Changbin.

"Okay, well I'm thinking we fuel up before the show," Chan began, still panting lightly from the intensity of the soundcheck. "I'm thinking street dogs." The rest of the boys agreed on the food choice with an 'Ooh!' coming from Changbin and an enthusiastic, 'Yes!' from Han's end. Hyunjin, however, had made his way towards the front of the auditorium, shaking his head in disagreement.

"Hey, Hyun," Han called after him. "Where ya going?"

"I'm good!" Hyunjin responded, referring to the street dogs. Hyunjin was now leaning forward on his hands, engaged in conversation with the cheering girl from before. "I'm a vegetarian, I could never hurt an animal." The other three boys shot daggers at Hyunjin's boldfaced lie, but then again, they knew Hyunjin all too well - he was one do to anything for his own gain, even if that gain were as simple as impressing someone.

"You guys are really good." The girl disregarded Hyunjin's flirtations, a mild accent lacing her tone. Chan moved his free arm to lean against Hyunjin's shoulder as he muttered a "Thank you."

"I see a lot of bands. I've actually been in a couple myself. I was really feeling it." Her compliments were genuine, which made all four boys beam in delight.

"That's what we do this for," Chan replied as he pushed in front of all of his members in order to get closer to the girl. "I'm Chan, by the way." The rest of the guys followed his lead with their respective introductions.

"Changbin! Hi, I'm Changbin!"

"Han! Hey!"

"Hyunjin." The last of the band greeted the girl by shoving himself in front of Chan; the latter of the two then stuck his pointer finger in his mouth, wetting it swiftly and sticking it directly in the former's ear. Han flashed her an apologetic look before she introduced herself as Rose.

"Oh, uh, here's our demo!" Changbin handed Rose one of the CDs he had been carrying, as well as a T-shirt he claimed to be "size beautiful." Upon that comment, Hyunjin and Chan both shook their heads, Hyun complimenting his with a subtle side glance. Changbin caught on to the stink eye as Rose thanked him for the shirt, shrugging his shoulders slightly afterwards in response.

"I'll make sure not to wipe the tables down with this one," Rose joked.

"Oh, good call," Han responded, completely serious. "Whenever they get wet, they just kinda," Han paused, holding his hands out in front of him and wiggling his fingers in jagged movements before shoving his hands back into his pockets, "fall apart in your hands."

"Don't you guys have to go get hot dogs?" Hyunjin ployed as a way to make the guys leave him and Rose alone, undoubtedly planning to pester the girl with more flirtatious banter.

"Yeah," Chan smacked Hyunjin on the chest before leaning in front of Rose. "He had a hamburger for lunch today." They all giggled at the exposure before galloping away to purchase the infamous Street Dogs; Changbin did so with a pile of merchandise in hand. Chan made one last quip, however:

"Oh, and uh, Hyun? How's the bum rash, Mate?" If looks could kill, Hyunjin would have murdered Chan in cold blood.

Chan quickly escaped before that could happen, however, opting to catch up with Han and Changbin instead. A fit of giggles escaped his lips as he ran off.

---

Chan burst through the doors to the outside world, wrapping his arms tightly around Changbin and Han as they ventured down the street.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Chan enthusedly screamed as he took in the illuminated streets around him. Changbin replied with a scrunched nose.

"The smell of Sunset Boulevard?" he inquired with a chuckle.

"No, doofus," Chan answered, optimism still bright in his eyes. "Don't you get it? What that girl said in there tonight about our music?" Han and Changbin eyed each other perplexedly. Chan sighed, shaking his head. "It's an energy! Our music connects people. Connects us with people. They can feel our presence when we play." Chan eyed a group of fans lining up outside of the theater, smiling brightly as he did so.

"I want to have that connection with everybody."

"Then we are going to need a lot more t-shirts," Changbin responded, causing the other two to almost topple over in laughter. "But before we get shirts, can we get sustenance? Sound check's got me starving." Chan and Han nodded, muttering, "Yeah man," and "Of course," respectively.

As the three made their way to their Street Dog whereabouts, Changbin caught up to a group of girls standing outside of the Orpheum; he handed them a pile of 3RACHA branded t-shirts, and the subsequent squeals and calls for the bassist delighted his heart as he ran back over to his members.

The three eventually made it to the corner of Sunset Boulevard, where an Oldsmobile was set up. The open trunk contained hot dogs, hot dog buns, and every condiment imaginable. The three boys wasted no time in digging into the nourishment; the three of them messily assmbled their own respective hot dogs, with Han being the grubbiest of the three.

"Sorry, man," he spoke to the owner of the vehicle. "I got pickle juice on your batteries."

"Eh, don't worry about it," the owner replied. "It'll help with the rust." Han's faced contorted in uncertainty.

"I don't think..." The man creepily grinned at Han's aloud thought. Pickle juice did not have the chemical formula to clear rust off of a car battery, Han figured. The suspicious feeling in his gut grew; however, Chan grabbed his shoulder and dragged him and Changbin to an empty alleyway before he could think further on the matter.

The alley was adjacent to the Oldsmobile corner. The three guys plopped down onto an older couch towards the middle of the sidewalk; smiles were etched on two of the three faces, with Han still looking unsure about the Street Dog encounter.

"This is awesome, you guys!" Chan began rambling excitedly. "We're playing the Orpheum!" Joy completely enveloped the oldest of the three. He bit his lip, something he did whenever he felt a rush of adrenaline. "I can't even count how many artists have played here and become legends of their time. Louis Armstrong, The Bee Gees, the list goes on, mates." Chan glanced up at the starts and slowly closed his eyes as if he was making a wish; he let out a deep breath as he opened them.

"We're going to be legends."

Chan raised up his hot dog, encouraging the other two to follow suit in a sort of toast fashion.

"Eat up, boys. After tonight, no more Street Dogs. We're gonna be dining like rich kids." Chan ended his declaration with a chuckle, resulting in a smile from Changbin.

Chan took a bite of his hot dog first, followed closely by Changbin. Han was still immensely reluctant to even look at his; however, his mind had convinced him that it was not a big deal, that he was overthinking the situation. As such, he was the last of the three to scarf down his meal. Almost instantaneously, the gutwrenching feeling had returned; Han tasted a unique flavor, unlike the syrupy texture of ketchup, the tang of mustard, or the flavor of any other condiment; it tasted metallic, bitter, and unappetizing.

"That's a new flavor!" Han called to the other two, his faced puckered up in disgust.

"Chill man," Changbin casually responded, flicking his hand in a, 'do-not-worry,' motion. "Street Dogs haven't killed us yet!"

Talk about famous last words.

The exact sequence of events following Changbin's declaration of certainty was blurry. All the three could recall was an unappeasing churn in their stomachs, a sensation so intense that it forced the boys to the ground. Gasping for air, they clutching their torsos, their faces etched with pain and fear as they exchanged panicked looks. The world around them seemed to obscure moreso, the sharp wail of an ambulance siren wailing in the distance and echoing in their ringing ears.

Before they could process the unfolding calamity, their bodies grew limp, and they were lifted up by the strong hands of paramedics onto stretchers. The emergency workers moved precisely and urgently, working fastly in order to save the disaster at hand. Outside of the Orpheum, a crowd of fans looked on, stricken with worry and disbelief. Whispers spread among them like wildfire, prayers and manifestations filling the air as 3RACHA was transported to the hospital. They had saved up their allowances in hopes to see this show, but all they could anticipate now was a recovery from the three and a reschedule of the showcase.

By morning, news outlets would be covering 3RACHA's most notorious embellishment; unfortunately, it would not be the concert they worked so hard to make it to, or a spectacular recovery from their tribulated sickness.

"3RACHA: A Hollywood Tragedy."

[hiskillingjar]

‘Cages' (Lawrence)

day 5: cages first person, lawrence’s pov. character study, but cw for dead animals

The first step to creating truly great art is gathering your materials.

Okay, maybe that’s not the first step. The first step is probably having the idea or, at the very least, knowing what you want to say. 

What do I want to say? Do I want to say anything at all?

Materials always felt like the logical first step for me. How was I going to know what I wanted to say when I didn’t know how I was going to say it?

Normally, when I found the bones that I thought would look good in an art piece, draped on a canvas and fused together with wire, expanding foam, and sticky cement (hardware store art supplies), they were still inside the animal that owned them. 

Gathering was the easy part.

All it took was finding the right snack (leafy greens for rabbits, spinach or salad mixes, and raw meat for foxes and the occasional dog or cat) and setting up a halfway decent trap, and they were yours.

It was harder to prep the bones, though. 

If a specimen (that's what my resource blogs liked to call them, not animals, not living beings, but the abject specimen) has lots of soft tissue remaining (which they usually did, I rarely found an animal without it), there are a few ways to remove it. 

The first method is by soaking the bones in water for several weeks (or months, if the animal was especially big, like a deer or a lost family labrador named ‘Skippy’). 

Over time, the water, microbes and the tiny bacteria locked inside will eat away at the tissue and cause the body to melt down. 

This is a very effective, if time-consuming way of removing tissue without damaging the bones, and it was how I prepped all of my materials.

I stored them in tall, plastic cages, barrels with screw-on lids (another art supply provided by the hardware store for ten bucks a piece) that most people would walk past when they saw them in the forest.

That’s where I was tonight. 

In the forest, after clocking off my shift at two in the morning, covering for that douchebag who never showed up on time and always found a reason to leave early. 

Night had fallen hours and hours ago, plunging the world into darkness, but that was fine. 

I felt safe in the dark. 

Safe from the rest of the world seeing me for what I really was when I took off the mask and revealed myself, completely

I was unscrewing the top of one of my cages to fish out a rabbit I had caught three weeks ago.

My cock was hard in my sweatpants, but that wasn’t because of the rabbit. 

I wasn’t so removed from reality that I was turned on by dead animals. I don’t think even the most demented of serial killers and quasi-autistics could be turned on by that.

The rabbit was almost finished, brown bones glistening with wetness. There was just a little mangled flesh left, pink and grey skin oozing between crevices, holes in the skull, and gaps in the tiny ribcage.

One cage could house up to three animals at a time, sometimes even four if I really shoved them in there, and didn’t worry about the small space being cramped. 

It was a nice idea.

All that flesh melting off bones and clumping together in the water, in an entanglement of skin, muscle, sinew, hair, and becoming one. 

I often wished my cages were real cages, not plastic but metal and hollow, so I could peer inside and watch every step of the process for myself.

My body ached just thinking about it and I could feel my cock twitch as I clutched the rabbit tighter, nails digging into bone and flesh.

That diabolical togetherness.

I might not have left the forest, if that was possible. 

I would have just slept on plastic tarps, my eyes fixed on my cages so I could always be surrounded by bodies merging and melting together.

Maybe part of me wanted the same for myself. Maybe that was the reason I got turned on, sometimes, when I fished out my materials.

To be locked inside one of my cages with another body, roughly the same size and shape as mine, and to melt down and clump together in an inseparable unity.

No longer two bodies, but one.

I've never wanted anyone, not in the traditional sense, but I wanted that, or any close approximation of that.

For someone to see me, without my mask, and to want me badly enough for us to be fused together, inseparable, two halves of a whole again.

Maybe that was what I wanted to say, with all of my art pieces, all along.

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was all just retarded drivel, coming from someone half mad from their own loneliness, that they were seeking humanity in barrels of dead animals.

I'm not making any sense. 

It wasn't often that I did, though.

All I really knew was that it was a dark night. 

And I was using the dripping flesh of a dead rabbit to lube my fist as I masturbated.

Maybe the flesh-eating bacteria would cling on me, and devour me too.

[thegirlwholived1213]

Well hello there, nice to see a fresh face around the writing community. I saw that you were looking for asks and I would love to deliver. So how about a hero and villain, villain who just managed to kidnap the hero and a hero who escaped just as they finished the final knots. Deciding to reuse the rope to keep the villain secured while they wait for backup (queue subtle flirting). (Also sorry if this isnt your genre or is confusing as all hell—)

omg omg this is SO GOOD! Thank you so much, I had alot of fun with it. I strayed a bit from the prompt but I hope this satisfies! :))

CW: Capture, restraints, noncon (Not sexual), curses, broken bones, intimate captor, lmk if there's anything else

Hero knew this was bound to happen eventually. 

They knew that being taken had always been a possibility, but they never thought it could really happen to them. They had trained for so long, spending countless hours training for these types of situations. 

They cursed themselves for their reaction when Villain had first approached them. They had assumed it would be like every other fight they’d had with them, and the fight that followed soon after had seemed like it, too. However, with one perfectly placed swing Hero was down. They knew to get back up, to fight. To never back down, but instinct had gotten the better of them and they ran. 

Oh, if only they’d chosen to fight, and block out the cowardice that had always lurked behind every action. 

Maybe if they’d made the right choice, and followed their mentor’s teachings, they wouldn’t be where they were now. 

On a cold, cement floor, their hands tightly bound behind them. 

Useless. A coward. 

They kept repeating it to themselves, internally berating themselves as they knew their mentor would have. 

“Sick coward…” They muttered to themselves, twisting their raw wrists against the tough fibered ropes. 

They’d forgotten their training before, and they were sure not to forget it again. They focused in, twisting their hands just the way they had countless times before, and winced as the rough string inched its way over their hand. With one free they scrambled to their feet, massaging the red ring circling their wrist. Hero spun in a circle, scanning the small cell they were in for anything useful, but the room was completely empty. They knew the band that usually wrapped their wrist that could summon the Team with the push of a button was taken from them. They vaguely remembered Villain slipping it over their own wrist, making a snarky comment about the band’s material. Hero decided their only hope was to get to the band, push the button, and pray that Sidekick and Superhero were in the mood for a rescue mission. 

Hero positioned themselves behind the door, twisting the rope nervously around their palm. Their ears strained to hear beyond the heavy door to give them even a brief warning before it would inevitably swing open. Hero glanced at the rusted hinges next to their nose, ones they had long before observed and confirmed that the door would swing inwards. They repeated their plan in their head to themselves, trying to calm their nerves. 

They rested their head against the stone, the sound of approaching footsteps halting outside the door. Finally, they could get this over with. 

The door swung open and the light from the hallway cast a shadow onto the opposing wall. Just from the silhouette Hero could see the dangling band on Villain’s wrist, the charm swinging gently back and forth. Villain walked into the room and Hero took their chance, pushing the door shut and returning the cell to the dim shadows. Villain spun on their heel as Hero lunged, seizing their wrist and pulling Villain’s arm up behind their back and pushing the charm on the bracelet. The charm beeped twice and Hero couldn’t help but smile, Villain wriggling in their grasp.

Villain lashed out, shoving their weight backward and catching Hero off guard, sending both of them tumbling to the ground. Every movement Villain made was quick and precise, and for a moment they both stared into each other’s eyes. Villain was the first to break, a smirk creeping onto their lips. 

“I’ll give it to you, Hero. You’ve upped your game.” 

Hero bared their teeth, muscles tensing under Villain’s iron hold as they felt their cheeks flush. 

“Wow Hero, are you really into this now? I mean, I know you liked me before I found my calling, but this is just pathetic.” 

“Get- Get off’a me little shit..” Hero seethed, twisting under their grip as Villain chuckled, pushing their wrists into the concrete until they whimpered, bones on the brink of shattering. 

“Ah, seems like you gained a potty mouth too, how unfortunate. Oh well, we can easily fix that.” Villain smirked, Hero still flailing under their grasp. Villain only loomed closer, face inches from Hero’s. 

“You know, I really have missed you. Too bad Supervillain wants you gone, or I’d gladly keep you for myself.”

Hero’s stomach dropped and their efforts doubled, Villain letting their nails dig into Hero’s wrists. 

“My team is coming, and when they show you’re going to regret ever being born,” Hero hissed, “Right before I blast a hole through your skull.” 

“Oh, I’m sure they will sweetheart. Face it, they’ll never find you here.” 

Hero wriggled, turning their head to the side before Villain landed a gentle kiss on their forehead. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I can convince Supervillain to let you stay for a bit, it’ll be just like old times.” 

Villain drew their tongue over their white teeth, and Hero felt like a rabbit pinned by a bigger, badder wolf that was toying with its meal. The pressure on their wrist increased, and Hero let out a scream, the crack of the bone falling in sync with the door slamming open. 

Villain turned their head, eyebrows raising as Sidekick smashed the end of their shotgun against Villain’s skull and they crumpled over Hero. 

“Hero, oh my God, are you okay? We got your call.” Superhero kicked Villain off Hero and reached down, grabbing Hero’s wrist to pull them up, only to drop their hand as Hero shrieked and pulled their arm close, tears dropping down their cheeks. 

“What did they do, are you okay?” Sidekick helped them stand from behind, and Hero only nodded and cradled their wrist. The trio walked out of the cell and Hero slammed the door with their foot, sliding the deadbolt closed for good measure with their good hand. 

“Ready to go home?” Superhero said gently, placing a supporting hand on their back. 

“Y-yeah, let’s go.”

[wondercementpvtltd]

How much does it cost to start a cement manufacturing plant in India?

Starting a cement manufacturing plant can be a significant investment, with costs ranging from hundred to thousand crore rupees. There is no doubt any person who plans to set up a cement factory considers all his requirements, such as location, cement plant design, layout, manpower, permit, etc. But the most important thing to consider is the cement manufacturing plant cost.

The cement manufacturing plant cost is primarily determined by the price of land. The land cost varies widely depending on the location but can range between INR 1 lakh to INR 10 crores per acre. In addition to the price of the land, there are also costs associated with site preparation, such as grading, drainage, and utilities.

Once the land is acquired, the next major thing is the cost of construction. This majorly includes the cost of building a cement plant. Apart from building a cement plant it also includes any associated structures such as road construction, parking lots, and other facilities.

The cement factory cost also depends on the cement manufacturing equipment you use. The person who has abundant funds might choose high-quality equipment which increases the cost of the cement production line. A high-quality cement plant also brings various economic benefits. This includes the cost of the raw materials handling equipment, such as conveyors, crushers, and silos; the cost of the kilns and other production equipment; and the cost of the support equipment, such as generators, compressors, and cooling systems.

The cost of raw materials, such as limestone, clay, and other minerals, is also factored into the overall cost of starting a cement manufacturing plant. These raw materials are obtained from mines or quarries, and the cost of transportation and processing will need to be considered. The cost varies depending on various factors such as the distance between the cement factory and raw material suppliers, production energy, and labor.

The cost of labor will also be a significant factor in starting a cement manufacturing plant. The cost of labor will depend on factors such as the location of the plant and the skill level of the workers. In addition, the cost of utilities, such as electricity, water, and gas, will also need to be considered.

In addition to these costs, there will also be ongoing costs associated with operating a cement manufacturing plant. These costs will include the cost of maintenance and repairs, the cost of labor, and the cost of utilities. The cost of transportation and distribution will also need to be considered.

Various cost is also associated with obtaining a license and permit. This includes the cost of environmental impact studies, air and water quality testing, and other compliance requirements.

Enterprise competition is another side factor that affects cement prices. The intense competition among the other cement manufacturers makes the cement equipment costlier. Similarly, if the competitiveness is weak, the cement plant prices will maintain a normal state and therefore the equipment is cheap and affordable.

It's estimated that the overall cost of starting a small-scale cement manufacturing plant in India can range from INR 100 crore to INR 500 crore. This cost will vary depending on the specific factors mentioned above, and it's important to conduct thorough research and due diligence before making a final decision.

In conclusion, starting a cement manufacturing plant in India requires a significant amount of capital. The cost will vary depending on factors such as the location of the plant, the scale of production, and the level of automation and technology used. It's important to conduct thorough research and due diligence, and factor in all costs related to land, building, equipment, raw materials, labor, utilities, and ongoing expenses. Additionally, it is crucial to consider the compliance and regulations that need to be met while setting up the manufacturing plant.

[coline7373]

Alright.

I'm on a streak about the anachronism of condom in Amestris.

Hear me out.

Rubber condom date from the 19th century. They came from rubber cast into cement molds.

It wasn't until around 1920 that latex was invented.

Which was possible due to chemical advances and the industrial revolution first, than industrial progresses in assembly lines second.

*But*.

Amestris don't rely on chemistry.

All its technological advancements rely on **al**chemy.

And yeah, there's automails, but it's done by experts in individual workshops. Not in big factories by machines which can churn them by the dozens.

Look at their reaction in CoS when a plane come through the portal. Total bewilderment.

Due to the "ease" of doing alchemy and how impressive it is, centuries ago, the world of FMA turned their research and technological progress in the direction of alchemy.

Which enable them to do things we weren't capable of, at the same period in time, *but* the reverse is also true!!!!!

The technological progress that allowed for the creation of latex condom and its wide distribution is just not there yet.

Latex condom *could* be made, possibly, like automail. By civilian alchemists in their own private workshops and sold at the front of the shop.

But masse assembly lines that allow the production of materials and goods in nation-worth quantity, at a speed to keep up with national wide demands and cheap enough to beat private contruction/creation by individuals, that absolutely require machines of type that don't seem to exists in Amestris/FMA because their technology hasn't evolved in that direction.

Therefore, latex condoms don't exist yet at the time of Edward's story.

Or, if it does, it's "unique pieces". Like pharmaceutical creations, goods made in the back of the shop by experts for one use only.

Must be wayyy more expensive than the ones we currently enjoy.

Also, you must have variations of quality, since you will have variations of quality of raw materials, alchemical arrays and skills.

They won't be one hundred percent safe everywhere so there wouldn't be as much "faith" in their effectiveness than we currently have.

There was a whole part of the population at the start of the century who thought they made sexual intercourse feel not as good as "bare" intercourses do. And since they aren't 100% sure, why bother, you know?

Of course, it wasn't everyone and the condoms themselves got better and better (in feels and safety) overtime but it didn't happened in a day.

Right until the early 2000, you still have big parts of the population who thought they were more problems then they were worth.

Still some do, today.

So, to write that people of Amestris buy, use and view condoms like we do nowadays is just anachronistic.

And now I want a fic where the people in Team Mustang have a discussion in the office about which shop sell the best ones and at which price and who tried what to "test" them.

And Mustang has so many facts and everybody is just??? "We knew you got around but not This Much" But really these are tips he picked up from Madame Christmas and all the sex workers he has ever known since he was four.

So, like, he is infodumping twenty years worth of Usefull Tips to be a helpfull good boss. And his team is like "you want to talk about it?"

[collapsedsquid]

Again and again, Bruno Pescheux made one point to his colleagues: no one must know what their company was up to. Secrecy was paramount. In 2013 and 2014, Pescheux ran the Syrian subsidiary of Lafarge SA, the French company that was then the world’s biggest cement conglomerate. As a civil war caught and spread, the company struck a grim deal: to pay millions of dollars to Islamic State (IS), the world’s most notorious terrorist group, treating it as a strategic ally. These payments bought IS’s blessing so that Lafarge’s factory in Syria could keep making and selling cement – even as its European executives left the country, its local employees got kidnapped, and bombs and gunfire tore up the region. Lafarge bought raw materials from IS-approved vendors, supplied IS with cement, and paid them to squeeze the competition – in this case, cement imports coming over the border from Turkey. In mob jargon, this was more than protection money; in MBA jargon, the company optimised for IS. The managers in Lafarge’s Syrian subsidiary knew all too well what they were doing, and they tried hard to hide it. Once, while referring to vehicle passes that IS issued Lafarge’s trucks, Pescheux emailed a go-between to say that “the name of Lafarge should never appear for obvious reasons in any document of this nature. Please use the words Cement Plant if you need but never the one of Lafarge.”

[dailyanarchistposts]

“Environmental restoration may be the art form of the twenty-first century” — from Helping Nature Heal (Ten Speed Press, 1991)

Environmental restoration is the other side of the coin to much of the activity that Earth First! has so far been engaged in — that is, grappling with the toxic forces of ‘law’ and ‘order’ in a very overt way. Such activity is the defensive work, a holding operation, crucial in many ways and important for bringing people together as a group, cementing the bonds between them in shared, often harrowing experience. However it is important not to get hung up on the adrenaline and peculiar glamour of such frontline situations.

Environmental restoration is proactive — whereby we set our own agenda — as opposed to campaigns, which usually involve little more than reacting to the latest state or business atrocity. Restoration therefore helps to signal our ultimate indifference to politicians and the fleeting games that they play. Restoration is less dramatic and more humble than the preservation battles, but it does establish a vital new paradigm: humanity as creator and healer — one who adds value or — makes reparations to nature — rather than one who is unable to do anything but destroy and despoil.

There is no immediate gratification, no overnight old growth forest or pristine wilderness — rather a slow, cumulative process of getting to grips with what surrounds you, and establishing an intimacy and a rapport with a given area of land. There are strong personal and spiritual repercussions: the realisation that you have set in motion a process that will extend far beyond your lifetime leads you into a deeper comprehension of nature, and the scale on which she works. Some of you goes with the tree branches as they steadily rear up towards the sky.

Earth repair work is becoming increasingly widespread in the US, India and elsewhere, but is still relatively uncommon in Britain. We featured Alan Watson’s visionary Trees for Life project in Do or Die #2 (Write to the editorial address for a copy of that article), and a similar project, albeit on a much more modest scale, is that run by the group Tree Spirit on their newly acquired 24 acre plot at Maes y Mynach, near Shrewsbury.

Tree Spirit exist to promote an appreciation of trees and the spiritual, social and ecological roles that they fulfil. To this end, they publish a newsletter, hold regular ‘tree moot’ gatherings, and campaign for the preservation of woodland areas. On a more practical level they also operate their own tree nursery, with stock largely drawn from commercial nursery surplus. (A word of advice to EF!ers interested in tree rearing with a view to clandestine or authorised planting: due to the exigencies of the deranged market system that we live under, many nurseries are forced to destroy thousands of perfectly good trees every year — generally from March through to June. This is for no other reason than to make way for the new stock (and to protect prices, of course). It is therefore worth approaching your local nursery at this time of year — you can take the trees off their hands, leave them with a clear conscience, and acquire the raw materials for reforestation at little or no cost.)

Another lesson to be learnt from Tree Spirit’s purchase of Maes y Mynach concerns funding. The purchase was partly financed by the Forestry Commission’s Woodland Grant Scheme, which is well worth looking into for anyone contemplating such a project. Although the buying and selling of land is obviously a complete absurdity, it is true to say that if you buy land where it is cheapest — i.e. Wales or Scotland (Particularly Scotland where there is currently a glut on the market as the big estates are further dismembered) — and then reforest it under the Woodland Grant Scheme, you actually stand to make a profit (Over, say, about 10 years), which can then be reinvested in additional acquisitions — this is Tree Spirit’s intention. And before you know it, your mighty empire of reforestation has expanded, and the wildwood has returned... NOT! (Ecological capitalism, any one?) Copies of the Woodland Grant Scheme are available from ‘The Wilderness’, South Downs EF!, or you local Forestry Commission office. Bear in mind the fact that, as the WGS is an attempt by the Forestry Commission to restore an image tarnished by decades of desecrating the landscape with conifers, the grants for broadleaved tree planting are very generous. Even more incredibly the grants for ‘natural regeneration’ are the most generous of all. For non-interventionist EF! types, this has to be worthy of serious attention. (A word of warning however. The Forestry Commission has reportedly begun to revert back to type — plans are afoot to increase funding for large scale conifer plantations, and to reduce it for broadleaved planting, particularly if it is small scale. If true, I guess it just goes to show that you can’t keep a bad institution down.)

Maes y Mynach is itself a former Forestry Commission plantation, and part of Tree Spirit’s vision for the land involves rectifying the environmental damage that such a plantation entails. Their aim is twofold: firstly, to create a mixed woodland for ecological reasons — to which end, a very wide range of trees are being planted: oak, ash, birch, rowan, willow, lime, chestnut, hazel, hawthorn, wild cherry, bird cherry, aspen, field maple, sycamore, yew and larch. Ultimately they intend to encircle the entire plot with a good mixed hedge, which will in itself be extremely valuable to wildlife.

Secondly there is the human element — acknowledging that we do have a place in nature, and that we are not intrinsically hostile to the natural world, as some strands in deep ecology seem to suggest. Tree Spirit hope that Maes y Mynach will be “a place where people can come to do practical conservation work, enjoy nature, relax and generally find a little bit of peace and quiet... it will be a place where people can stay for a few days without being told to move on or “get orf my land”. However they emphasize that “it will not become a permanent encampment for all and sundry. For those who have something constructive to offer or who need a little time away from the madness of modern society, Maes y Mynach will be accessible.”

To achieve these aims a tremendous amount of work is in order. Most of the tree planting has been done, but some still remains — particularly the hedgerows. Planting season is October through to April. Many paths need clearing as there is still a great deal of felled wood strewn about from the forestry operations. Tree Spirit want to create a pond, which will serve as both a wildlife feature and as drainage for the main track. Maes y Mynach also has a spring, which is currently being made into a source of clean water. The most ambitious plan is to construct a roundhouse, for which planning permission has already been obtained. It will be 32 feet in diameter, 13 feet high at the central point and crowned with a turf roof. It is envisaged that the roundhouse will act as a workshop, storage space, communal gathering/celebratory venue, and as a sleeping area. (Perhaps a future EF! gathering could be held there.)

Anyone who is interested in helping out with this inspiring project should contact Tree Spirit at:

Hawkbatch Farm, Arley, Nr. Bewdley, Worcs. DY12 3AH (Phone: 0299 400586) OR: Shelley and Jeff Griffiths, 95 Anstey Rd., Perry Barr, Birmingham B44 8AN (Phone: 021 356 2206)

As Tree Spirit say, in a phrase that could serve as a motto for all our efforts: “Cooperation for mutual benefit and input of constructive energies will go a long way.”