#Modern Creative
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zef-zef · 2 months ago
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Matana Roberts - Come Away from: Matana Roberts - Coin Coin Chapter; Three River Run Thee (Constellation, 2015)
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dankalbumart · 2 years ago
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Psychonavigation 4 by Psychonavigation FAX +49-69/450464 1999 Ambient / Ambient Techno / Dub / Experimental / Techno / Ambient House / Art Rock / Dark Ambient / Modern Creative / Jazz / Reggae
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sonmelier · 11 months ago
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19. Fire! Orchestra | Echoes
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🇸���� Suède | Rune Grammofon | 110 minutes | 14 morceaux
Le bigband stockholmois Fire! Orchestra poursuit son travail d’exploration aussi hypnotique qu’euphorisant sur un cinquième album fleuve (près de deux heures) – qui sait maintenir tout du long notre intérêt à flot. Pas moins de 43 musiciens combinent leur énergie et leur maitrise instrumentale (y compris au niveau du chant) au service d’une œuvre produite avec maestria par la tête chercheuse de génie qu’est Jim O’Rourke. Un véritable dédale de cordes, de cuivres, de percussions et de saillies vocales, un tour de force musical à l’ampleur sidérante.
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my-darling-boy · 6 months ago
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But where have we come? And where shall we end?
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yllu-stration · 9 months ago
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Tattoo flash sheet inspired by Simon "Ghost" Riley (2022) because I hate the ones they gave him in the game 😇
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aestheticanimegirl15 · 1 month ago
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You want to know someone who would be an absolute menace in the kitchen? No its not Johnny who always is sneaking palmfulls of flour to throw at you or leaving flour marks on your tits or ass. No, it's not Simon who is always hovering around you and manages to stand directly in the way of every counter or ingredient you need. Kyle is actually pretty helpful, handing you what you need or taste testing it in-between wandering touches.
It's Price. Not because of anything that he does but because of what he doesn't do. He just stands there watching every move you make with crossed arms as he smokes a cigar by the only open window in the kitchen. Needless to say, it's irritating. You always tell him that if he is gonna be in the kitchen, the lest he could do is help. But he never dose, he just stands there or sits down at the dining room table like some sort of king and just watches.
Not only does it irritate you, but it's the way that he looks at you that is the real menace of the whole situation. Staring at you like you are a better meal than the one you're preparing. He keeps raking his eyes over you in a way that makes you squirm because you know exactly what he's looking at. It makes you feel like some sort of meek housewife whose only purpose in life is to serve her husband. Which at times doesn't seem like such a bad idea, until it's like this.
The way he just watches you makes a heat bloom in your core, as another one blooms in your cheeks. It makes you squirm as you stir the sizzling vegetables in the cast iron, thighs pressing together underneath the (his) shirt you were wearing. He knows what he's doing too, wearing such a cocky smirk on his lips that makes you not able to decide if you want to smack him or kiss him. But he never acts on the way he's making you feel. Oh no, he waits until after the two of you are done eating.
He knows you won't fight it when he pulls you into his lap once you finish cleaning the table off. The bastard knows how worked up he made you from all his staring. He'll mumble something about desert, and if you actually made one, he'll shake his head
"Not the desert. I'm wanting, sweetheart." He'll reply, and then next thing you know he's got, you splayed out on the kitchen table with his head absolutely buried in your thighs. If it weren't for the fact you just fed him a full meal, you would have thought he was starving with the way he was devouring you, moaning and groaning like he was the one on the receiving end. Mumbling praises about both you and your cooking skills, no matter how good or bad they are. And he won't stop until your conculsing under him while stars dance across your vision. Then you hear the fumbling of a belt buckle and a scrape of a chair across the floor
"Now that I'm full, let's have some fun yea?"
So yea. Out of every one of them, he's the biggest menance, always making sure you're waking up the next day with a sore body and a limp.
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gofishygo · 10 months ago
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everyone always talks about ‘medic reader’ this and ‘teammate reader’ that but what abt weapons engineer/mechanic reader ?
just a silly little fella who helps out the 141 with their weapons when they go out of whack, who works very closely with the team to coordinate certain weapons for specific missions .
they’d probably have a really close bond with soap , both having fun with testing demolitions together . who’s able to add in ideas and carry conversations with you when you ramble on about weapons . johnny pulls you close to him when they get startled from the loud noise of an explosion , laughing a little at how they excuse their sudden vulnerability with ‘not expecting it to be that loud’.
price who seeks them out when he’s having issues with his cm901, having to endure your age-long lectures about not accidentally slamming the barrel to hard. he subconsciously makes sure the brush his hand over yours when he finally retrieves his now-fixed weapon.
yeah nyways weapon mech! reader has my heart
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bixels · 1 year ago
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I think 90% of my gripes with how modern anime looks comes down to flat color design/palettes.
Non-cohesive, washed-out color palettes can destroy lineart quality. I see this all the time when comparing an anime's lineart/layout to its colored/post-processed final product and it's heartbreaking. Compare this pre-color vs. final frame from Dungeon Meshi's OP.
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So much sharpness and detail and weight gets washed out and flattened by 'meh' color design. I LOVE the flow and thickness and shadows in the fabrics on the left. The white against pastel really brings it out. Check out all the detail in their hair, the highlights in Rin's, the different hues to denote hair color, the blue tint in the clothes' shadows, and how all of that just gets... lost. It works, but it's not particularly good and does a disservice to the line-artist.
I'm using Dungeon Meshi as an example not because it's bad, I'm just especially disappointed because this is Studio Trigger we're talking about. The character animation is fantastic, but the color design is usually much more exciting. We're not seeing Trigger at their full potential, so I'm focusing on them.
Here's a very quick and messy color correct. Not meant to be taken seriously, just to provide comparison to see why colors can feel "washed out." Top is edit, bottom is original.
You can really see how desaturated and "white fluorescent lighting" the original color palettes are.
[Remember: the easiest way to make your colors more lively is to choose a warm or cool tint. From there, you can play around with bringing out complementary colors for a cohesive palette (I warmed Marcille's skintone and hair but made sure to bring out her deep blue clothes). Avoid using too many blend mode layers; hand-picking colors will really help you build your innate color sense and find a color style. Try using saturated colors in unexpected places! If you're coloring a night scene, try using deep blues or greens or magentas. You see these deep colors used all the time in older anime because they couldn't rely on a lightness scale to make colors darker, they had to use darker paints with specific hues. Don't overthink it, simpler is better!]
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emagios · 21 days ago
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THEM
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reasonandfaithinharmony · 8 months ago
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Fandom mood
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zef-zef · 2 months ago
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Klein - ray from: Klein - Harmattan (PentaTone, 2021)
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dankalbumart · 2 years ago
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Outer Dark by Bill Laswell FAX +49-69/450464 1994 Dark Ambient / Ambient / Experimental / Modern Creative / Tribal Ambient
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sonmelier · 11 months ago
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46. Steve Lehman & Orchestre National de Jazz | Ex Machina
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🇺🇸 Etats-Unis & 🇫🇷 France | Pi Recordings | 71 minutes | 11 morceaux
"Ex Machina" marque la rencontre entre l'Orchestre National de Jazz dirigé par Fred Maurin et le saxophoniste/compositeur américain Steve Lehman. Cet attelage artistique de très haut vol, complété par des processus électroniques génératifs de l’IRCAM intégrant de l’intelligence artificielle, explore de nouveaux territoires musicaux saisissants, fusionnant les langages du jazz et de la musique spectrale de façon éblouissante.
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thecranberriesslut · 11 hours ago
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Fawn and the wolf
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Summary: You're the smallest one on the team, and you have the compulsive need to prove yourself to Ghost... but have you chewed off more than you can swallow?
Pairing: Simon!Ghost Riley x Fem!Reader 'Bambi'
Warnings: Unspecified age gap, but implied that it's large, Power imbalance (military superior and soldier), DubCon, Degradation, Forcefulness, Smut, Dirty themes, Dirty talk, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Unsafe use of a gun... Read at your own risk
Wc: 4k
Notes: I have never written cod smut before and I know nothing about military stuff so bare with me, also this is way darker than my previous pieces, just a heads up. I love your notes in the comments so tell me what you think! also note that Bambi is a nickname.
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You stretch your arms, extending them in front of your chest, rolling your wrists around. The smell of coffee invades your every sense—on early mornings like these on base, the cheap coffee your superiors buy for the worn down common room is like your own personal brand of cocaine, the only thing that wakes you up after sleeping too little.
The physical aspects of military training are tough. They were almost a deal-breaker for you when you first came here... but over time, they had gotten easier. You had grown to enjoy the burn of a long run or the sting of a cold shower after extensive muscle training. After a while, feeling and seeing the results became almost addictive—but that didn't take away from the fact that most days, you were almost too tired to function. Most of the required workouts you were forced to endure were designed for men twice your size, and frankly, you found it a bit sexist. Why couldn't your superior adjust them to fit you better? It would take him a maximum of 20 minutes. You had come to the conclusion that he was a sadistic asshole who enjoyed torturing you every single day with insane workouts.
You hear the coffee drip slowly into the pot. You're too tired to fully open your eyes—even putting on gear this morning had felt like an impossible task. But here you were, awake (barely), in gear, and ready to start training in a couple of minutes. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you have the huge coffee mug in your hands—burning hot, probably making the skin beneath it fiery red, but you are too exhausted to care.
You barely have time to swallow your first sip of the steaming, bitter, brown liquid when the door to the common room opens forcefully. Like instinct, you are up and alert—you can't show weakness here. You're already considered the runt of your entire team, being the youngest and also a woman. You turn around, ready to greet whoever it is with the alertness and determination of a starving fox during winter, hunting for the last rabbit left in the forest.
"Mornin', Bambi." Ghost said, his voice hoarse—but his manner alert and assertive, like always.
Bambi is your nickname on base, given to you by squadmates the first week you arrived. You liked to think it was because you were pretty like a fawn, but obviously, it was given to you for more degrading purposes. Everyone on your team thought of you as inexperienced, naive, and wide-eyed. But everyone had their own slightly degrading nickname, even your commander, Ghost. His real name was Simon Riley, but he was given the name Ghost because he stood out and had a tendency to move around quietly, like a ghost, not to mention his patent skull hood, a tactic to scare or to hide? No one knew.
"Good morning, sir," You said, trying to sound as awake as possible, waiting for the tension in the room to cool off before taking another careful sip of your coffee.
Ghost walks over to the coffee maker nonchalantly and pours himself a tall cup of coffee. You are surprised that he would even need caffeine—he's like a machine, inhuman—you've never seen him show any signs of weakness, and the manner in which he leads the team is brutal. He doesn't care if you're too tired to do push-ups; he will make you do them. Sometimes you consider the possibility that he just has no human emotions, or that he's a robot or something. Regardless of all this, you often find yourself with a compulsive need to make him happy. It's like you have to prove yourself to him constantly. You rarely complain to him about the difficult exercises he puts your team through, although you want to.
You've never been the kind of girl that just sits there quietly and lets everyone walk all over her. No—you’re the kind of girl who used to stand up for her friends in elementary school when the boys would pull their hair. You're the kind of girl that couldn't be mistaken for a doormat because you make your opinions known. If you weren't so fiery, you would never make it in the squad. Your squadmates are like brothers to you. You play rough—but when it comes to Ghost, you find that all your outward confidence just crumbles in his vicinity, and you become this pathetic rookie he can treat however he wants to. Although, you find that the same happens to most of the men on your team. Ghost is eerily calm; he radiates this quiet, overpowering energy, like a psychological horror film. And it makes everyone below him obey his commands like dogs. But it also makes you crave his approval. He never yells at you, but he never praises you either—it makes you almost obsessively try to get a reaction out of him with your good work on the exercises.
“We're doing the shooting range and combat alone today. Don't be late.”                                                                    And with that, he's out of the door, leaving behind nothing but an empty coffee mug and a slight lingering smell of smoky cologne.
As you stand anxiously at the metal door of the gun range, it's like your body is stopping you from going in. You can feel the harsh cargo pants rubbing against your legs in an annoying manner, and your shirt feels too tight around your armpits—also, the coffee you drank did nothing but replace your tiredness with urgent nervousness. You've never trained with Ghost alone, but last week you were sick, so this morning you had to wake up before the sun to play catch-up with him. You are a great shooter, it's in your blood… but you have a gnawing feeling that being so close to Ghost will mess with your aim, and you will disappoint him.
You swallow the lump in your throat and force your hand to go up to the door handle. As you push open the heavy door, the lighting inside the gun range is dim—you can barely make out Ghost's silhouette, standing near the guns. You step inside carefully, as if you need to be quiet. But the gun range was far from housing; it stood alone on the other side of the base, with only woods surrounding it—you're also pretty sure it's soundproof, but not entirely sure. The range smells like mold and gunpowder, it's oddly comforting.
“Are you just going to stand there or come in?”                                        Ghost says in a low voice, sounding indifferent—but nonetheless intimidating. You make your way inside and close the door behind you.
“Lock it.”                                                                                                            He commands, not even trying to phrase it as a question, just a blunt order. You feel a little confused as to why he would want you to lock the door, but alas, you twist the lock until it clicks, and walk over to Ghost wearily.
“No lights?”                                                                                                        You ask, trying to calm your nerves by talking, your hands finding the hem of your shirt and fidgeting with it.
“Burnt fuse. I expect you have no trouble shooting in the dark, rookie?”                  He says—it sounds like a snarky remark. You're annoyed at his tone. Obviously, you find it hard to shoot in the dark—but you can't tell him that. He'd paint you as weak and incapable.
“No problem.” You gear up, putting on hearing protectors and safety goggles. You take a gun, a simple, sleek Beretta 91, and you point it at the cardboard target ahead, waiting for Ghost to give you the okay to shoot. You are faced with silence. As you turn to look at Ghost, you see him standing next to you with a wide stance, his arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his black t-shirt tightening and showing off his muscles. He stares you down intensely.
“What are you doing wrong?” He asks, sounding annoyed, like you should know all this by now—although you haven't even trained shooting much.
“I—I don't know.” You hesitate, checking that the gun safety is off, your gear is on, and that you're facing the right way—you look at Ghost, confused.
“Your stance is all wrong, Bambi.” Without giving you a second to react, he moves behind you and guides your hands to the correct position. He kicks your legs farther apart and taps your thigh to signal you to move your foot slightly to the left. The gesture has nothing inherently sexual to it, but it makes a knot start to form in your lower stomach.
Ghost isn't a bad-looking man, or at least his body isn't—no one on your team has ever seen his face. He hides behind his signature skull balaclava daily, only revealing his dark brown eyes, and you presume he only takes it off to sleep and shower… if then. He has the type of body that any respectable captain would be expected to have—he's all muscle and mass. Not only that, but he's tall and broad, and if he was anyone else, you'd be trying to flirt with him every time you saw him… but even attempting to flirt with a higher-up is highly frowned upon here—you would both get fired. Also, it's not so difficult to push aside your feelings for someone who makes you train until failure every single day and rules your unit with an iron fist.
“Shoot.” Ghost orders, keeping his hold on your upper arms, directing the gun to hit the target right in the chest. He's standing so close to you that you can feel the heat radiating off him—he towers over you, and being caged in his hold like this sort of makes you feel safe. The feeling doesn't last long when he removes his hands from yours and steps back, resuming his position as the judgy officer watching you train intently.
“Now try it by yourself. Less than seven points, and you get punished.” He says, his voice dark and determined. He looks at you through narrow eyes, and his stance remains official and intimidating. It's not even his worst request—last night, he punished your fellow teammate with 100 push-ups for laughing during training. If he made you do that many push-ups right now, you would probably collapse—you needed to get this.
With nervous, shaky hands, you point the barrel of the pistol the same way as last time, you gather all your courage, only able to think of one thing— one hundred push-ups, before sunrise. Or maybe he'll make you do something worse, 200 burpees… 150 pull-ups. You shake off the distracting thoughts and by some miracle, you pull the trigger-- the bullet hits the very corner of the cardboard target, and you visibly cringe at the sight. You got zero points… you curse yourself in your mind, how could you be this bad, now he's going to make you do so many push-ups. Slowly, you turn to look at Ghost— he doesn't look disappointed, his position remains calm and collected, and that's what scares you the most.
“Get on your knees.” He says, darkly, you think it's a joke at first, but his eyes remain serious. Your eyes widen as you try to process the words that just came out of his mouth.
“Now.” He adds, when you don't move. Maybe it's just your dirty mind… maybe he meant nothing crude with it, maybe it's a new form of punishment in your squad. So you put the gun down on the cold metal desk, and slowly, anxiously, you start to lower yourself onto your knees. Ghost remains cool, his gaze following yours, as you fall lower and lower, until your knees hit the ground. He takes a couple of steps closer to you, forcing you to be face to face with his crotch. He picks up the gun from the desk, and your mouth goes dry when you try to focus, to hear the safety click on, but it never does. He crouches down slightly, and brings the barrel to your chin, lifting your chin up, and straining your neck as you're forced to look up at him.
“Do you think I haven't noticed the way you look at me when I teach combat?” He asks, his voice remaining low and calm. You're shaking, with nervousness or anticipation— you're not entirely sure.
“I— ” You begin your sentence, but are quick to notice that no other words are coming out— you wonder what he'll do to you… he might send you home, or hurt you.
“I know all the others think you're this naive little Bambi, but I see through that— you're a fucking slut.” He puts emphasis on the word slut, and the contrast between his collected voice, and the crude words, makes the knot in your lower stomach tighten, and worsens the heat between your thighs.
“And you think I don't hear you in the common room, complaining to the others about my training methods—it's like you're begging to be put in your place.”
“I haven't sai-” You begin frantically explaining, but quickly stop as he hits the gun against your chin, a clear sign to remind you who's in control.
“I suggest you shut the fuck up.” He stares into your eyes with the intensity of a hungry wolf. You expect that sort of raw intensity from him, but you are never prepared for it. You can see the conflict in his mind, in his eyes—you can almost feel what he's thinking. Furthermore, you can sense the war going on in his head; you are fighting the exact same one in yours.
“You know—in war, the good people get eaten.” He starts, enigmatically.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what happens to the smart people?” He asks, almost expecting you to give the wrong answer, his demeanor remaining slightly degrading.
“They survive?” You ask, unsure of what he's trying to say.
“They go bad.”
You look at him, confused. His words sound almost apocalyptic. You're trying to figure out what he means by them… does he mean that he's gone bad? Maybe that you should go bad? What does going bad even mean?
“Which one are you, little Bambi?”
“Smart.”
“Wrong answer.” He throws the gun on the floor, the safety remaining off, but you have no time to think about gun safety right now— as he begins to forcefully unbuckle his black, leather belt, you can't help but feel all your senses heightened, intensely pumping through your body. You can feel the heat rising up your chest, over your throat, into your cheeks and ears, turning them undoubtably red. You can hear the broken clock on the wall tick sporadically, in a completely unorganized manner. The sound of his belt buckle flying open almost hurts your ears. You imagine this is what rabbits feel, in that small window of time, right before they get eaten, when they feel the fox's eyes on them, lurking somewhere in the dangerous night. You look up into his eyes, pleading with your gaze, but you are met with a look that could almost be mixed up with sympathy. He looks like a disappointed teacher, handing you a test with a failed grade, knowing that he's the one who failed you, but displays a fake, degrading sympathy in his eyes.
He takes his cock out of his black cargo pants, it looks almost intimidating. You can't see his mouth, but you swear he's smiling a sadistic smile under his mask. He wraps his big, warm hand, into your hair, where your occiput meets the back of your neck, and he pulls your head back— the motion stings, but it brings your attention to him, away from your thoughts. When he sees you've returned from inside your head, to the current moment, he pushes your head forward. Instinctively, you open your mouth, almost inviting him in— he stuffs his rock-hard cock into your mouth, with little regard for your feelings.
“See, you're too good for war, Bambi.” He remarks, his voice soft, you can feel the patronizing tone pierce through you and hit the warm spot between your legs like lighting. You try to answer him, but your mouth lets out a small, pathetic moan, as he pushes himself further into your throat, making your eyes tear up.
“A smart girl would've never come into a dark shooting range with a dangerous man. You're too good, and you're too dumb— that's why you get eaten alive.” His words remain condescending, degrading, but his voice keeps a calm, soft tone, which contrary to what you'd hope it would do, turns you on like nothing you've ever experienced before.
Finally, he pulls you off his cock. You gasp for air, confused as to why he would stop before he finished— but it gives you an eerie sensation that there's more to come. And while you wish you could hate this, while you wish you could call him an absolute creep and report him to someone… you were smart. You had come into this dark room with this dangerous man, with full awareness and a calculated plan. You saw how he looked at your pleading eyes when he made you train until failure. Furthermore, you saw the bulge in his pants when in late night combat sessions he got you under him, and you looked like a scared rabbit. When you started in his unit, a while ago— you gathered that the best way to survive, was to play into the naive role, in reality, you were exceptionally smart, top of your class. But they didn't need to know that. Every single time Ghost talked down on you, you felt like you had the control, you'd made the decision to act dumb, to get him to lose control ever so slightly, because he gave into his anger.
Much to your avail, he turns around, going to fetch something out of the gun range closet. Dumb move, because when he was turned away from you, you grabbed the gun off the floor, making a quick, uncalculated move. As he turns around, he sees you nowhere, despite being a tough military officer, he feels a slight eeriness about not seeing you… like in horror movies, when the innocent kid starts acting odd and eventually kills everyone. He stands still, looking around the pitch black room as best as he can, until he feels the cold nozzle of a pistol on his mid back. He turns to face you, with a blank expression, and you see the rope in his hands.
“The smart people go bad, no?” You smile a wicked grin, you have the control now… and you want him to know it.
“Drop the rope and get on the floor.”
You thought he'd resist, that he'd fight the gun off your hands— but he just lays down on the cold concrete, and supports his head on his hands, and smiles at you, a smile proposing a challenge. You keep the gun in your hand, as you make your way on top of him, straddling him.
“What's your big, smart plan now, Bambi?” He says, with an annoying amount of confidence painting his words.
You bend down on top of him, and push your lips against his, like you want to devour him. His lips feel surprisingly soft, and you can still taste the faint residue of coffee and cigarettes on his tongue. He doesn't fight for dominance, instead, he sort of submits to the kiss, letting you take the lead. You feel like you've won the game, until his hips come crashing into yours, his bulge pressing against your most sensitive spot. His mouth opens and leaves his ever so slightly, and you don't notice the gun falling out of your hand. With the newly gained advantage, Ghost pushes his tongue into your mouth, starting the long overdue war for dominance. You try to fight it, trying to gain back the small amount of control you crave— but he turns you around with ease, until he has you on your back. He's straddling you with knees on both sides of you, and his hands holding your arms tightly on both sides of your head. You're trapped again.
He doesn't waste time taunting you, he's done playing the game. Hastily, his hands leave their bruising grip on your wrists and find the button of your pants. He moves quickly and removes your pants with a sense of urgency— you don't try to stop him, you leave your hands laying where he's been holding them, and you let him remove your pants, and then your underwear. His finger finds a spot very close to your most sensitive one, but it doesn't hit the spot you need it to. He continues this torture for a while, until he stops completely and looks at you.
“No attempts to stop this? No fighting?” He questions. You never took him for this clueless. You move your hand to his, and grab it, bringing his entire hand to your throbbing center, and forcing him to please you. With a breathy voice, you say.
“Just shut the fuck up and fuck me.”
He doesn't need another word from you, as he spreads your thighs open with force, and pushes himself into you— giving you no time to get used to his size. With no warning, he starts pumping into you relentlessly, keeping up a torturous pace you thought was only possible in porn. When you open your mouth slightly, to complain or to moan, you're not sure. He stops you, wrapping his veiny hand around your throat, in an attempt to show you who's actually in control. It only makes you wetter, you like having him so desperate for control, that he would choke his own soldier— you think it only makes him seem weaker. When he loses himself like this, it's you that gains the upper hand.
“You're never telling anyone about this.” He says, through desperate pants. His hand on your throat tightens ever so slightly.
“Wouldn't want you to get fired, perv.” You shoot him a snarky remark, trying to sound confident— but the whimpers in between every word make you sound more like a pathetic adolescent. His lips latch onto your neck, biting it so intensely, his sharp canine teeth pull a little blood. You love the contrast between pain and pleasure, and feel your orgasm building up. He can feel it too.
“Try to make a smart comment now, I dare you.” He bullies, and you try to say something smart, or just something, anything— but what comes out of your mouth is a deep guttural, animalistic moan, as your orgasm washes over you.
He begins to laugh in a low tone, in between groans, as he pulls out of you, and releases his cum onto your lower stomach. It would feel degrading and dehumanizing, if you weren't just fucked out of your mind. With a weak, breathy voice, you manage to say.
“I hate you.”
He laughs.
“Sure seems like it, Bambi.”
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eiraeths · 10 months ago
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ear’s guide to writing stab wounds
disclaimer!!!: this isn’t to be used as actual medical advice there isn’t enough information at hand to properly treat someone, this is just for writing.
hemostatic (blood clotting) control is the number one priority. minor bleeding can be controlled with direct pressure to the wound. moderate bleeding may require a compression bandage as well as direct pressure. severe penetrating wounds or a nicked artery means wound packing will be necessary as well as direct pressure.
types of stab wounds:
- blunt stab wound means whatever object caused the trauma wasn’t sharp or wasn’t moving fast enough so the skin tears.
- penetrating stab wounds go deep into the skin and into the muscle.
- superficial stab wounds don’t go too far under the skin and look worse than they actually are.
steps to treatment:
1. if the object is still inside the person’s body do not remove it unless it’s to the groin, neck, or axillae (armpit) and the bleeding is hard to control.
2. remove person’s clothes to check for any other wounds and keep the area clear.
3. keep an eye on blood pressure and airway.
4. the wound type and location changes how the rest of treatment will follow.
location:
head: direct pressure is mainstay. head wounds also bleed more than any other part of the body. has the highest mortality rate.
face: severe wounds to the face means the patient has to be seated forward to keep blood out of the airway.
neck: direct pressure is mainstay. if the airway can be secured and is absolutely necessary, wound packing can be applied.
arms: depending on the severity, any of the three treatments can be used.
legs: depending on the severity, any of the three treatments can be used.
abdomen: damage to organs is highly likely. direct pressure should be applied first while surveying if the object was long enough to damage an organ. if so, wound packing may be necessary.
chest: if the wound is deep enough it can cause open pneumothorax (‘sucking’ chest wound) a seal needs to be placed over the wound to keep air from getting inside. if this isn’t done in time the affected lung will collapse.
back: can typically be treated with only direct pressure. wound packing is rarely necessary.
neck, chest, abdomen, and pelvis wounds should never be packed unless absolutely necessary.
treatment types:
direct pressure: key to any wound. can be done with whatever is available even if that means the medic needs to use their own body weight.
tourniquets: applied to the limbs. typically not applied for more than thirty minutes. in some cases, they can be left on for hours, keeping the phrase “life over limb” in mind. complications with tourniquets like nerve damage or ischemia (no blood circulation) are rare. don’t apply over a joint and apply above the wound.
wound packing: done with standard gauze and or hemostatic dressing
wound packing steps:
1. control the bleeding with pressure. use anything available even if it means t shirts or a knee.
2. place a gloved finger inside the wound too apply initial pressure. this will hurt like a bitch. also gives you an idea of what direction the blood is coming from so gauze can be used more accurately.
3. begin packing the wound with gauze. keep pressure on the wound with finger while wrapping gauze around another finger and pushing it in the wound.
4. keep packing the wound until no more gauze can fit in, and then keep direct pressure on for at least three minutes.
5. after the three minutes, use something like a bandage wrap to keep the gauze secure inside the wound.
6. splinting the area to keep it immobilized may be vital to keep the hemorrhage from restarting
7. if bleeding continues medic has to decide if they need to take out gauze and reapply with new gauze or apply more direct pressure. this is usually done by how long it takes to get to further treatment. the longer the wait the more of an incentive it becomes to repack the wound. if it’s just down the road then apply pressure.
most likely complications:
hypoxia, shock, and hypothermia are complications that need to be watched for and treated immediately if they occur.
hypoxia:
occurs when a region of the body doesn’t have enough oxygen in the tissue. can lead to organ damage, brain and heart damage being the most dangerous.
symptoms include: tachycardia (rapid heart rate), difficulty breathing, confusion, shortness of breath, anxiety, headache, and restlessness.
severe symptoms include: bradycardia (slow heart rate), extreme restlessness, and cyanosis (blue or purple tint to skin).
treatment: oxygen
shock:
life threatening condition where the body doesn’t have enough blood volume to circulate through itself. if it goes on for long enough, organ damage and death may occur.
symptoms: rapid, slow, or absent pulse, heart palpitations, rapid shallow breathing, lightheadedness, cold clammy skin, dilated pupils, chest pain, nausea, unfocused eyes, confusion, anxiety, and loss of consciousness.
treatment: if they’re not breathing, cpr is required. if they are breathing, lay on back and raise feet a foot off the ground to keep blood in the vital organs.
blood transfusion and fluids once in a hospital setting.
hypothermia: occurs when the body is losing heat quicker than it can produce. the more blood that’s lost the more likely hypothermia is to occur.
symptoms: differ based on severity
hypothermia:
in mild hypothermia: shivering, exhaustion, clumsiness, sleepiness, weak pulse, tachycardia (rapid heart rate), tachypnea (rapid breathing), pale skin, confusion, and trouble speaking.
in moderate hypothermia: bradycardia (slow heart rate), bradypnea (slow breathing), slurred speech, decline in mental function, shivering slows down, hallucinations, cyanosis (blue or purple tint to skin), muscle stiffness, dilated pupils, irregular heart rate, hypotension (decreased blood pressure), and loss of consciousness.
in severe hypothermia: shivering stops, hypotension (low blood pressure), absence of reflexes, compete muscle stiffness, fluid builds up in lungs, loss of voluntary motion, cardiac arrest (heart stops beating), coma, and death.
treatment: covering with a blanket, hat, and jacket, adding external heat like a hot pack, and if severe and in a hospital setting, warm fluids via iv, warm oxygen, and or a machine to warm the blood in the body.
if you have any questions feel free to ask! i plan on making a guide to gunshot wounds and a more in depth guide to hypothermia later.
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