#domestic departure

[futuresandpasts]

After getting derailed by ongoing societal collapse over the past few years, the second Collate LP is finally here — records shipping out in late September.

"Portland's Collate play music that recalls late ’70s/early ’80s minimalist post-punk, and loops through the styles and genres influenced by that music a million times until you end up with a sound that is evocative of the past but also modern—kind of like when you photocopy and re-photocopy something until it distorts and becomes something new and weird. The lyrics are sometimes blatantly political but always wry and clever. There are still plenty of the danceable, catchy bass-forward kind of songs you heard on their previous recordings, but in songs like "Stocks," there's a hint of more straightforward punk and it starts to kinda ROCK. Just a bit. But in the end, Collate always handles themselves with cool restraint, even when frustration, anger, and joy are palpably bubbling under the surface." (Rachel Courtney)

500 copies pressed, recycled chipboard jacket with two paste-on CMYK risograph prints, includes photocopied insert & Bandcamp download code.

Listen / buy here.

[critter-creature-or-beast]

Submitted for classification by @leodoriya

"this is my buddy. his name is jinx. he’s 21 years old and we have to put him down tomorrow. i would like to submit him for classification so that everyone can know my boy"

[hardlypartying]

is it just me or does this feel so krcg!riara coded

10000%!! You’re in my head bc that’s literally what I thought when I first saw it, Cleo’s trained him well 😌

Kiara’s just minding her business and Rafe’s constantly like “let me take a photo 😇📸”. Because someone’s got to document her fits and beauty. Canonically in the fic, it was his idea to do the photoshoot all around London, this man is fiending for content w Kie. Never need to tell him to get down or get back, he just knows what he has to do to get that shot™️. Telling people to walk around and directing traffic so nothing interferes with his photo.

Also that may just be his bag in the picture but in krcg the vibes are very much Kiara brings a bag out bc it matches her outfit— Rafe carries the bag all night without complain bc Kiara causally, very offhandedly, mentions how the strap is digging into her shoulder and Rafe, as a gentleman, cannot have that happening !! Kie doesn’t even notice him sliding the bag off her shoulder because she’s too busy yapping away about something else and only realizes her bag is missing 15 minutes later to which Rafe sighs and pivots his shoulder to show it off on him

[hellofeanor]

According to a dream I had, elves get priority boarding on all flights.

This seems both unfair and exactly in line with the natural order of airline operations.

[nakeddeparture]

Charmaine Mars begged Corey Leroy Cain, 42, to do it to her again, and he did - DV - Hotel St Philip/Dodds - Barbados.

https://youtu.be/VjxRaGzH2L0

When will Charmaine learn? Naked!!

Like/share/SUBSCRIBE to my YouTube channel - ✔️🔔/HAVE YOUR SAY/comment on YouTube (it costs you nothing). WhatsApp #2527225512.

[fkinavocado]

.

[kapampangan-traveller]

Dining Outlets Await You Inside the Clark International Airport

[espace--positif]

Mornings With Him

A collection of husband!Zayne x F!Reader domestic headcanons [Love and Deepspace]

Summary: Mornings are always better shared. Especially with the love of your life. A collection of fluffy snapshots of mornings spent with husband!Zayne. Pairing: Zayne x F!Reader WC: ~2.1K Content tags: Established relationship, Domestic fluff, Fluff, Romance, Mild suggestiveness Read on AO3 // My Masterlist

Ever since you married the love of your life and began living together, your mornings have changed for the better. But things haven’t always been so smooth, on account of a few differences in your lifestyle that made themselves glaringly obvious early on.

For one, Zayne is a morning person, and you’re regrettably not. Not to the extent that he is, anyway. You don’t ever clash on this, but it’s caused some… unforeseen difficulties in the past, especially for your husband.

He’s always been the type of person to be ready a full hour before he has to leave, whereas you’re more likely to be rushing out the door exactly on the dot, if not later. On top of that, he’s also a morning runner. So when he would try to quietly sneak out of bed to begin his rigorous routine every morning and you’d sleepily cling to him, coaxing him back to the warmth of your shared bed with an almost 100% success rate, to the point where he started regularly missing his morning runs, he figured something had to change.

His solution? He’d find a way for the two of you to spend your mornings together, outside of bed.

Thus, he carefully crafts a shared routine for the both of you, easing you into his way of life while easing himself out of the constancy of his own diligence, little by little.

One early morning, as Zayne woefully pulls himself away from your iron grip, he decides to venture towards the kitchen on a mission. He brews two large cups of coffee and returns to your shared bedroom, where he finds you sprawled on his side of the bed, trying to soak up any residual warmth. You lift your gaze, meeting his with sleepy eyes, and he instantly recognizes the look on your face - his betrayal will not be forgiven nor forgotten, especially this early in the morning when you’re less than agreeable on most things. Well, on all things, really.

He sits at the edge of the bed and silently offers a cup — your favorite cup — and you glare for a while before sitting up and grabbing it. It warms your hands, and you start to think about forgiving him for abandoning his duties as your personal heater.

Over the next week, Zayne gradually adds more layers to your shared routine, carving out a space for you in his little tasks. You’ve become less and less insistent on dragging him back to bed by force, knowing that you’ll be rewarded with a delicious coffee delivered straight to you within a few minutes of his departure. Once his peace offering is well received, he wraps your robe around you and takes you by the hand, leading you to sit by the patio window to enjoy your coffee - in the warmer months, you often sit on the porch — and only then does he take the opportunity to complete his run.

There, while listening to birdsong and being caressed by the gentle breeze, you’re thankful for the brief moment of tranquil solitude. Besides, you know that your husband will be back like clockwork, right as you’ve had your last sip. The corners of your lips inevitably tug upwards every time you see him rounding the bend, jogging back to you. It’s as if you’re seeing him for the first time all over again. You stand to meet him halfway through your yard, and he gently kisses your forehead. You wrap your arms around his warm chest, and his embrace feels as comforting as it has ever felt.

You wash your face and brush your teeth while he showers, and vice versa, both of you relishing in the proximity and safety of each others’ presence even while doing something as mundane as getting ready. While you complete the final touches of your routine in the mirror, Zayne works on a simple breakfast. You’ve never been a breakfast person, but after much insistence and lecturing about how it’s the most important meal of the day, you end up caving, graciously accepting anything he offers you in the morning. His prowess at cooking helps too, of course.

Once you’re ready, you sit across from each other at the dining table, where a helping of sometimes egg and toast, sometimes waffles, sometimes fancy greek yogurt, sits waiting for you. There’s often no need for very many words as you share breakfast together. Both of you sit in the solace of each other’s company for a while, comfortable silence occasionally truncated by a comment of yours on how good the food is, or a comment of his on the weather forecast. Eventually, your renewed energy causes conversation to naturally take off, and you end up rambling about mundanities while he listens attentively, as though it’s the most riveting thing in the world.

By the time you’re set to leave, your morning has already brightened, your smile shining brighter than the sun as you offer to tighten your husband’s tie, a ritual he never refuses even though his tie is already in perfect condition. He returns your beaming smile, and finds that his morning has brightened too, more than he ever could have imagined. For a moment, Zayne blissfully contemplates how he would gladly upend his entire mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights, all at once, in exchange for this view.

Not all mornings are so predictable. In fact, some morning are simply a continuation of a long, long night…

Zayne almost thinks his eyes are deceiving him when he sees your hunched-over form lit up by dancing blue light from the TV screen. When he awoke at four in the morning to an empty and cold bed, he assumed that you fell asleep in front of the lawyer drama you were so captivated with, but he didn’t imagine that you’d still be watching.

He gingerly comes down the steps, socks muffling his movement, and you’re so caught up in your show that you don’t hear him coming. He stands there, amused and baffled all at once, taking in the sight of you. Here sits his wife, normally a pinnacle of responsibility, huddled in a blanket with nothing but her face poking out, eyes bleary with tiredness, but burning with fervent focus at whatever ridiculous plotline is surely unfolding before her. He lets out an incredulous chuckle. The TV volume is almost too low to hear and you’re busy squinting at the subtitles; you’re considerate even in your most unreasonable moments.

“Honey,” he says, breaking the almost-silence.

You slowly turn to face him, a serious expression etched on your face.

“I think Jacob’s gonna cheat… with Anna-Maria,” you say gravely, as if the world hangs in balance.

He makes a mental note never to leave you to your own devices in front of these shows, even if you swear up and down you’ll only watch one more episode before you join him in bed. But for now, he figures you’ll need proper closure on whether Jacob truly plans to cheat on his wife with his legal assistant, and though he’s loath to admit, he’s curious himself, as Jacob always struck him as an honest enough man.

So he plops down next to you, reserving his lecture on your late-night escapade for another time. You unfurl yourself from your blanket-cocoon, wrap the blanket around you both, and snuggle up against him, thankful for the added warmth on this chilly winter morning.

You watch two and a half more episodes together, in which the Jacob storyline wraps up neatly with a bow on top - he was majorly guilty, of course. Zayne turns the TV off when all is said and done, and you sit in silence, processing the somewhat unsatisfying end to the plotline.

“Don’t you think he got off too easy?” you look up with half-lidded eyes and ask Zayne with genuine curiosity. At this point, the show has become entirely too real in your sleepy mind, and you seem to suddenly have a big problems with the gaps in realism. “His wife immediately went to ‘let’s try couples therapy’ and not ‘you’re an asshole and I’m divorcing you.’ She even put some of the blame on herself!”

Zayne can’t help but smile at how serious yet unserious you look right now - it’s frankly adorable.

“Well, Jacob seems to have something called plot armor, so that helped to lessen his sentence.”

You chortle at the clever wordplay, lightly tapping your husband on the chest. Lazily reaching over to pick up your phone, you check the time and let out a groan.

“Oh no. It’s almost six.”

“It sure is,” Zayne replies with a resigned smile.

“And now I’ve kept you up too,” you whine. “Ugh, I’m sorry. We should go get ready.”

But just as you’re about to drag yourself away from him, Zayne pulls you back into his chest.

“Call in.” It’s more of a gentle command than a suggestion.

You contemplate his words for a while, and he hopes that the warm comfort he feels right now, your body against snugly glued to his, will entice you to stay right where you are as much as it’s enticing him.

“I do have a lot of sick days saved up…” you ponder out loud. “Okay, fine, but under one condition.”

Zayne tilts his head at you inquisitively. Conditional capitulation being one of your specialties, he presumes you’re going to drag him through another one of these dramas that you enjoy so much, and that he’s grown to enjoy as well since meeting you (though he would never admit it).

“You call in too,” you say with a mischievous smile. “I stole two whole hours of your beauty sleep, and a certain someone once told me that any less than 8 hours is unhealthy. So let’s just stay right here and nap all day.”

Zayne leans over and plants a gentle kiss on your lips. You have a knack for saying exactly what he wants to hear — yet another one of your specialties.

“Deal.”

Even when you’re on vacation, hundreds of miles away from any and all possible responsibilities, Zayne doesn’t seem to have an off button. He’s up at seven thirty in the morning, and despite your countless nagging about how that’s too early, he’ll insist that it’s far later than his usual, and that it’s perfectly reasonable.

He’s seemingly impervious to jet lag - he’ll tell you all about how good sleep hygiene and optimal nap times contribute to mitigate its effects, though you’re convinced your husband must have some kind of genetic or occupational advantage over you.

Your mornings together begin almost two generous hours after he’s begun his own routine. His 6AM runs are replaced with what he calls a leisurely maintenance routine at the hotel gym. Then, he comes back upstairs to quietly shower off while you’re still dozing, but not before scouting the hotel buffet. This is a very crucial part of his plan for the two of you.

Zayne is thoughtful enough to let you sleep in on vacation, completing the rest of his morning routine as silently as possible, knowing how much you both need the time off. However, once his shower is completed, your time is up. By 9AM, the curtains are flying open, room service is already on the way with coffee, and he’s crawling into the bed you’ve now appropriated as your own, gently but firmly coaxing you awake as you try to cover your eyes in vain. You settle for gluing yourself to his body and using him as a makeshift shield against the bright sun filtering through the window.

“Mmh… ‘s too early,” you mumble into his chest. He smells of hotel soap, and hotel soap has never smelled so good.

“It’s nine in the morning, dear. You’ll stay jet lagged the whole time if we don’t fix that schedule of yours.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah - you’ve heard it all before. But staying right there, on soft plush covers, cuddling with your husband in the morning sun sounds like an awfully good deal in exchange for a little bit of jet lag.

“And the buffet closes at 10:30.”

He never tires of the way your entire body perks up at the magic word. You look up at him, blinking remnants of sleep away, and repeat his words, as if they’re too good to be true.

“Buffet?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s the pastry situation?”

Your suddenly stern face and steadfast determination sends a low rumble of laughter through his chest.

“Full spread. Salty and savoury. Heated on demand.”

You gulp.

“And eggs?”

“However you want them. Unlimited toppings and fillings.”

You practically shove him off and commando-roll out of the queen bed, scurrying around the room to start getting ready. Normally your not-so-gracious dismount from your impromptu cuddle session would’ve earned you a cheeky comment, but as he watches you discard your robe on the bathroom floor, then saunter over to your open luggage to find your “buffet-primed clothes”, as you like to call them, your bare curves basking in the sunlight, he finds that he doesn’t mind your enthusiasm at all.

Thank you for reading! I’ve been thinking about domestic Zayne nonstop so of course I had to write about it. He’s so husband-material coded it’s not even funny. I might write something like this again in the future if I think of more scenarios! 💜

[goflysmart]

Air India, the National flag Carrier, offers connections to over 70 international and 100 domestic destinations. SpiceJet offers 46 cities across India and international destinations. AirAsia India currently operates 19 domestic destinations. It became a fully owned subsidiary of Tata Group last November.

[sunniskyies]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐬 || 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 || 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: - 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Domestic fluff as you both settle back into life together <3 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Ford Pines x fem!reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: - 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Literally just fluff, a bit of being a guardian figure to the kids 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2k 𝐀/𝐍: You guys are SO SWEET about the last one, so here's more fluff for you beautiful old man addicts <3

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑 > 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟒

The kids are in bed— well, mostly. You can hear the chirp of excited conversation through the ceiling. It was late, Stan and Ford’s explanation taking a long, long time. It didn’t help that the retelling got as thick and awkward as wet cement when it came to talk of Ford’s portal, and the events leading up to his departure.

Exhaustion tugs at every battered bone in your body, but you’re so content you might as well be purring like a kitten in front of a roaring fire.

You're curled up bridal-style across Ford’s lap, his arms enveloping you; warm, cradling, completing. He’s donned an old red knit jumper he fished out of his old chest of drawers. It smells like it belongs in a museum, sort of dusty and woodsy. Your face is pressed to his chest, and you feel much younger than your age. It feels like your first day in this house, the two of you huddled on a sagging mattress giggling and talking of futures and other such nonsense; youthful, hopeful, infatuated.

Now the two of you are more than thirty years on, enfolded together like the pages of a book left on an old yellow reading chair. You don’t speak, saving that long conversation for a lick of sunlight and mugs of coffee cupped in hand. No, right now you just sit in silence, Ford’s large hands stroking dust from your hair, a thumb gently soothing the bruise forming on your temple where you struck the wall.

Still unaware of the time except for the inky night hanging in the air, you feel Ford shift. His arms move, body ready to stand up with you. He stops when he notices two large pupils staring up at him curiously.

“You’re still awake, dear,” he smiles, voice quiet. “Let me take you to bed, I must lock up downstairs, make sure nothing vile is seeping through that blasted portal.”

“Ford, no, let’s go to sleep. You can do that in the morning,” you say, trying to ward off the edge of desperation edging into your tone. You can’t help but remember the miserable months of nights in a cold bed while your lover hid away in the basement, sleeping on his desk rather than with you. It has to be different— he’s better now.

Ford doesn’t share your fretting. “No, it’s not stable. Reopening the portal… it’s not safe to leave these things.” He continues to stand up, your body delicately draped over his arms. He seems to notice your expression. “I’ll join you soon, love.”

You doubt that. He’ll probably be there ‘till morning, his simple task snowballing as his keen eyes notice the slightest things amiss. “No, that won’t happen. No, no, I’ll join you. I’m rather accustomed to the portal myself after all this time with it.” You dismiss, stretching a leg to try and stand on the floor.

Ford bundles you up closer, “Absolutely not! You need rest, I swear I will join you.” He begins carrying you to the hall. Your fingers clutch the red fabric of his sweater. 

“Please don’t leave me,” you murmur plaintively, the corners of your mouth downturned. You miss the way Ford’s heart stutters, your eyes all hopelessly syrupy and mournful through your lashes.

He hesitates.

“Please? You can stay down there any other night I promise, just stay this time.”

His jaw tightens. “I don’t want that. Not again,” he says firmly. “Okay… I’ll… I’ll come with you.”

You immediately relax again, at ease in the rhythm of Ford’s steps as he carries you to your room. A stupid grin hijacks your face as he ever-so-gently places you under the sheets (he remembered what side of the bed). You watch from your nest of sheets as he gets ready for bed in the soft lamplight, lifting up the duvet for him to slide in next to you.

His arm around you, frothy sheets up to your neck— you think you might die here and now for how perfect everything feels. You feel his nose bump the top of your head as he presses a kiss to your hair.

“If you’d have told me this morning that… that today would be the day I would’ve never believed…” you say, heavy eyelids closing as you're interrupted by a yawn. You feel his chuckle reverberate where you lean into his chest. 

“Go to sleep, sweetness.” He murmurs, tone laced with a smile. There are his hands again, rubbing soft circles on your arm, your hair. He might as well be rubbing in anaesthesia, his touch lulling you to sleep. Darn you Pines.

Before sleep pulls you under, “I’m so glad your back, Stanford,” slips quietly from your lips. Ford’s heart skips again. Arms tighten around you as if you’re a precious photo about to float away on the wind; skin softly creased from a lifetime of loving, hair matte and grey like faded ink from thirty years of waiting.

“I’m more grateful than you could ever know, my dear,”

A stretch trembles through your warm limbs, the aches from last night dulled by a deep slumber and the warm morning sunlight soaking through the window. A thrill passes through you, your arm sliding through the sheets to Stanford’s side and—

A cry pours from you as your hand meets cold, empty space. Your body is jolted upright, perspiration glistening on your forehead. Your heart is hammering, lungs gulping in buckets of air. Where is he? Where is Ford? Did he come through the portal? Did it really happen? You don’t register the wail emanating from you, nor do you register the pound of heavy boots down the hallway.

“____ are you okay?!” Ford exclaims, almost slamming into the door as he hurries in. His hand is tense, hovering above the gun strapped to his belt.

The sight of him— the feeling you get is so overpowering it’s nauseating. Your paralysed limbs untense, body slumping in relief.

“Goddammit Stanford Pines, you just gave me the fright of a lifetime,” you bemoan, uninvited tears swimming beneath the sieve of your hands. You don’t see as his face goes from confused to slack with realisation.

“Oh,” He groans. “Oh sweetness I’m so sorry.” Feeling horrible, he leans on the bed to pull you into him, rubbing your back. “I should’ve waited for you to wake up, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m sorry, I probably scared you half to death.” You mumble, slightly embarrassed. As much as you are connected to Ford, thirty years has changed both of you, and you find yourself —embarrassingly— feeling like you need to impress him, like a teenager with a crush. God forbid he thinks ill of you!

You relish his rumble of a laugh. “I thought a monster slipped by me or something! I’m grateful you're okay.”

“Yeah, well, I think you might’ve just taken a year off my life, Ford.” You roll your eyes lovingly, a few of the last of those silly tears escaping.

After getting up and pulling on some summer-friendly clothes, you slip down to the kitchen to find the morning well underway. The sun is beating through the windows, and Dipper is sat cross legged on the floor reading a book. He’s reading with the cover down, but his furtiveness is wasted on you; you know he's reading A Good Girl's Guide to Murder. ‘Mature murder mystery books’ indeed, Dipper!

At the kitchen bench, Mabel is haphazardly balanced on a stack of books, multiple propped open at once. From the batter congealing the pages together and the fact that most of the books are iced, you know they are cookery books. And a cookbook in Mabel’s hands is either as dangerous as a matchbook to a forest, or as useless as shoes to a fish.

By the looks of it, it is the latter. Although, is there a faint… burning?

“Great Aunt ___!” Mabel squeals, revealing sprinkle-harbouring braces. “I'm baking, look I’m baking! See, I had this great idea to try and substitute the liquids in my Mabel Cakes with Mabel Juice because Grunkle Ford has never had either —can you believe that? Me neither, so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone and make them together… but I didn’t realise the plastic dinosaurs in the juice would melt in the waffle iron!—” You try to cut off the young girl’s 100-mile-an-hour babble, but that girl is unstoppable.

You wince as she holds up two fists of semi-cooked, eye-wateringly bright gobdules of cakey dough. You, pained, notice the half-melted dinosaurs, faces in liquified agony as strings of molten plastic drip from their bodies. Matchbook in forest, matchbook in forest!

“—So now it’s a bit of a Jurassic Park, another reason why I think Grunkle Ford will love it, even if it’s a bit of a.... disaster. But if you think about it it’s more like a Magical Mabel Disaster! And oh, I added extra sprinkles because you can never have too many sprinkles! Do you think the hardened dinosaurs will make up for the uncooked dough? Or should I cook it more? Doesn’t matter, it’ll taste great!”

You give her a wobbly smile, mostly because you fear what might happen if you open your mouth.

“I tried to stop her,” Dipper mutters from between his pages, voice smug and matter-of-fact.

“Oh don’t act like you're so grown-up, you’re reading a little girl's book,” she retorts in a sing-song. Dipper slams his book closed, the tips of his ears matching the cover.

“I think you’ll find it’s very sophisticated and easy to digest—”

You let the twin’s bickering fade into the background as you begin to tidy up the carnage Mabel’s baking attempt has left. Usually, she gets distracted by things quite quickly, leaving Mabel-messes scattered around for anyone to find. You don’t mind it though, all too glad to slide the Mabel Cake into the bin. You shiver. Those plastic faces… they haunt.

Ford was back down in the basement, the sounds of clanging and buzzing drifting up through the weary floorboards. You want to go down there, but that silly part of you doesn’t want to disturb him again today. No— that’s ridiculous! Ford loves your company, you don’t get in his way —it’s not like it was when Bill was around.

Five minutes later, you're standing in the small room in the basement holding a cup of coffee and a salvaged Mabel Cake. You see Ford through the glass, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tools being used and replaced back onto his belt. He’s hauling colossal slabs of metal from the sides of the portal, the machine slowly being stripped down to bone. Like a massive carcass, it creaks and groans as Ford’s tools slice away at its flesh, and you hope he’s staying well out the way each time pieces of it fall to the floor like toppling trees.

After a few moments, Ford seems to notice you through his welding mask, though you can’t see his face through the tinted visor. He perks up though, dropping a massive saw to the ground and hurrying over.

“Hello, my dear! Is it too noisy?” He says as he slips through the door, pulling off his helmet and drawing you in for a sheepish kiss.

“No, just bringing you some of Mabel’s baking efforts— you don’t have to eat it, but she was awfully excited.” Ford surveys the cake with a smile, and you resist the urge to wipe the smear of soot from his cheek. 

“Thank you. For the sustenance, and for, uh, for checking in,” he says sincerely. Is that a flush you see? Your suspicions are confirmed when you set the coffee aside and bring him in for a deeper kiss, blouse-clad arms sliding around his neck, and you feel his pulse thrum beneath his skin.

The relief you feel! You’re not the only one navigating these unknown emotions, that the man who’s mapped the multiverse is also feeling the giddy nerves you are. Your skin prickles where his degloved hands bear your skin.

It feels strange to be held romantically after so long of loneliness. It’s not that you haven’t found love with the kids and Stan, but you could never bring yourself to even look at another in the way you used to look at Ford. Even if you never finished the portal, you would’ve spent the rest of your life alone, satisfied at least in the knowledge of how it felt to be loved, once. It excites you childishly knowing just by his kiss that Ford felt the same, the way he cradles you in his gaze and with his hands as if he’s trying to reabsorb every inch.

When you break away, his eyes open after yours, and he seems to be at a loss for what to say.

“Do you, um, want to go for a walk this evening? You haven’t left the shack yet, and we haven’t truly caught up…” you offer shyly.

“Yes! That would be… splendid! Spectacular. This evening. Perfect.” He blurts. The calm of last evening has clearly floated away in the daylight for both of you.

“Perfect.” You repeat.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @sleeplessdreamer14, @2hiigh2cry, @taffycandyqt, @papi-machucha, @muffin1304

© sunniskyies 2024, do not repost or translate my work

[bandcampsnoop]

4/5/23.

Twofer Wednesday. If you like your music influenced by Marine Girls, The Raincoats, Life Without Buildings or Wire, look no further than divorcer (Vancouver, British Columbia) or Yfory (Berlin, Germany).

These bands are not related in any way, but both came across my radar on the same day. Yfory's Bandcamp page states that there is a physical release on Static Age Musik, but I couldn't find it yet. Yfory's music is sung in Welsh and there is a member who also plays in Diät.

Domestic Departure is releasing divorcer's "Espionage" 7". You'll need to order directly from the label.

[futuresandpasts]

Added Dimensions – Time Suck / Hellbent EP

Time Suck / Hellbent is the first vinyl EP from Richmond, Virginia’s Added Dimensions (the home recording project helmed by Sarah Everton of Blowdryer and Telepathic), following a self-released, self-titled cassette released in 2022.

Sarah’s trebly/jangly guitar riffs and sneaky bass lines are backed by a charge of unfussy, driving drums from Rob Garcia, all cloaked in the perfect amount of Tascam grit, as she lyrically pares down the heavy psychic weight of modern living (the social cost of convenience and connectivity, the inane routine of labor as a means of survival, etc.) into five disarmingly hooky mini-manifestoes—even the sugar-coated melodies can’t hide the harsh truths behind lines like “every day, same as before” (“Interruption”). Wire rubbing elbows with the Shop Assistants as a C86 band? A Kim Deal-fronted Urinals? Charms you can’t resist!

300 copies pressed, three-color risographed fold-over cover, includes download code.

Listen / buy here.

[wandasaura]

DELICATE

summary — you’ve carefully planned for wanda and natasha’s return, and an abandoned red bra in the living room lays all of your plans on the table for them to bring to life while you sleep peacefully upstairs

warning(s) — established relationship, mention of battle and injury, mention of scars and wounds, avengers wandanat, alludes to dom/sub dynamics, consensual somnophilia, mentions of innocence and corruption, mutual masturbation, praise kink, oral, nipple stimulation/mild torture, straddling, grinding, fingering, somewhat delayed orgasm, brief fluff at the end, men/minors dni

kinktober

As Natasha crept through the house placed on the outskirts of a lively city, a lazy smile pulled at the chapped corners of her lips as she took in the sight of your mess sprawled across the kitchen and into the living room, and as she spotted a discarded bra beneath the couch, a hue of deep red adorned with intricate lace cups that left little to the imagination when it sat atop of smooth skin, a deep sense of desire warmed her belly with familiar sparks of pleasurable anticipation. Wanda was only a few steps behind her, hair tied up into a domestic loose bun that only accentuated the softness of her features that glimmered beneath the dim moonlight creeping into the foyer through the large windows lining the far wall in the living room. The windows had been one of her favorite features of the house when you’d moved out of the compound, and still you knew that if she was to be found nowhere else, she’d assuredly be sitting on the couch glancing out into the slow moving world around you.

They’d been away for days, off in Europe chasing down a lead that you admittedly knew very little about. Their line of work was dangerous, deadly, as much as you cared for their safety and dwelled on the security of the bases they crashed in while away, it was better for everyone if you were left in the dark. You knew only what you needed to; a rough estimate of how long missions would take, a very general description of the areas they’d be infiltrating, and close to nothing else. It had bothered you in the start, made you feel disconnected, unworthy, but when Wanda came home bloody and broken down during the early months of your intimate relationship, you’d realized that while they were cut out to face the despicable realities of human evil, you were not. You were soft, pure, untouched by humane darkness, theirs to corrupt in other ways; sexual ways. It was an imperfect dynamic, but one that you craved in their joint absence.

That discarded bra beneath the couch, in sight just enough for a perceptive ex-assassin like your Russian girlfriend to spot without difficulty, wasn’t merely an accidentally forgotten artifact that you’d gone willingly without in defeat, it was intentional, suggestive, an invitation for the corruption to begin again whenever they felt so inclined to tarnish your innocence. Upstairs, you slept soundly, body adorned in tantalizing thin silk fabric that pooled so loosely around your chest that your breasts became a spectacle for anyone to ogle if they so desired when you shifted any which way in your slumber. You didn’t know when they were set to arrive home, weren’t informed of the mission going off without a hitch, didn’t hear how the hinges on the door squeaked open and the lock latched shut. You’d gone to bed every night since they’d left in attire similar to what you wore now, and the thought of you so innocently giving your body away to the monsters that lurked in the night turned Natasha on beyond a reasonable explanation.

Near silently, despite the heavy soles of her combat boots weighing her footsteps down, Natasha crept up the stairs with Wanda hot on her heels, their hearts pounding in their chests as they sought out your presence and addictive body that had been so earnestly missed since their departure. Their returns home didn’t always come with sex and passionate sexual intimacy, sometimes it came with tight hugs that lasted minutes beneath the soft glow of artificial lighting, or long conversations in the downstairs bathroom as Wanda patched up Natasha’s injuries with tender affection and whispered apologies for the inevitable sting that came with the application of antiseptic. There was softness in your relationship, tenderness, but you wanted the harsher side of their love now, craved the corruption they adored putting onto you with consensual force.

When they found you, curled up on your side beneath heavy blankets that pooled around your waist undoubtedly due to a sudden hot flash sometime earlier in the night, your breasts exposed to whoever stepped foot inside your shared bedroom first, Wanda couldn’t contain her desire to have you any longer. Her tactile uniform was admittedly easier to slip off than Natasha’s, and she spared the woman no second glance as she dropped her heavy uniform to the floor at her feet to be dealt with later, instead making your tantalizing body her priority. She wanted to absolutely ravish you. She craved to feel your velvety walls around her fingers, pulsating and pleading to be ruined at whatever pace she decided on. She wanted to hear your soft moans as you came to consciousness to pleasure earned from her touch. She wanted you, and with or without Natasha, she would have you.

Her knees sunk into the mattress easily, jostling your body although you remained contently unaware of her presence. It was sickening to truly hone in on your drastic differences. Neither she nor Natasha would’ve slept through the lock being latched downstairs, neither she nor Natasha would’ve found peace sleeping so bare and vulnerable in a house without state of the art security (which they opted out of for the sake of reclaiming even an ounce of normalcy when off the clock), neither she nor Natasha would have remained asleep if the bed dipped so suddenly. Your innocence was remarkable, your trust in their willingness to protect you was admirable, but your eagerness to be ruined by two women that had done unspeakable things was what truly drove her crazy.

That first brush of her palm skimming against the silky skin of your thigh was heavenly, and it sent a pulse of electric excitement through her painfully untouched body. There’d been no time for intimate tenderness once they’d boarded the quinjet, no time to maintain the delicate strength of their romantic relationship. Natasha and Wanda had been teammates first, romantic feelings had come later on, that was how they worked so well on the field, but with each passing night of sleeping flush against each other with you in between them, it was getting harder to resist the nerve boiling urge to protect and cherish at all costs, no matter the casualties that came from two lovers choosing each other over the enemy on an already bloodied battlefield. The age of avenging was nearing its fatal end for two of the greatest anti-heroes the world had ever seen rise in the scattered ashes of trauma, but in its place would be the truest start to a wholesome relationship.

As expected, your cunt was ready for Wanda’s rough touch the second she pulled the thick covers away from your body and revealed the sight of you entirely for watercolor eyes to fall upon. You’d forgone panties, sleeping soundly with every inch of your soft skin exposed for the touch of your lovers to grope and caress at their own will. Wanda wasted not even a second despite having endless time to truly work you up, instead choosing to submerge her fingers calloused from days of wielding weapons and orbs of uncontainable energy into your soft velvety walls. She sought out that spongy spot within your cunt effortlessly, curling her fingers upward until she could massage it intently.

A soft gasp fell off of your lips when the sparks of pleasure caught up with your desperate body even in unconsciousness. Your body, soft and still, barely moved an inch as Wanda sank her fingers deeper into your core, her knuckles dragging against those slick walls that pulled her in deeper each time she gave into temptation to have you, drastically different from the nights where her simple touch had you writhing and pleading for more for anything she was willing to provide. It was the stillness of your wanting body that had her going in for more each time you gave yourself to them in slumber, and with Natasha to guide her desire to have you, soon it became two passionate lovers intent on provoking wild sensations of pleasure instead of just one. When the Russian joined Wanda in bed, her barren body adored with fading scars and newer gashes, the Sokovian hadn’t moved an inch, rather allowing her lips to ghost tantalizingly close to your glistening core, intent on being the one that brought an orgasm crashing over you whether you slept through the pleasure or woke in the midst of its climax.

Natasha didn’t object, rather focused her energy on teasing your nipples, allowing her calloused fingertips to pinch and tug at your erect buds with a near sadistic pressure that she wasted no time to ease you into. That first tug that turned into a harsh twitch had the delicate muscles in your face twitching, the slightest indication of pain rippling through your body evident, but she’d lightened her touches, kissed away the ache, and kept you asleep like it was something she’d been doing for a lifetime. Her thighs framed your torso as she hovered over your body, memorizing the innocence etched across your face as your chest rose and fell in even breaths, not yet uneven and frenzied like it would become in minutes when Wanda’s fingers and tongue had you teetering over the edge of pleasure just out of reach from being fully yours. Despite Wanda not caring if you woke, Natasha wasn’t ready for that just yet, and so with careful movements, she lowered herself onto your belly, the soft silk of your slip providing little friction where she needed most, but not willing to wake you to receive anything more.

In tandem, they worked your body up, teasing touches slowly became harsh movements, minimal whines and whimpers became labored breathing and quivering thighs. Natasha sought her own pleasure as she ground her hips against your soft belly, meanwhile Wanda had one hand between her legs and the other between yours, her tongue soothing the inches of skin and sensitive nerves that she couldn’t quite reach with only one hand. Their moans fueled your arousal further even in your half asleep state, and when Wanda moaned particularly lewdly against your sensitive core, vibrations shooting through your center and further tightening that ever growing coil in your belly, your eyes fluttered open in disheveled confusion that was quickly overtaken by immense pleasure. Your hands floundered for something to grasp onto, your heels digging into the mattress as you adjusted your position beneath them both, simultaneously opening yourself up for them to corrupt while giving Natasha more surface area to work with.

“Look who's finally awake.” Natasha mused tauntingly, her soft eyes sparkling beneath the thin beam of moonlight that brought lightness to your otherwise dark bedroom. She leaned forward to brush her lips against yours, but before you could reciprocate the tender affection she’d attempted to bestow upon you, Wanda was jackhammering into your cunt without restrain, drawing lewd moans from the depths of your throat that would surely have you scrounging for water in the morning to soothe the distant ache. “Gonna be a good girl for us, angel? Gonna cum for Wanda?”

“Please! I’m so close! God!” You cried out, still relatively disoriented from only just waking up, but more than willing to submit to their touch and willingness to give you pleasure. You could tell by the way Natasha’s hips stuttered against your navel that she was getting close herself, and if the frequent moans breathed against your cunt were any indication of Wanda’s approaching orgasm, you knew that there were mere seconds before she exploded with you. “I’m gonna cum! Please, I can’t hold it! Not tonight!”

“Not tonight.” Natasha assured sweetly, her voice soft and breathy as it floated through the silent bedroom and landed in your ears. You’d always been told that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but you hadn’t quite know the extent of its truth until you’d met both her and Wanda. You dreaded the weeks where separation was inevitable, but it always made moments like this so much sweeter. “I know Wanda’s close, baby. I know you’re close. Count of three, okay? Can we cum together?”

“Just– Just be quick! Please, I can’t hold it! I can’t hold it!” You pleaded with her to go easy on your desperate body, hoped that your high pitched whines and mindless scrounging for something to grasp onto conveyed that message clearly. It did, because with a soft countdown uttered by your lovable ex-assassin you came to a blinding climax in unison, sweaty, tired bodies melting into each other in the blissful aftermath. “I missed you.” You mumbled sleepily, wiggling out of your silk slip that was now sodden with Natasha’s arousal, though you didn’t mind the nakedness of your stature much anyways. Wanda would throw you a pair of her own pajamas inevitably, so you were only making it easier on yourself to change.

“We missed you, detka. So much.” Wanda mumbled, crawling up the bed until she could lay her lips on yours, the taste and scent of your arousal still clinging to her lips and togue, but you didn’t mind. “Happy Halloween.” She giggled lightly, reminding you of the holiday that had been vastly approaching, although you hadn’t done much to prepare for it, rather spent the last week riddled with intense feelings of longing and sorrow. That was in the past now, because even if they slipped away for another week long mission next month, you had them by your side now, and that’s all that mattered.

[super-ultra-mega-deluxe]

The actual consideration of what fascism is is rather something of general import. A number of folks here have deferred to Umberto Eco's Ur-Fascism, and while I wouldn't discourage it, it is a text from the perspective of semiotics; that is to say, from the perspective of what signifies fascism, not what it is per se. Hence also why Eco emphasizes that none of the fourteen ways he describes are strictly necessary or sufficient for fascism, just that fascism as it has emerges coalesces around such signifiers. The aesthetics and rhetoric of fascists is rather succinctly summed up in Ur-Fascism, but what fascism is in a more direct, structural sense is a somewhat different consideration.

The governing structure of fascist Italy, as an example, retained many of the facets of the liberal democratic system from which it emerged, with a legislature, a judiciary, and an executive. Mussolini was legally the prime minister- though he adopted the title of Duce, literally "leader"- and was appointed by a legislative council- though a new one created by the fascist party called the Grand Council of Fascism that by and large excluded the previous legislature- and the prime minister could legally be dismissed by the head of state, the king, after a sustained vote of no confidence similar to the UK's formulation. Fascist Italy also redoubled- rather than invented- Italian colonial policy, promoting the settlement of Italians into Libya and other African colonial projects and the genocide of local populations. The domestic economic policy of fascist Italy was also much more explicitly in the interests of private business: in 1939, the whole of Italy was explicitly proposed to be legally divided into 22 corporations which appointed members to parliament; labour organization outside of the appointed corporate structures and striking as a practice were banned. The interests of fascist Italy's ruling bodies was very overtly bourgeois, and their economic policy is often referred to as specifically corporatist.

Nazi Germany was similar in structure, though while the German parliament- called the Reichstag- was maintained, a series of laws were passed which enabled the Chancellor- Hitler, who was appointed such by President Hindenburg- and the cabinet to implement laws without parliamentary or presidential approval. The Hitler cabinet is generally considered to have been the defacto ruling body of Nazi Germany, though members of the Reichstag obviously still convened and drafted laws and ran elections and generally supported Nazi rule and the judiciary remained a distinct body. The Nazis also wanted to redouble their colonial policy in specifically Africa- a theatre in which they were snubbed compared to other European powers- but were by and large unable to secure resources there for continued expansion due to the British opposing them in protecting its own colonial projects. A rather infamous and demonstrative guiding principle of Nazi economic policy, Lebensraum- literally "living space"- sought specifically to appropriate land and other productive capital to give to Germans that they might be made petite bourgeois and small artisans; de-proletarianized and bourgeoisified, at the same time that the people such capital is expropriated from were made slaves to fuel further expansion or killed outright. This was imposed both within and, once the resources of social underclasses at home ran dry, without. The interests too of Germany's ruling bodies was very overtly bourgeois.

What all of this is to say is primarily that fascism as a governmental system is a legal permutation of liberal democracy, rather than a strict departure from it. The overriding interests of fascist states are also commensurately the interests of the bourgeoisie of those nations. It's an entirely logical progression of liberalism, to be frank, and a rather stark example of why liberal states should be opposed. The most violent fascist policy at home is often simply what liberal states have as their explicit foreign policy, for instance. As for whether this or the other politician in a liberal democracy is a fascist, I'd ask first and foremost that it be known that the Nazi policy of expansion was based first on the US policy of expansion; the cart isn't pulling the horse, as it were.

[jessamine-rose]

˚⋅౨ৎ Ribbon Knots ೀ⋅˚

Inspired by these posts!! I just like to imagine Capitano and his lover wearing fancy corsets as part of their formal/ regular outfits <3

Note:: Fem reader, domestic fluff + yearning

Capitano and his wife lacing up each other’s corsets as part of their dressup routine…….

Each morning, Capitano carefully pulls your corset strings and ties a secure knot. There is something so tender about the gesture, his gentle touches, this small moment of daily intimacy.

It does beg the question: Can’t he put on his corset by himself? That is true, but he simply prefers your assistance for the same reason you seek out his. You have a distinct way of tying his corset knot, he notices.

This routine is especially intimate on the days of his departure. Before he leaves for his mission, Capitano will lace up your corset one last time. He will think of the long days ahead, of the dresses you will wear in his absence, of corset strings tied in solace. When it’s his turn, he will savor the moment and silently thank you.

And hours later, when he undresses for bed, he will stare at his reflection in the mirror. At the distinctive ribbon knot of his corset, tied by your own hands. He has long memorized your technique but he can’t replicate the weaker force you exert, the feeling of your touch, your concentrated expression followed by a soft smile directed at him.

Slowly, he unties the strings and calculates the earliest possible date of his return. Until then, he will just have to be reminded of your separation each morning.

[nakeddeparture]

Unemployed Joshua Junior Welcome, 26, beats up Destiny Gibson - 🎶You’re my sugar dove, but, no money no love🎶 - Barbados.

https://youtu.be/Pd0HntFzH_Y

Joshua has NO POWER. No broke male should be looking for pu**y. Naked!!

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