#you always loved everything...

[corduroyinstitute]

October 17, 2020: Four years ago today, Corduroy Institute recorded a piece which would eventually become the closing track on our album Take the Train to Manchester—”You Always Loved Everything…”

https://corduroyinstitute.bandcamp.com/track/you-always-loved-everything

https://music.apple.com/us/album/you-always-loved-everything/1723644317?i=1723644332

https://open.spotify.com/track/5N4Wkeg3ATiXn7VrIjrAzP?si=3336105942d04e43

This was the third and final song of the Lost October Sessions, and it was also the second to be recorded on that date. Circa 10:45 PM, the duo performed a rhythmic layer involving the MC-707 and the Bass VI. S.A. Morin then recorded himself running the Bass VI through the EHX Superego Plus followed by some MC-707 finger drumming atop the latter half of the song. This was his first time creating percussion using this technique. We concluded the evening by doing a mixdown that faded from the original drums into S.A. Morin’s drums to create a dynamic shift over the course of the track.

The next day, following additional experimentation as a duo, S.A. Morin departed and W. Ruiz decided to do something he has never done in the context of Corduroy Institute: overdub and layer solo improvisations atop an extant recording. He made numerous passes on the V-Synth with several different patches, and then he used the Tascam DP-24SD Digital Portastudio to destructively edit down these layers into a wall of swirling orchestral sounds.

When S.A. Morin heard this, he was inspired to supplant his first Superego Plus performance. He then selected lyrics from among the dozens of stanzas W. Ruiz had crafted in 2020. Both members recorded vocals, with additional work over the next two days. At that point, we had essentially recorded the first song for an album which we did not even know we were on the path to making. Vocal reverb was added in November, and the final mix was completed in the summer of 2023.

"You Always Loved Everything..." not only concludes Take the Train to Manchester but it is also on Episode Four of the @afterglowechoplex podcast. We hope you take the time to enjoy the song within its original context along with its recontextualized position within a virtual mixtape of shoegaze-adjacent independent music.

https://linktr.ee/afterglowechoplex

[burquillos]

Post-war shenanigans. It's all the same to him

[malinaa]

if i think about the hunger games in peeta's perspective i WILL start sobbing

[chloesimaginationthings]

I love the idea that Michael is always gloomy and low-energy with a bit of snark but the mere IDEA of Foxy turns him into the most easily excitable person on the planet

YES, but I also extent that to every animatronic he really likes!!

[youre-dreaming-302]

More photos from my digital camera (7.2 megapixels)

[seiwas]

cw: pro-hero bakugo, reader has boobs, kind of explicit/nsfw? idk i describe boobs, reader is smaller and shorter than bakugo, unedited sawry

bakugo's muscle tee looks as ill-fitting as it'll ever be draped over you.

there are reasons for this, perfectly founded and logical reasons for why that is—the main one being that, it's, well, his; two, maybe even three sizes larger than what it should be to fit you properly.

but, he can't stop staring, and there are reasons for that too—the main one being that, it's his, and yet, the only way he can ever imagine it now is when it's being worn by you.

your hips sway to the song you've been humming for the past five minutes. it's the same one, the chorus on a perpetual loop. he's sure it's the only part you know; you do this often enough that it's the only part he knows now, too.

the hem of his tee hits right at the top of your thighs, concealing just enough to tease, but he’s confident that if you reach up even the slightest bit for the cupboard overhead, there'll be nothing to hide.

he feels a little bit like a creep like this, watching as he stands in the middle of your shared living room, but it's impossible too look away—you've got to be doing this on purpose, right?

heat flares inside of him when you turn your body ever so slightly, the armhole of his muscle tee large enough to give him the clearest view of skin—

he gulps.

it's smooth, sloping just right; the side view of your under boob curves into its perfect shape and he can imagine it, feel—

(is this considered perving if he's been with you for years?)

the pan in front of you sizzles as you plop in god knows what. you pour in something from the side and wait, one hand propped on the hip you pop out. then, you pick up the pan, attempting to flip what's inside (probably a pancake, now that he thinks about it).

it’s hard to focus on what you’re cooking though, especially when all he sees is plump flesh jiggling, bouncing as you further agitate the pan.

he just got the pants of this suit readjusted, and now they're fucking tight.

bakugo normally runs hot; it’s kind of part of his dna. but this warmth is different, flushing him from head to toe. it creeps up the side of his neck, painting the tips of his ears a blooming red.

you turn around then, plopping the pancake on the plate atop the counter behind you.

"oh! you're done," you greet him with a smile. so. fucking. casually.

as if your tits aren't fucking peaking against the gray fabric of his tee.

as if you think he buys the fake innocence poorly concealing that sly, conniving look in your pretty eyes.

as if you aren't standing in front of him in his muscle tee, wearing nothing underneath it like you didn’t do this on purpose. like you don’t know what it fucking does to him.

his eyes squint suspiciously, deep vermillion staring straight into yours.

you tilt your head, the tips of your lashes kissing the top of your cheekbones as you blink. you reach for a bottle of honey.

“everything okay?” you ask, voice syrupy, sickeningly sweet.

your movements play in front of him languidly, the corner of your lips curling up slightly as you smirk. honey catches on your finger as you pop open the bottle cap.

he’s supposed to be out the door in five minutes if he wants to make it in time for a meeting at the agency. technically, he should already be there if he wants to keep up his track record of consistently being fifteen minutes too early.

but you start to approach him, rounding the kitchen island. there’s a narrow space between him and the slab of marble, but you slide into it like it was made for you.

he’s certain it was, from the way the tip of your nose brushes against his as you tiptoe. your tits are right fucking there, brushing against the skintight material of his suit.

there’s too much fucking fabric if you ask him, between cotton and spandex.

your grin widens, and he feels hot, the heat from his cheeks radiating.

then you whisper, still saccharine, “breakfast is ready,” before kissing him on the lips lightly. a short peck, soft in the way that promises more before you slip away, giggling in your retreat.

he huffs, watching you leave. his feet shift as he thinks.

five minutes, huh?

like hell he’s going to eat these damn pancakes for breakfast today.

[tar-frogs]

no bc it's not too late. i found your heart, it's still beating. there's still time. come with me. life doesn't have to feel this way. it's not supposed to feel this way. the person you want to be, the person you're capable of becoming has been inside you this whole time. look inside, open up; you're not hollow or empty you are full of life and love and color and everything you thought you could be and so much more. and it's not too late. you can still find yourself. there's still time. you're not gone. your heart is still beating. but you're dying. you're dying slowly, and quickly. and time isn't right. and you're so much more than this. you were so much more than this. you ARE so much more than this. you can escape. we can escape. you don't have to be alone, none of us do. we can be free and ourselves, away from the shackles of where we once held ourselves, of where other people kept us. there's still time. but time is moving fast. and time is moving slow. time is moving constantly. everything is shifting, moving. nothing is stagnant. except for you. but you don't have to be. you are everything. you are nothing if you don't try to be. you are whole. and you are wonderful. and you could be everything you could've ever dreamt of. and there is still time

[lotus-pear]

the dialogue choices in this game should be more diabolical

[commsroom]

the u.s.s. horrible unending nightmare 💥 (once again from the incredible @hehearse)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Have you seen my little lad?

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[bumblingbabooshka]

People honestly portray Tuvok as far too "rolling his eyes, reluctantly going along with Janeway's silly little shenanigans" - he's literally so serious about being right there with her on every decision she makes. Janeway's like "I'm going to stay behind if the ship blows up" and Tuvok's like "I'm staying with you." Janeway's like "I'm going to deliver every member of the Equinox crew into the jaws of death via an alien revenge massacre" and Tuvok protests a grand total of one time before being fully on the bridge assisting her. He was the only one with her when she made the decision to honor the caretaker's wishes and save the Ocampa, dooming them all. He was willing to get court marshalled in order to fulfill a wish she couldn't grant by her own hand: Get them home [no matter what happens to me] <- wherein 'me' is Tuvok. This was the same wish that spurred him forward when he had to leave her on that planet and everyone left thought him cold for trying to fulfill it without her when in his mind it was akin to a dying wish, the last thing she'd ever express to him: Get them home [no matter what happens to me.] <- wherein 'me' is Janeway. He told Seven that the golden rule to follow is that the captain is "ALWAYS RIGHT" <- (His ACTUAL words) and when Seven asks if the captain should be followed even if someone KNOWS she's wrong he says "Perhaps." This man is perhaps the most ride or die dude in the universe about Janeway. Despite her labeling him her 'moral compass' he is by NO means impartial or unbiased. He'd defend her to his last breath. He canonically makes detailed psychological observations about her and has for years. He accounts for her luck when calculating the success of certain plans. It's implied in 'Twisted' that Janeway typically listens to Tuvok's suggestions and follows them nearly without fail - to the point that he's surprised and obviously irritated when Chakotay doesn't. Despite this they've been inside one another's quarters so infrequently that Tuvok can remember each instance. They call each other "Captain" and "Mr. Tuvok" even though they've known each other for twenty years. There's something wrong with them.

[corduroyinstitute]

The Lost October Sessions: Between October 15 and October 19 of 2020, Corduroy Institute convened at the O' Higgins Laboratory of Recorded Sound for our first set of recording sessions since the earliest moments of that year.

We opted to forego the random number generator concept which guided the material on the Eight/Chance/Meetings album. Instead, we reengaged with the muse without any preconditions or preconceptions. To this end, we employed the Bass VI, MC-707, V-Synth, Electribe ES-1, Volca Beats, Digitakt, and a portable pedalboard to create three new musical pieces via improvisation and multitracking.

Corduroy 61, 62, and 63 were the results of the October sessions, but they remained frozen at varying stages of completion. These works were subsequently relegated to archival obscurity as we resumed work on the album which would emerge in 2021.

Three years after the initial recordings, all three songs have been completed through overdubs and edits in 2022 and 2023. They now posses names and, most crucially, a context. "They Don't Even Know, "[A] Girl Named Philosophy," and "You Always Loved Everything..." will all form an integral part of our forthcoming album, Take the Train to Manchester.

We hope you share in this anticipation of this upcoming collection of experimental pop music.

[rayveneyed]

bakugou katsuki proclaims, quite often, that he doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body. he snarls it — cheeks flushed an angry red — when you teasingly ask him for homemade chocolates, or to change your name in his phone to something cheesy. you’ve had him down as pumpkin from the moment you started dating, after all, and he’s long grown used to hearing baby and sweetheart and darling in place of his given name, even though he swears he hates it. you often tug at his wrist and point to bouquets of red roses, whining why don’t you ever get me those? just annoying enough to have him pulling your head under his elbow and roughly ruffling your hair, cursing the way he’s spoiled you.

kirishima got mina a heartbeat bracelet, you say pointedly, tucked under his arm on the couch and peering up at him with those eyes — those eyes that say you’re looking to push his buttons a little. (internally, he scoffs — as if he didn’t know. as if he wasn’t the one that gave shitty hair the idea in the first place. it’s just — it’s different, isn’t it, when he’s getting it for himself? for you?) shouldn’t we get something like that, baby ?

he grunts something unintelligible — something about how they’re gimmicky, how they probably don’t work, how it’d distract him when he’s kicking ass, how it’d probably melt with the use of a single howitzer impact, blah blah blah. you shrug. it’s not that big of a deal, anyway. you mostly brought it up to pull his leg a little — you know he’s not one for grand gestures like that, preferring his acts of service above all else — but for all the fight he’d put up, two heartbeat bracelets arrive at your apartment not even a week later. amazon prime expedited shipping, no less. 

he ignores you when you bring it up — lets you fasten it onto his wrist with little fanfare, the tips of his ears turning red, muttering something about he’d probably never use it, anyway, and he only got it so that you’d shut up about it all — never say i don’t do shit for you, woman!

but when he’s halfway across the world, tangled up in schemes larger than you have the capacity to think about — when you’re watching the news with teary eyes and bated breath, hands clutched to your chest, it always comes without fail: a small buzz on your wrist, gentle and thudding and rhythmic. ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump.

[soosoosoup]

Funk branch au

Au and branch design by @bbc-trolls

[sakuraspoke]

a little treat for the terzo lovers ♡

[starry-bi-sky]

do yall ever think about bruce/batman!clone danny standing in front of his bathroom mirror after finding out he was a clone and silently tracing his face. The slope of his jaw and point of his chin. The high angle of his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes, the curve of his brow bones and the shape of his nose. The volume of his hair and the way it curls and gets fluffy when it gets too long.

His hair is black the same way a crow's wing is black. His dad's hair is black the same way a black bear's fur is black. His dad's eyes are blue like the ocean is blue. Danny's eyes are blue the same way a glacier is blue.

His dad has a square jaw and straight flat hair, and he tans and gets a face full of freckles when he's out in the sun for too long. Danny burns like a lobster and his face remains untouched. Danny has a sharp jaw and tall cheekbones, and Sam says when he's not smiling there's almost something regal about him. You would never call Jack Fenton "regal" when he's not smiling.

Sam says when he's not smiling he looks scary the same way a stone statue is. Jack Fenton when he's not smiling looks scary the same way that german shepherd staring at you across the street is.

Do you ever think he grew up wondering if he was adopted. Because of course, he has black hair and blue eyes like his dad. But having the same color doesn't make you someone's child.

Or, worse, things he's heard from the other kids and the other parents and even some of his teachers growing up; that he was the product of an affair. And that his dad was just too stupid to notice. And Danny would defend his parents until the day he died, because Jack Fenton wasn't an idiot and Maddie Fenton wasn't a cheater.

But doubt comes in with fickle tongue. his parents swear up and down that he is their child when he asks about either. That Danny just had his grandparents' features, but he was their son and they loved him.

But Danny doesn't look like either of his parents. His mom's eyes are blue like an aquamarine and Jazz's too. And they burn like lobsters in the sun too, but Jazz gets freckles on her face and so does Maddie. And as Danny grows up he doesn't bulk up or get stocky like his dad did, and when he hits puberty he doesn't shoot up like a tree like Jack Fenton did.

He stays small, and they say he's a late bloomer (and he is), or that he just has his mom's height. But he's fast and has good stamina, and some days it feels like he's built entirely different from his family. That the things they went through growing up just didn't apply to him. Jack and Maddie Fenton both had acne and breakouts when they hit puberty, and Jazz inherits it and he's seen the amount of skincare products she keeps on her side of the bathroom.

And then he hits puberty and breaks out maybe once or twice, but his skin stays clear for the most part and the problems and changes his dad went through just don't happen to him.

And the truth is worse than all of the lies.

How horrifying.