#***find a recording where the organ rattles all the bullshit out of your bones so all that's left is the music

[marmotsomsierost]

Marcus Miller and Corine Bailey Rae's Free

Queen Pen and Meshell Ndegeocello's Girlfriend

Queen's It's a Hard Life*

Phil Coulter's The Gathering - Bealtaine and Coultergeist

Rodrigo y Gabriela's ...everything. But Diablo Rojo and Tamacun with C.U.B.A. especially

Tanya Tagaq's Cold, Uja, Aorta

Sampa the Great feat Angelique Kidjo's Let Me Be Great

The Empire Brass with Bill Kuhlman's Rondeau to Abdelazar and Prince of Denmark March**

Saint-saens Symphony 3 (organ symphony)***

Chinchilla's Little Girl Gone

Hey eyeone! I want to know what your favorite songs are, if you see this post you are CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGATED to reblog with at least 1 song you have listened to and enjoyed but if you have more you'd like to share then go ahead! Also tag your friends!

I'll start, I'm going to list 5 of my favorite songs

Dr Sunshine Is Dead by Will Wood

134340 Pluto by Cojum Dip

Vulture by Bear ghost

Dear John by I monster

And finally: playing places: Oceans by Cosmo Sheldrake

Here's the people I want to tag

@f4y3w00d5 @ashen-the-tiefling @terrencetheshark14 @underpaid-guard @blacktipreefsharkwizard @the-gnomish-bastard @thatgayforkcrow @lixorloveslicorice @yourlocalbreadenthusiast @agentldiddy @aileaxthevoidien @slutty-wizard-council @monsterfucker-research-wizard and anyone else who wants to play!!!

[i-eat-worlds]

Always Kid, Always

Or: I rewrote Pat’s death scene

This is pretty heavy, so mind the warnings and read at your own risk!

Thanks to @snaillamp for helping with medical things. They’ve got an ask Enjar game going on, go check them out!

cw: major character death, graphic depictions of mortal injuries, blood, brief mentions of other bodily fluids (vomit, urine), medical treatment, institutional indifference to human life, emotional whump, hurt no comfort, grief, guilt, Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Pat has been condemned.

The human capital council voted 3-2 to deploy her, along with the rest of Turquoise. He and Henle had gone up on the stand, two years worth of medical records with him, and told them in no uncertain terms that this will likely kill her. Her powers are tearing her body apart. It’s not just her nerves anymore, it's her blood vessels and internal organs and muscles and bones. Any use of her powers could be her last.

They agree with them. They say it’s dangerous for her. They also say that this villian, whatever the fuck his name is, is more dangerous “For everyone,” they say. It’s bullshit. They have other heroes. Heroes that won’t die. Heroes that can’t die.

The mission is stupid and dangerous and everybody knows that. It doesn’t matter. It’s for the greater good.

Joseph, though he hates it, though he knows it’s selfish, can’t help but think “fuck the greater good.”

He doesn’t hunt down any of the council members. He doesn’t slam them against the wall and yell at them until he’s red in the face because it won’t change anything.

Pat has been condemned.

***

The locker room is utterly depressing

The normal banter is gone, replaced by oppressive silence. Everyone suits up slowly, painfully, speaking only to ask “can you zip me up?” or “can you buckle this for me?” His medic patch feels more obtrusive then normal, like an annoying itch that won’t go away. The already heavy bag feels crushing.

Pat’s hair is done up like it normally is, tightly pulled back in two french braids so it will t under the helmet. As she laces up her boots, he can see the black and orange compression socks she’s wearing underneath.

She catches him looking and smiles, the corners of her green eyes crinkling.

He tries not to puke. It’s awful.

The helipad is worse. They’re up high, the city spread out around them, as they wait for their ride. Pat stands next to him, chewing on her lip. He turns to her.

“If you don’t want to go inside, we’ll find another way. I’ll take the heat. Martin’ll take the heat. Henle’ll take the heat. We will keep this off you.”

She dips her head. “It’s okay. They picked me for a reason. This dude? What he made? It’ll kill you.” Her eyes glimmer with tears. “I can’t let that happen.”

He could say the same.

“We can abort. I will fight for you on this, Pat. All of us will.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “He’s dangerous. For everyone. I signed up for this. I knew what I was getting into.” The helicopter roars overhead. “It’s for the greater good.”

It’s too loud, and they have to stop talking.

***

The villain’s base looms on the horizon. It’s boring looking, like some sort of factory or warehouse, but it's not.

Warehouses don’t have lasers.

The building is mostly empty, because even villains know that you should try to protect your employees from further harm. Per the plan, Pat charges straight into the heart of the compound, hands on fire, eyes glowing, and very tachycardic.

Even though they can’t see her, it’s obvious where she is. Just follow the violent thrum of energy and the rumbles reverberating through the floor. It shakes the whole building, rattling the windows. Pat is busting through door after door after door, but she’s getting there.

For a brief second, there’s a pause. Joseph thinks that maybe she’s made it.

Then, a violent shockwave shakes the building, nearly taking him off his feet.

That’s it. That’s the discharge that will kill her. The clock has started. She’s dying now.

He silences his com, ignoring Martin’s voice ordering them to leave the building, warning that it’s unstable, and goes deeper inside. Running as fast as he can, he traces Pat’s steps, following her path of destruction into the heart of the building.

She’s crumpled on the warehouse’s concrete floor, glass windows blown out around her, lying in a rapidly growing pool of blood. “Pat!” He yells as he approaches, looking her over.

He sees a steady stream of blood oozing out of her leg.

“Hey kid,” He says, kneeling down by her side. “Pat, c’mon.” He quickly ties a tourniquet around her mangled left leg, trying to stem the bleeding. She screams as he tightens the windlass and clips it in. He quickly searches for any more major bleeding, hands patting up and down her body while he calls for help. Helicopter. Here. Now.

He finds a jagged hole in her chest. Her sternum seems to be half gone, replaced by a deep pool of red. Fuck.

“Ex-exhale?” She whimpers, eyes wide with worry. Her face is clammy and her breathing is fast and she looks like she’s about to cry.

“Joseph. Call me Joseph, yeah?” he says, tearing open a package of gauze and jamming the contents into her chest. Her blood is warm as it coats his fingers, and it's awful.

The scream is even worse, loud and piercing and heartbreaking. “I know it hurts, just stay with me, yeah?” he says as he keeps packing, watching the gauze turn pink and then red as it’s saturated completely.

There is one thing in this world that can save her right now, and it’s a healer. If he can get her to the helicopter, then maybe she’ll make it. He digs out his IV kit and seizes her arm.

“I-I think I’m gonna..” She says, her breath catching.

“It’s okay, I gotcha,” he says. Her veins are too sunken back. There's no way he’s going to be able to get an IV in.

“I don’t wanna die," she hiccups. “Please, I don’t wanna die.”

His fingers press into her neck and find her pulse. It’s weak and thready. Her breathing is slowing down. She’s dying.

“I’ve got you,” he says, “I’m going to do everything I can to help you.” It’s a lie, because there's nothing he can do. She’s lost too much blood, and she’s bleeding out internally, and there's not a damn thing he can do about it.

“‘M sorry, Exha-Joseph.” Her voice wavers, and she starts to cry even harder. “Please, I don wanna go,” A gasp escapes her blue tinged lips.

He wraps his hand around hers, bloody blue nitrile intermingling with shaking and cold flesh. “It’s okay Pat, I know it’s scary.” He comfortingly squeezes her hand. “I’ll be here to help.”

She whimpers, and she looks up at Joseph again. Her eyes are pleading, and she looks so desperate to keep living. Another tear rolls down her cheek, and she gasps again. “ ‘m, sorry. ‘M so sorry, ‘oseph.”

“It’s okay, you’re amazing, kid.” Tears well in his eyes, and he lets them fall. They both know what’s about to happen. He takes her in his arms, maneuvering her shaking body onto his lap.

“ ‘m sorry I couldn’t be better.” Her words are barely audible, voice raspy. She heaves another breath in, body almost convulsing with the eort.

“You were great, Pat. I couldn’t have been more proud of you.” He smiles down at her as the tears fall freely.

“Thank you, ‘oseph,” she slurs, blinking very, very slowly.

“Always, kid, always,” he chokes out, watching her eyes slide close. Her pulse is still there, but only barely.

“I love you, Pat.” Her breaths are getting further and further apart.“From the moment I met you, I knew you were going to be amazing.” He squeezes her hand, one last time.

A horrid, horrid silence passes over everything. “I’ve gotcha’”

Her chest rises.

“Always, yeah? Fucking always.”

It falls.

It doesn't rise again.

She’s dead.

She’s fucking dead.

The tears come harder, and he lets them. He yells, loudly and painfully. Anger erupts in his mind.

Why her? Fucking why!

Her skin is gray, muscles too relaxed. She looks so…almost…alive. There's a warm feeling on his thigh, where her legs are resting.

She’s pissed on him.

Carefully, he sets her down, closing her lifeless eyes and bowing his head.

Everything hurts. His mind is screaming.

“Exhale to Guardian, Exhale to Guardian,” he says into his coms, half on fire, half numb.

“Guardian on, location and report,” Martin’s voice responds.

He’s quiet for a very long second. “Surge is dead.” He grits his teeth. “Repeat, Pat is dead.”

The words land like a jetliner plummeting out off the sky

Martin orders him to return. They disregard the helicopter.

Everything is very quiet.

It doesn’t feel real.

It is.

***

The ride back is even quieter than the ride there. Everyone sits together, heads held low.

Even breathing seems wrong.

Halfway there, it hits him. This is why INSUPA uniforms are black. To hide the blood of those they let die.

It’s soaked into the lower half of his uniform from kneeling and sitting in it. The piss stain is still drying too, but its not as noticeable. His gloves were so sopping wet that it got under his fingernails. The smell of iron stills burns his nostrils.

He has to look horrible.

The words play over and over again in his mind.

“Pat is dead.”

“Pat is dead.”

“Pat is dead.”

“Pat is dead.”

By the time they arrive at the centre, everyone is crying. No one tries to hide it. It doesn’t matter.

Pat is dead.

Pat is dead and it was preventable.

Pat is dead, and it is partially their fault.

But mostly, it’s his.

He bypasses the locker rooms and starts to march straight for the council's office. They’ll pay for this, he’ll make them. The patch is heavy on his shoulder.

“Joseph, no!” Henle yells at him.

He keeps walking.

They yank him back, pressing him against the wall. “I can’t let you do this.”

“They let her die, Henle, what you let me to do!” Everyone is looking at them. It doesn’t matter.

They lean in closer. “You’re smarter than this.”

“Henle..”

“You charging into that office and punching the teeth out of them will not change anything. Not for the better, anyway.” Their face is deadly serious, though their eyes are bloodshot from crying.

Joseph is silent for a moment. “She’s dead, Henle.” He breaks, fracturing into a million pieces. The tears are like a waterfall. “I sat there, and she was crying and apologizing.” He wipes his eyes. “She said she was sorry.”

Henle pulls him into a hug, and Joseph lets him, still sobbing violently. “She looked so sad. She begged to live. She thanked me.” His mouth gapes open. “This is my fault. If I hadn’t…If I hadn’t encouraged her to…fuck…if I hadn’t…” He slowly melts to the floor, hyperventilating.

They don’t let go. “Hey, shhh, breathe with me, yeah.”

Joseph tries his best, carefully watching their chest, trying to match its movements. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“You’re okay.” They let go, and Joseph relaxes back into the wall. “How about we go get you cleaned up?”

He’s suddenly hyper aware of the dried blood itching his skin. He wants it off.

“Please, yeah.”

As he walks towards the locker rooms, he finds himself crying once again. The anger flares. It’s going to eat him forever.

She didn’t have to die.

She didn’t have to die.

She didn’t have to die.

Taglist: @pigeonwhumps @rainydaywhump @painful-pooch @rainbowsandwhumperflies

[glorious-spoon]

one of those new wave boys

Title: one of those new wave boys Link: On AO3 Fandom: Stranger Things Pairing: Gen; Steve & Robin friendship Warnings: None Other tags: Platonic cuddling, Bed-sharing, Nightmares, Insomnia, Mild hurt/comfort, Friendship Summary:  Steve and Robin go on a road-trip, drink, listen to music, and look after each other. And yeah, maybe there's some cuddling involved too. 

Written as part of the Fandom Supporting Migrants fic exchange for @alessandriana, who donated to Border Angels.

*

Steve lets the strap of his duffel bag slither through his hands to land with an ominous thud on the puke-green carpet.

“So, uh,” he says as brightly as he can. “This is nice.”

On the upside: there are in fact two beds. The broad wink the clerk tipped him when he asked for two queens instead of a king had him a little worried on that count. The bedspreads are the same puke-green as the carpet and bear ominous stains, like maybe they’ve been used at some point to roll up a body in the trunk of somebody’s car, but there are two of them. Robin ducks her head into the bathroom, makes a quietly horrified exclamation, then crosses the room to drop herself and her suitcase onto the bed closest to the window, then flops backward with a sigh.

“I don’t even care,” she mumbles. “Oh my god. Why are we doing this again?”

“Hey,” Steve says, tossing his duffel bag in the general direction of the other bed. The walkie-talkie clanks again when it hits the headboard, and he winces. If he breaks that, Dustin is going to actually murder him in his sleep. “This is your roadtrip of self-discovery. I’m just, like. The chauffeur, or whatever.”

“I regret everything, let’s just sleep in the car.”

“The room’s not that bad, come on.”

“I think someone died in this bed,” Robin says, pushing herself upright, shoving her hair behind her ears. A worn-down road-trip sleepiness around the corners of her eyes. She dozed most of the way through central Indiana, but it was around dawn when they headed out and exhaustion is settled into their bones. Steve can feel it dragging at him, a dull lassitude.

“I’m sure they clean them,” he yawns. “What time is your campus tour?”

“Three? Or, wait.” She flops forward to pull her bag to her and dig through it, finally coming up with a sheaf of papers bearing the University of Chicago logo. “Three-thirty.”

“That’s like two hours from now, plenty of time to nap,” Steve decides, kicking off his shoes and falling backward against the mattress. It creaks ominously beneath him, but the bedspread doesn't smell like anything worse than bleach and stale cigarettes. He shoves his hair out of his face, closes his eyes, hears Robin snort out loud. “Wake me up when it’s time to go.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Robin sighs, but it sounds amused. Possibly even fond.

Steve sticks his thumb up without opening his eyes. “I think you mean charming and generous, and oh, also, thank you, Steve, for giving me a ride at ass o’clock in the morning, something like that.”

“Thank you, Steve, you’re so charming and generous,” she parrots in the snidest tone possible, and he can’t help grinning. There’s a suspiciously giggly-sounding snort, and then the other mattress creaks as she stands up. “I’m going to go find something to eat. You want anything?”

“I’m good,” Steve yawns, and waves her off, listens to the sound of her footsteps on the carpet, the creak of the door. Peels his eyes open just long enough to make sure that it’s locked, then lets them slip shut.

He doesn’t actually mean to doze off, but sleep has been proving elusive in the past few months.

Oh, who the hell is he kidding? He hasn’t been able to sleep reliably or well since Christmas of 1983, when a horror from another dimension slithered out of Jonathan Byers’ ceiling and tried to eat his face. Nightmares are par for the course these days, and getting his face pounded in by Russian intelligence officers was really just the icing on that particular shit cake.

Anyway, no nightmares this time, or at least not any that he can remember. He comes awake, groggy and disoriented, when the door to the room creaks shut, and then there are footsteps on the floor and Robin leans down to press something cold to his belly where his shirt has ridden up. Steve yelps, flails, opens his eyes. His cheek is sticky with drool, the comforter beneath his face damp. He tugs a hand through his hair to find it flattened and disheveled.

It’s probably just as well that Robin was never going to consider sleeping with him no matter how appealing he is. Or isn’t. His mojo seems to have taken a permanent hike since high school.

Point is, one of the many nice things about Robin is that she doesn’t give a shit. It takes the pressure off. She waits for him to clamor upright, then holds out a can of Coke. “Time to go. I got you a pop.” She eyes him for a moment, then adds, “Pretty sure I could score some cocaine if that’d work better. You look like shit.”

“Very fucking funny,” Steve sighs, taking the can. It’s icy cold and beading condensation against his palm, and he cracks it open, chugs half of it in one go, burps. “Thanks.”

“It’s a complete mystery to me how you’ve ever gotten anybody to sleep with you,” Robin says. Steve thinks about pointing out that he’s still pretty sure he’s doing better on that count than she is, but that seems kinda mean, all things considered.

“I’m a man of many talents,” he says instead, raising his eyebrows significantly. She snorts and rolls her eyes, and he finishes the pop, slides off the bed, and goes to see about making himself more or less presentable.

*

He drops Robin off at the edge of campus near the admissions office, where all the wide-eyed future college students are congregating. Most of them have parents in tow, heavy backpacks slung over their shoulders, bright, hopeful expressions on their faces.

Robin offers to let him tag along for the tour to see if he can manage to pick up college girls who haven’t seen him slinging ice cream in a sailor suit, but he waves her off. Lately he’s been in a state of what Dustin likes to call persistent ennui—it’s like an exhaustion of the soul, Steve, stop laughing at me, I’m serious.

Anyway, tagging along with all the smart nerds like Robin who are heading into their bright new futures seems like a depressing way to spend an afternoon, and they passed by a record store on their way in. He has his boombox with him, and browsing for new tapes sounds infinitely more appealing. Especially with the prospect of the horrified faces Robin is probably going to make at whatever he ends up getting.

The shop is small and dusty and smells like patchouli and pot. Nothing seems to be organized in any particular kind of way, and Steve passes a pleasant couple of hours there, wandering under the tacked-up posters of Bob Marley blowing smoke at the camera and Bruce Springsteen’s denim-clad ass in front of the American flag, Aretha Franklin pinned up next to him as regal and elegant as a queen. Nobody else comes in while he’s there, and the wizened old hippie at the counter ignores him completely until he comes up to the counter with a stack of tapes, and for a while after that, too.

“Hey,” Steve says eventually. “Can I buy these?”

“Sure, I guess, if you want,” the guy says, rusty and so indifferent that Steve can’t even be offended. Just gawks at him, half-amused, while he rings it all up on an old-fashioned register and accepts the cash Steve hands him in knotted hands, nails yellowed with nicotine.

*

Robin does make an appalled face back at the hotel, sitting on the floor with their heads tilted back against the mattress and passing a bottle of illicitly-acquired vodka back and forth between them. “Oh, my god, you actually bought these?”

“What’s wrong with Mr. Mister?” Steve asks, not even bothering to hide his grin.

“I don’t have time to give that question the kind of answer it deserves,” she says, reaching for the next cassette. Then she pauses. “Okay, David Bowie, that’s surprising. You’re forgiven.”

“Thanks,” Steve says, digging a cigarette out of the crumpled pack at the bottom of his bag. He lights it aod offers it to Robin, who takes a drag and then hands it back. Smoke curls up in the yellow lamplight. “Why’s that surprising?”

Robin hesitates, pulling her bottom lip in between her teeth like she’s thinking, then she shrugs and pops the cassette into the tape deck. “No reason. I’m just always surprised when you have good taste. In anything.”

He kind of feels like that wasn’t everything she meant to say, but the speakers are crackling through the intro to It’s No Game, and instead of asking he tilts the bottle to his lips and passes it back to Robin, takes a slow drag on the cigarette and blows smoke out into the hazy dusk of the room.

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll actually be able to sleep tonight.

*

Lights flash above him and there’s the wet stink of rot all around, growling in the distance as his feet pound the forest floor, the nail bat slippery in his hands. Something catches at his ankle and he goes down hard, and the monster is springing onto him, slamming him to the ground, its face opening up like some sick toothy flower.

Someone screams his name. Dustin, Dustin is screaming his name, and it’s Billy Hargrove above him suddenly, straddling him and laughing and his fists are wet with blood, and Nancy says, “Bullshit, it’s all bullshit,” and the floor is falling away beneath him and he’s in freefall—

Hands on his shoulders, warmth and the sudden jolt of it, and the room is flooded with light. “Steve. Steve!”

He shoves himself away, scrambles backward, heart pounding and hands grasping for a weapon, and hits the headboard. It rattles with the impact of his shoulders, and he finally opens his eyes.

The lamp is on, the motel room filled with dusty yellow light. Robin is sitting on the edge of his bed in cut-off sweats and a baggy Hawkins Marching Band t-shirt, messy hair, wide eyes. Her hands are up, palm out.

Steve lets his head fall back against the headboard with a groan and closes his eyes. “Shit,” he sighs. And then, “Sorry.”

“Nightmare?” Robin asks cautiously.

“What gave you that idea?” he says, but it doesn’t come out as light as he means it to. His heart is speeding, and he can feel his hands start to shake as the adrenaline rush leaches out of him. His voice is shaky too.

So much for a quiet fucking night of sleep.

He opens his eyes in time to see Robin lift one shoulder. “You were yelling.”

Steve grimaces, scrubs a hand through his hair. “I uh. I don’t get them that often anymore. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s fine,” Robin says. He opens his mouth, and she says, “Steve, it’s fine. You think I don’t get them? The Mind Flayer, or that fucking elevator, or—”

“Yeah, yeah, more than enough trauma to go around, I get it,” Steve grumbles, but he actually feels a little better. “Still. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“Shut up,” Robin says gently. “Look, do you want to just—watch TV for a little while, or something?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, because there’s no way he’s going to sleep anytime soon and that sounds a hell of a lot better than talking about it. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

He expects her to go back to her own bed after turning the TV on, fiddling with the rabbit ears until a grainy rerun of M*A*S*H comes in, but she doesn’t. She drops onto the mattress next to him, flips the lamp off, and elbows him in the side. “Move over, dingus.”

“What?”

“Move over.” Robin’s chin is up, and there’s something challenging in her eyes, like she’s just daring him to say something. Steve knows better than to pick a fight with Robin when she looks like that, though, so he just shifts over until she has room to settle against the headboard next to him, the press of her body a comforting line of heat against his side. He can smell her drug-store shampoo and the lingering hint of menthol smoke and he breathes in as she settles her cheek against his shoulder, lets the scent fill his nose and drown out the memory of that tunnel, the rotting stink of animate vines. “Klinger was always my favorite.”

“Huh?”

“Klinger,” Robin repeats. Her breath is warm against his neck, and he can feel the shape of her jaw against his collarbone as it moves. It probably should feel weirder than it actually does. Like, yearning, or something, some kind of heartbroken synonym from Nancy’s thesaurus. It’s been months since he’s let himself think about Robin like that, though, and that crush seems to have died a quiet, peaceful death while he wasn’t paying attention. It’s just—nice, having someone here, a warm human point of contact. He can feel his muscles start to unwind, that shaky adrenaline feeling dissipating. “I always liked him.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. On the TV, Klinger is plopped down in front of Col. Blake’s desk in a tall hat and lacy gloves. The image warps for a moment, then settles as Blake says, ‘Uh, Klinger, the rifle makes me nervous. Actually, the purse does too’. “Yeah, me too.”

“I knew there was good taste buried in there somewhere,” Robin murmurs, and Steve laughs against her hair, finally allows himself to relax.

He dozes off to the sound of a staticky laugh track from the TV and wakes to the thin gray light of dawn coming in through the blinds and the sound of snoring. The TV is dark; Robin must have gotten up and turned it off at some point after he fell asleep, but she’s not back in her own bed. She’s pressed up against Steve’s side instead, curled in a ball with her knees digging into the outside of his thigh. Her hair is loose across her face, moving slightly with her soft snores.

It should probably be weird. Steve’s never slept with anybody that he wasn’t, well, sleeping with. It isn’t, though. He feels warm and comfortable, pleasantly drowsy in a way he hasn’t in a while, no lingering nightmares fading from his mind. He shifts slightly until Robin’s knee isn’t digging a hole in his leg, and she snorts, rolls away, and opens her eyes.

“Whazza?” she mumbles, and then, “Shit, sorry,” and starts to sit up.

“Go back to sleep,” Steve yawns, burying his face in the pillow. It’s early. If they’re going to be awkward about this, it can wait.

Robin makes a soft sound like a snort, or maybe a laugh, and then the mattress shifts as she lays back down. She pats him clumsily on the shoulder with one hand, then leaves it there, a warm point of contact as he slips back down into sleep.