#Trumpet Instructors

[natashatrace]

just watched a bunch of DCI videos and I’m back on my “top gun maverick but make it drum corps” bullshit

[aidenwaites]

Additionally the way Louis embodies a bitchy gay colorguard instructor's boyfriend that no one knew existed until he showed up at a Friday night football game looking like the most uncomfortable man alive

[blurredcolour]

The Last To Know | Part Two

The Last To Know Masterlist

John Brady x Pilot!Female Reader

As training progresses, you and Brady only continue to find new areas in which to compete which one another - both in the air and on the ground. Your distaste for one another grows at the same pace as your reluctant respect for your talent as pilots and musicians.

Warnings: MAJOR Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Original Characters, Era Typical Sexism/Misogyny, Alcohol Consumption, Tobacco Smoking, Class Disparity, Allusion to Death in Combat, Canon Typical Violence, Language, Enemies to Lovers, Weapons of War, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: This story contains an alternate universe where women have been allowed to fly in combat with the USAAF - in a very limited experiment. Reader is a trumpet player. Brief references to Reader's family and backstory. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7530

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Fools. He was surrounded by incompetent fools.

“If you don’t get a move on Croz, you’re gonna be dead!” Brady’s Bombardier, Hambone, shouted across the tarmac.

He watched the dark-haired Navigator execute the most inelegant slide down the fuselage of the plane onto the wing before hopping down to the ground. Hoerr, his Co-pilot, sucked his teeth in dismay as he eyed the stopwatch in his hand before following after him. With a heavy sigh, Brady turned his head to see you and your crew exchanging high-fives, all ten of you the first to reach your designated safety zone across the runway from your aircraft.

“Winners of our crash-landing drill, folks!” Their instructor shouted as Brady executed his slide and jump to the ground with efficiency, jogging up to who Crosby just barely made it to the chalk circle drawn on the blacktop.

Sniffling against the chill of the morning, he glanced over at their final time in Hoerr’s hand, shaking his head. “We’ll definitely be practicing that again.” He huffed and tucked his hands into the fleece-lined pockets of his sheepskin.

It wasn’t that third place amongst twenty crews was a poor showing – the men had done rather well for their first timed trial. The issue lay with the fact that you continued to effortlessly outperform him. Impress the instructors, earn accolades, seemingly outsmart him. All while looking that attractive in a flight suit. While looking at him that icily.

“Well done ladies.” Croz panted, flapping his crush cap in your direction in some semblance of a wave as you led your crew towards the trucks waiting to take you to the Mess for lunch.

As you offered the man a polite nod, Brady cleared his throat, begrudgingly adding on his congratulations. “Yes, well done.”

Your eyes snapped to his coldly, the physical impact of your gaze nearly making him flinch.

“Guess we’ll survive anyway when I do crash my plane, huh Brady?” Your voice was filled with a venom that he was quite certain was unwarranted, the comment seeming to have come out of nowhere.

“Personally, I don’t plan on ever putting my crew in a position where they have to enact this drill.” He snapped back defensively, hackles raised, watching your beautiful mouth twist into a wry smile.

He really needed to stop using those dangerously pleasant adjectives when it came to you.

“Man plans, Brady…” You taunted before continuing on your way, the obedient line of women behind you each shooting him a haughty glare as they followed in your wake.

“Yeah, yeah, God laughs.” He bit off angrily, fishing out his pipe in search of something to busy his hands with.

A long, low whistle sounded to his left and he lifted his eyes to meet Hambone’s glinting smile. “She sure don’t like you.”

Brady’s lips twisted in distaste at the accuracy of that statement, but any response died on his tongue as the sound of an encroaching engine overtook the airfield. While the 280th and 418th had been putting on a show for the visitors from Wing, Cleven had offered to take the newly repaired plane of his squadron member, Hollenbeck, out to test its replacement engines while his Lieutenant completed some base duties.

The fact that the normal roar of the plane was significantly muted had everyone turning to watch the B-17’s approach. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the bright winter sun, pale but obstinately returned to the sky after the wet welcome the 100th had received with Walla Walla’s entire annual rainfall in the span of five days, Brady’s brow furrowed deeply to see three engines feathered. His heart all but stopped when the fourth fell silent, propellers twirling idly in the slipstream as the aircraft glided across the runway.

Cleven could not be more than twenty-five feet off the ground as he cruised above the control tower, the collective jaws of all those gathered below gaping open as the brass hit the deck on the observation balcony. With a graceful, yet eerily silent swoop, the plane turned to line up with an open stretch of runway before seeming to float down to a gentle landing. Cheers of relief and reverence erupted from all around him as members of the ground crew raced out to check on the status of the engines when, to everyone’s collective shock, they began to start up again one-by-one. As Cleven smoothly taxied toward his hardstand, Brady shook his head in awe at the man’s sheer audacity.

If he was hoping to make himself stand out in the minds of the higher-ups from Wing, he undoubtedly achieved it.

“Brady, you coming for chow or what?” Hoerr shouted and he nodded quickly in reply, following the group onto their transport truck for the Mess as he tucked his forgotten pipe back into his pocket.

The normally crowded Mess Hall was quiet – two squadrons off on training flights courtesy of the additional thirty-five B-17s that had arrived from the Boeing factory in Seattle over the course of the last several weeks. He assumed they would return soon enough to endure the stringy chicken drowned in mayo to form what the Mess officers were claiming was chicken salad, served on thick slices of bread. Lucky them. Settling at the table with the officers of his crew, he forced the sandwich down quickly before savouring the crisp, tart apple that accompanied it, eyes involuntarily following you through the chow line. It seemed someone else was on rear guard today, freeing you to chat with that blonde Pilot, Hart.

The pair of you seemed close, from what he had seen. And it appeared he had been watching too often and noticing far too much.

“Tough as a ten-cent steak, that Thornton.” Curt’s New York accent pierced through his cloudy thoughts from the table behind, the man’s voice always discernable amongst the crowd. Particularly when he spoke your name next, making Brady’s ears focus more intently. “…pretty sure she eats a bowl of nails for breakfast and spits ‘em out as tacks for lunch.”

Brady could easily imagine the man’s impish grin as the table roared with laughter, though he himself could find no fault with his words – much as that galled him. Next to Thornton, you were by far the toughest in the 280th and he found, despite your personal incompatibilities, he would probably not hesitate to fly on your wing.

Setting down his apple core once he had picked it clean with precise bites, he settled back to produce his pipe and tin of tobacco, methodically packing his pipe before striking a match to light the dried leaves slowly. Absently listening to the rest of the conversation around him, he reflected on the fact that they would be moving onto the next phase of their training soon. The next base. Rumor had it they were shipping out to Utah, the actual desert, rather than this arid smudge between the forest and the mountains.

Aside from the arrival of enough planes for every crew, there were interesting developments on the ground as well – discussion of a Group band. According to their Group CO, Alkire, every Group had a band. Brady had already written home requesting his family send his saxophone and clarinet in anticipation, his reputation as a performance musician well known amongst his squadron. What remained uncertain was if it would be a fully integrated band or not. There were…differences of opinion amongst the various factions involved.

‘The calibre of talent drawn from five hundred rather than four hundred would surely be higher.’

‘Would it not encourage fraternization with them spending so much more time amongst one another?’

 ‘Big bands don’t have women.’

‘The numbers would surely be impressive if we let them join.’

‘They gotta take that over now, too?’

‘You’ll write them off before you even hear them?’

Smoke curled from his nostrils as Brady exhaled heavily, as-yet undecided where he stood on the subject, not that anyone was asking for the opinion of a Second Lieutenant. The cacophony of the 349th and 351st squadron’s officers arriving for lunch, looking tired but satisfied after their extended flight, interrupted his introspection and had him rising to his feet.

“Gonna go grab our flight plan for this afternoon.” He muttered to Hoerr who offered a nod before turning back to Hambone’s animated story about the acquisition of his gold teeth.

Walking along the boards which had aged markedly under the heavy use of their Group since their arrival earlier in the month, Brady stepped into the Ops centre, nodding to a few of the pilots from the 418th, including Pratt whom he had given a wide berth in the past few weeks. Pressing himself into an empty spot along the wall, he watched quietly as Flescher and Dutch pored over neatly typed sheets with Alkire – most likely the flight plan he had come in search of.

The whine of the door hinges raised his head, and that of every other man impatiently waiting with practiced expressions of patience, and Brady felt his throat clench in a reflexive swallow as you stepped into the dwindling free space, utterly alone.

“Hey there Bo Peep, lost your sheep?” Pratt quipped, chuckling in delight at his own cleverness, reminding Brady just why he had parted ways with the man after too many similar instances.

The grim set of your mouth at the resounding laughter from the rest of the Pilots in the room opened a pit in his stomach. Confirmed to him that you were just as aware as he that the nickname was going to stick with you for the rest of your career in the USAAF. If only your Co-pilot had seen fit to give you one earlier, as some kind of defence.

“Ah, Lieutenant.” Dutch’s booming voice cut through the racket like a hot knife through butter, beckoning you over to the open doorway into Alkire’s office. “Here are the flight plans for the 280th. See to it all the ladies have one, we’ll assemble at the hangar in twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” Your reply was calm and professional, seeming otherwise unaffected by the wildly unfitting moniker.

If anything, you reminded him of some sort of ice goddess – perfectly molded from hard, frigid material. Not a sweet, tender character from a nursery rhyme.

The 418th’s CO, Flesher, stepped forward and passed out the rest of the pages, Brady accepting his flight plan with a sharp nod of thanks, before he followed you out into the cool, bright afternoon to get on with his training, trying his best to drive you from his mind.

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December 1942

The salt flats of Wendover Field, Utah felt endless, the arid landscape stretching far beyond the horizon, even during flights. There was no hint of lush deep forests capping mountains or slanting towards the sea here as there had been in Washington. And the differences did not end there. Whereas Walla Walla had greeted you with rain and temperatures in the high forties, Wendover was ceaseless blue skies and temperatures ten degrees cooler. Despite the fact that the 280th’s fifteen-chair all-ladies band was endless practicing holiday tunes, it made it difficult to truly feel in the holiday spirit.

There would be no white Christmas here, contrary to the wild popularity of the Irving Berlin song of the same name that had come out that summer.

Stepping into smoke-laden air of the officer’s club behind Keever, you tucked your cap beneath your arm, notebook clenched in hand, prepared for a difficult negotiation. Williams, leader of the 100th’s official all-male band, stood to wave the pair of you over to a table in an out-of-the-way corner. A table that was heart-droppingly also occupied by John Brady. Sighing a curse as you navigated your way through the couples dancing to records on the cramped floor, you assembled what you hoped was a neutral expression and almost cut Keever off in your determination to take the seat opposite Brady rather than beside him. Anything to put as much physical distance as possible between you and that man.

Offering Williams a quick nod of gratitude as he pushed in your chair, you took a moment to study the club. Rank certainly afforded you entry here, as often as you could want, but you found you preferred the quieter atmosphere of the ad hoc women’s club. There was no rank in there, no bar, just an odd jumble of mismatched furniture, books, magazines, and records. It was a place where you could just be, rather than this crowded party-like atmosphere, brimming with music, chatter, and gambling.

“Thank you, ladies, very much, for agreeing to go over your setlist with us, I think it would be in all of our best interests if there’s no overlap when we play on the nineteenth.”

“Completely agree, Williams.” Keever planted her elbows on the table aggressively. “Given that you have the privilege of larger numbers, might we have first pick? White Christmas.” She named the year’s most popular song without even waiting for the go ahead, pinning him with her beady, challenging glare.

Flipping open the notebook, you retrieved a pencil from your uniform pocket and looked between the two of them as Williams sighed heavily, casting a glance in Brady’s direction.

“We’ve been practicing that one pretty heavily.” Brady replied slowly, clipped tone betraying how dearly he wanted that song to fall onto their set list.

“As have we.” You replied flatly, raising your chin slightly.

Williams tapped his lips pensively before glancing at a folded scrap of paper in his hand. “If we give you White Christmas, we get Jingle Bells.”

Keever arched an eyebrow slowly, not glancing in your direction once. You found it terribly frustrating as you would have liked to impart to her how much that loss would hurt the horns in particular.

Eventually she nodded firmly. “Agreed. Next…”

Licking your lips slowly before pressing them together tightly, sealed like an envelope, you began a new list in your notebook under the heading entitled ‘Final’ trying to take satisfaction in the fact that you would have the song of the season, at least. With each passing exchange, it became increasingly apparent that you were only there to take notes for Keever. She was completely uninterested in your opinions, never once consulting you as she continued her adversarial negotiation with Williams.

“Well, Williams, that it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Keever offered a hand to shake across the table once the eight-song setlist had been secured.

Without waiting for you to finish writing down the final agreed-upon title, she promptly departed, leaving you to collect your items.

“Thank you very much, Lieutenant.” You offered a polite smile, rising to shake Williams’ hand just as two warm, broad palms landed on your shoulders with a cry of glee.

“Bo Peep!” Bucky’s voice was much too loud for his proximity, making you squint slightly at the force of it.

“Captain.” You nodded warmly. “I was just –”

“Sitting down. I’m buying you a drink. No, you too, Brady.” There was a dismissive wave across the table and the man in question froze before sinking back down into his chair. “Whatever you were all doing was far too serious. What’ll you have?” The rosy-cheeked man raised a dark eyebrow once he had exerted enough pressure to coax you back into your seat.

“Soda will be fine, thank you, sir.”

“Quit that, it’s Bucky. I’ll be right back with a soda for Bo Peep and a whiskey for the rest of us.” He winked before meandering to the bar.

“I apologize, Lieutenant, it seems you were spotted.” Williams shook his head and you laughed ruefully.

“I suppose it was only a matter of time, stepping into his kingdom.”

The clatter of glassware announced Bucky’s return, the soda slid in your direction before the whiskeys were doled out, the eager Captain taking over Keever’s vacated seat.

“To sunnier skies.” He lifted his glass and the three of you leaned in the clink yours against it, taking a slow sip of the fizzy liquid before settling back. “So what were you all meeting about anyway?”

“Holiday concert.” Williams answer.

Bucky’s eyes lit up and he looked to you quickly. “If you ladies ever need a singer, I am at your service.”

Movement across the table caught your eye and you shifted your gaze to see Brady shaking his head firmly behind Bucky, making you raise an eyebrow.

“Do you sing well, Captain?”

“Not a note, Bo Peep, but I sing with passion.” He laughed brightly and your eyes widened at his self-depreciating honesty before you could not help but joining in his laughter.

“Noted, sir.”

“When is this concert again?” Bucky leaned back, setting his quickly emptied glass onto the table.

“Friday after next.” Brady replied, long fingers once again busily packing that pipe of his.

Bucky whistled dramatically. “Sure your band’s gonna be ready, Williams?”

“Absolutely, sir.” He replied with a firm nod, taking another miniscule sip of his drink. “They’re a fine group, coming together well.”

“And the ladies?”

“Most definitely, Keever wouldn’t let it be any other way.” You smirked and took a deep swallow of soda.

“Well I’ll be there with bells on…and warmed up.” He winked dramatically before standing with an exaggerated stretch. “I’m going to go find some more trouble before I hit the rack, I’ll see each of you bright and early tomorrow.”

Parting with a chorus of ‘yes, sirs’ you took one final sip of your drink before excusing yourself, trying not to trip over your own feet in your desperation to get out of there, eager to return to the peace of your barracks.

The next day found you sitting beneath the shade of your plane’s wing, seeking shelter from the insistent afternoon sunshine. You shook your head at Andie’s third sigh in as many minutes.

“Your dramatics are not going to make our passengers arrive any faster.” You teased, nudging her shoulder with yours.

Today’s practice mission involved live ordinance for both air-to-air firing of the machine guns and a bomb run – coordination with the target aircraft was extensive, but so, it seemed, was the temptation of ice cream in the Mess.

“Just eager to get wheels up is all, you heard the boys from the 418th, closest thing to real combat they’ve experienced they said.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, trying not to recall the way Brady’s eyes had been alight as he and his crew animatedly recalled their flight. Who would have known that man actually had warm blood flowing in his veins.

To assess your crew’s performance, several experienced aerial gunners and a bombardier would be joining you, if they ever chose to set down their dessert spoons, submitting a score to Dutch at the end of the flight. You were quite frankly as anxious as Andie to get this show on the road, but did your best to remain outwardly calm, taking in the mood of the rest of the girls.

Mouse was reenacting some amusing scene from the enlisted personnel’s club, playing both parts of a dancing couple, much to the amusement of Ivy, Millie, and Nita. Babs and Gina, ever diligent, were bent over the mission plan, the latter spreading a few maps on the blacktop for them to confer upon. Fletcher was set slightly apart, knees bent, working away in a small notebook with long smooth strokes of her pencil. Tilting your head, you were almost convinced she was sketching when the sound of an approaching jeep had Andie leaping to her feet with a triumphant cry.

“Finally!”

Pulling yourself to your feet you shuffled forward to meet the three men as Andie shouted back to the crew.

“On your feet…you too, Fletch!”

You barely resisted pull of a grin as the Right Waist Gunner finally earned her nickname, you waited for everyone to slide onto the aircraft before inverting your way aboard last.

As you started your engines, you watched the C-47 take off with its outdated target aircraft in tow, letting the routine of preflight checks take over the urge to focus on the fluttering in your stomach. The day was beautiful, the atmosphere incredibly smooth and friendly as you climbed to 30,000 feet, everyone affixing their oxygen masks before you began to follow Gina’s charted course.

The sight of the C-47 as it came into view at one o’clock high made your heart lurch with pride, your breath hitching in your throat. Taking a steady breath, you forced yourself to call it out calmly.

“Target aircraft ahead, one o’clock high, save your ammo until we come alongside. Remember not to shoot the Sky Train, ladies.”

The deafening sound of the Browning machine guns as they opened up was an entirely new experience for you, your eyes drifting to Andie’s to share an intense look. The pair of you were thus far only accustomed to the friendly thrum of the engines keeping you aloft. The shattered peace was a sharp reminder that this was no mere plane – it was a weapon of war.

“Ladies that is one destroyed plane….” Andie crowed with pride as she pressed her left temple against the window to eye the wounded craft. “Practically shredded.”

“All credit to Schroeder on that one, Ma’am, fairly certain she landed the bulk of those rounds.” Fletch’s winded voice came through your headset.

Despite the mask covering the lower half of her face, the glint in her eyes told you Andie was grinning wickedly as she turned back to you. “You mean Shredder.”

Allowing the crew to share a laugh, you then requested quiet to confirm the heading with Gina, turning on the autopilot for the bombing run, pleased with Mouse’s gleeful feedback that the target was ‘smashed to smithereens.’

Twilight had just settled across the base when your wheels bumped down onto the runway, taxiing to your hardstand with the assistance of a ground crewman bearing a flashlight. Tired but satisfied, particularly with the excellent score your crew had received, you dismissed the enlisted ladies to go find what was left for dinner in the Mess Hall, massaging your tender cheeks as you walked with the three other officers to your Mess.

“Suppose we’ll get used to those masks eventually.” Babs muttered, red triangular indent very evident on her lily-white skin.

“Can only hope so.” Andie nodded in agreement, gripping her chin to crack her jaw.

It was a satisfying soreness, you thought, born of productivity. Of purpose. And if contributing, doing your part, brought you pain? So be it.

The next ten days passed in a blur of primarily flying and then practicing – either with the band or alone at the edge of the base – in your free time. It felt as though you had just finalized the setlist with Williams, Keever, and Brady yet here you were, setting out folding chairs around the perimeter of the gymnasium with space for a dancefloor in the center, the audience scheduled to arrival in less than two hours.

“Keever really likes to leave everything to you doesn’t she.” Lionheart called as she approached down the aisle, reaching for the next chair to help.

“If I had known what being co-leader would mean” You shook your head ruefully. “But you, ma’am, aren’t even in the band. You should be enjoying your evening before this whole thing happens – for better or worse.”

Her responding giggle and persistence in assisting you eased a great deal of tension in your shoulders.

“If I help you, you can listen to my proposition while we work. It’s a win-win, honestly.” She grinned mischievously, making you raise an eyebrow. “Oh don’t, it’s nothing awful just – I got us that pair of passes to go into Salt Lake City for the weekend.”

The chair in your hands landed on the wooden floor a little harder than you had intended in your shock, staring at your friend openly. “That’s…Dutch has only given out a dozen weekend passes since we formed up in Walla Walla, that’s incredible!”

“Didn’t take much convincing, just a little reminding of how well we’ve been doing. Now, in return for this incredible feat, I need to ask you a favour.”

“This is the proposition part.” You smirked as she sucked her lower lip between her teeth, nodding apprehensively.

“My parents would hunt me down and murder me if I go into town and don’t stop by, but I just cannot bear the thought of facing them alone. Not now, not after I finally…got to grow up and…well be me. Please say you’ll come with me. Be my buffer.”

You could count on one hand the number of times Lionheart had mentioned her parents, and the level of detail included in those conversations had been even less. Her father was a businessman of means, currently involved in several grocery stores across Salt Lake City called ‘Crystal Palace Markets’. Her mother was a glamourous woman who had been utterly perplexed by her choice of propellers and fuel tanks over beauty parlors and a husband. It was no wonder she felt the need for someone on her wing at dinner, and while you were not entirely certain your presence would help the situation, you were not about to abandon her.

“You’re safe with me, Lionheart.” You nodded warmly, earning a bright grin and a squeeze about the shoulders before the pair of you returned to the task at hand while plotting the rest of your destinations during your forty-eight hours of freedom.

 “Well if it isn’t the worst shepherdess Bo Peep, yet again without her sheep, and that toothless Lion.”

The snide tone told you immediately, without needing to turn around, that the speaker was your least favourite member of the 100th – Friedkin. You loathed him deeply, found nothing redeeming nor capable about him whatsoever, and thus chose to not even acknowledge his existence. After you continued working for several moments, no response or glance in his direction offered, a huff of annoyance escaped him before the sound of his footfalls retreated, the slam of the exterior door signalling his exit.

Looking over your shoulders, both you and Lionheart confirmed he was truly gone before she sighed.

“I’m sure you resent that horrible nickname…”

A heavy exhale gathered in your cheeks before falling from your lips. “What I resent, honestly, is the implication that my crew are lambs being led to the slaughter. They are tough, intelligent, competent women – some of the finest the USAAF has to offer. I don’t care what they call me. Frankly, I’ve been called worse, but I cannot stand how it frames them.”

A clatter amongst the music stands sent your eyes rocketing towards the stage to see Brady moving around up there, distributing sheet music. “Lurking around like some ghoul, Brady?! Listening in on private conversations…” You snapped, annoyed by the fact that he surely overheard something so personal.

Even several rows back you could see the tick in his jaw, the furrow of his brow in response to your outburst. “Just doing my job, Lieutenant. Perhaps you shouldn’t say things you don’t want others to hear in the middle of the gymnasium!” He retorted sharply before rigidly continuing on with his task.

Clenching your fists at your sides, you could taste the venom on the tip of your tongue, the feel of Lionheart’s hand landing on your elbow making you jump as she startled you.

“We’re all done here, let’s get you something to eat.”

Nostrils flaring with the force of your exhale, you nodded after a moment, following her out to eat a small dinner before returning to the barracks to change. Your Class A uniform was waiting for you on the hook at the head of your bed where you had hung it last night to draw out any wrinkles. It had been quite a while since you had found occasion to wear it, though you supposed you would be wearing it all weekend now that you were headed into the city.

Uniform changed and hair tidied, you grabbed your trumpet case from its safe storage beneath your cot and hurried to the gymnasium where the 280th’s band was warming up. Being the smaller of the two groups, you also had the dubious honor of being the opening act for the night. Despite the fact that you were not the last the arrive, at least five members were later than you, Keever still looked prepared to murder you as you stepped into the change room.

“So glad you could join us, get warmed up.”

Offering a bland smile and a nod, you set about unpacking and warming up, giving sympathetic looks to those who arrived after you as their greetings were even less friendly. Once the entire band was fully assembled, there was just enough time to run through a few scales together before a knock on the door signalled it was time to go on.

“Don’t embarrass Thornton or the squadron.” Keever snapped before marching toward the stage.

“Some pep talk.” Maisie the trombonist muttered, and you bit the inside of your cheek to smother a laugh, filing out.

A remarkable number of people had already gathered, the crowd mainly composed of folks from the 100th, including the ground crew, but you also recognized Wendover’s base personnel mixed in, too. Occupying the centre block of seats on the stage, you focused on Keever’s expectant face. Due to the lack of musicians, she was pulling double-duty, conducting and playing clarinet. Somehow you thought she did not mind playing at the front of the group, in the spotlight. You were more than happy to stand amongst your brass section, a couple of trumpets and trombones, and one lonely French horn to keep you company.

“Good evening, everyone. Thank you all for joining us for the 100th’s first holiday concert! Without further ado, I give you the 280th’s Ladies of Song.” Keever spoke into the mic at her left.

Oh so the band had a name now. And not a very good one. Perhaps the sparse applause accompanied by the snarky howl of ‘Let’s do this Keener!’ would help convince her to change it to something better.

With a deep breath she raised her clarinet, the rest of you following suit with practiced precision before Keever gave a firm nod, launching the band into the opening number of Deck the Halls.

Music had been there for you even longer than flying, a place of escape where your mind could wander, where dreams would unfurl. It was easy to lose yourself in the setlist, building on the increasing momentum of applause from the audience, the 280th’s poorly named but very talented group winning them over with sheer skill. As you turned your music to the score for White Christmas, you were surprised at how quickly it had flown by. Surprised further still by the number of couples on the dancefloor.

“With that, folks, we’ve come to our finale. Thank you very much for your warm reception and we hope you stick around to watch the boys play, too. While we won’t be very likely to see one here in Utah, please enjoy our White Christmas.” Keever preened under the murmurs of delight and exuberant applause, basking a moment before turning back to the band to cue the song, drawing out the end of the song with a dramatic finish.

As you were taking your bows, you glanced to the wings to note the men were already waiting there, bunched along the edges of the stage out of sight of the audience, watching with their hands on their hips or crossed defiantly. And naturally, in the thick of it, was Brady. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you collected your music folder, leaving the one already set out on each stand before the show by the very man himself, and shuffled past him off the stage.

Doing your utmost to ignore how well his Class As fit his frame, how tidy his hair looked without the interference of his cap, and especially how perfectly his cologne suited him, you escaped down the steps backstage. Pausing a moment to empty your spit valve in a trashcan, you returned to the changeroom to pack up your trumpet as the strains of Jingle Bells began to fill the halls. Debating with yourself a moment, you sighed before stepping into the back of the gymnasium to lean against the wall and listen in. They sounded frustratingly good – and not just because of their numbers, but they had actual talent. Setting your case on the ground at your feet, you surrendered to your curiosity and stayed for another song, and then another.

The audience had grown larger now, every seat taken, the dancefloor packed, and standing room quickly evaporating. The ladies may have had the best song of the night, but no one was going to remember your set by the time this was over.

And then Brady stood up to play his solo.

For a man who did not say much, other than snipes and jabs, he seemed utterly confident with that saxophone in his hand. Each note was flawless, was landed upon impeccably. The instrument seemed to yield entirely to him and by the time he sat back down half the women in attendance were surely in love with him while the men were whistling and cheering appreciatively. Swiping your case from where it rested on the wooden floor, you spun on your heel to exit into the crisp night air, silence abruptly enveloping you as the exterior door swung shut in your wake.

Damn that man.

You were still thinking about that solo as the train jostled across the desert toward Salt Lake City the next morning, Lionheart napping on your shoulder as you stared out the window unseeing. How utterly inconvenient that he was that talented.

Buildings began to dot the landscape before growing into clusters and clumps before suddenly you were on the outskirts of the city itself, the Conductor announcing your stop was next. Nudging your friend awake with your shoulder, the pair of you collected your small flight bags and moved towards the end of the carriage, preparing to disembark.

The Rio Grande Depot was impressive with its high-arched windows and countless services, one of the largest stations you had found yourself in to date.

“C’mon, let’s get rid of these bags so I can show you around.” Lionheart grinned, tugging on your wrist, pulling you along the polished floors into the bustling downtown.

Despite the fact that her family lived in the city, she had insisted on booking a room with two twin beds at a hotel near the station, the front desk clerk accepting your luggage even though the room would not be ready until after three. Yanking you back into the street you were then treated to a personal tour of Lionheart’s hometown, eating lunch at her favorite restaurant, lingering in the record shop where you purchased a copy of Heart of Texas – Thornton’s birthday was next month, and you were formulating plans. Spotting a music store, it was your turn to drag her inside, buying a pad of blank sheet music as well as a few performance pieces for the 280th’s band.

By four o’clock you were both tired and footsore, eager to return to the hotel to rest and freshen-up before dinner at six. Sitting on the end of the narrow bed in your slip, you were flipping through one of your new acquisitions from the music store as Lionheart was soaking in the bath with the door open.

“Mother said she would send her driver, so we won’t have to worry about catching the streetcar to the house.” She called out to you.

Blinking several times as you struggled to process the level of wealth your friend seemed accustomed to, you nodded slowly. “How considerate?”

A peal of laughter echoed from the tiled room before splashes told you she was finishing up. She emerged damp and glowing, wrapped in a towel, to have you tame her hair into braids before the pair of you slid into fresh shirts under your uniforms. Straightening your tie, you could only hope your appearance would suffice in the intimidating atmosphere.

Looking up at the Tudor mansion as you climbed from the back of the chauffeured car, you were convinced it would not. Lionheart hesitated at the door, almost reaching for the handle before opting to ring the bell – suddenly a stranger in her own home. How would you behave if…no, when you returned home? It was a difficult scene to imagine now, especially when you were utterly unsure when the chance might even present itself.

A middle-aged woman in a black dress opened the door, smile splitting her tired face as she gasped. “Miss Constance! How good it is to see you!”

“Betsy!” Your friend replied warmly, quickly embracing the woman, whom you were quite certain was not her mother, before dragging you closer to introduce you. “This is our housekeeper, Betsy. Known her my whole life.”

“Please to meet you miss, now come inside the both of you.” She collected your caps to hang on hooks by the door. “Mrs. Hart is just finishing up upstairs, Mr. Hart will be back from the office any minute now. I’ll fetch you some drinks while you wait in the sitting room.”

Doing your best to take in the rich wood panelling and lavish decorations while also keeping up with the pair of women chattering away as they led you through a maze of hallways, your jaw dropped slightly as you arrived in the grand sitting room anchored by an enormous Christmas tree.

“We Harts don’t joke around when it comes to the Holidays.” Lionheart laughed and sank onto one of the velvet couches, coaxing you to do the same with a firm pat of the cushions.

“Did you grow up here?” You asked in a hushed tone as you sat with more care, tucking your skirt beneath your thighs neatly as you sat on the plush couch beside her.

“Mmm father had this house built when I was…ten, I think? Before that we lived in a much more normal house.” She laughed easily.

“Now, Connie, don’t go belittling your father’s accomplishments.” Mrs. Hart’s voice carried into the room before she entered, clad in emerald-green to match her striking eyes, though you could see where Lionheart got her golden mane from.

You stood quickly as she swept into the room, quite certain her earrings alone were worth more than your annual pay.

“Thank you very much for having me, Mrs. Hart.” Your well-trained manners dictated you greet and thank your hostess immediately.

“Nonsense, it’s my pleasure to meet one of Connie’s friends. She’s always writing about you in her letters. Let’s be friends too, you must call me Temperance.” Her red lips stretched into a smile that appeared friendly, but her teeth reminded you a of a predator.

How Lionheart had survived a childhood with this woman was beyond you.

The sound of the front door closing firmly had Mrs. Hart smoothing her hands down the front of her dress nervously before she moved to the sideboard, fetching a cut crystal glass to fill with amber liquid from a decanter at the ready.

“That’ll be father.” Lionheart whispered as you hesitantly sank back down. “In a mood sounds like.”

Betsy’s return with two glasses of lemonade was a welcome sight, the tart liquid giving you some courage before the patriarch of the Hart family strode into the room. He wore a severe but exquisitely cut black suit and crisp white shirt, his dark hair graying at the temples, brown eyes scanning over the pair of you quietly before coming to rest on the pilot’s wings on Lionheart’s chest.

“I’ll admit I found the entire proposition preposterous at the outset…” He sighed, barely acknowledging Mrs. Hart as she set the glass in his hand. He took a deep sip before continuing. “But there you are, Lieutenant Constance Hart, Pilot of your own B-17 crew.”

A barely audible exhale shuddered from your friend’s body as she nodded once in confirmation of the fact.

“Cook made roast beef for you, and apple pie…” He sharply raised a finger as her jaw dropped in shock, the beginnings of the word ‘how’ forming in her throat. “It’s best left unsaid how I’ve accomplished your favourite meal, Constance, let’s just enjoy your achievements.”

“Yes, father.” She replied quietly, gulping down nearly half of her lemonade as he announced he was going to change for dinner.

“Well!” Mrs. Hart gloated as she perched onto the settee perpendicular to the couch. “That went better than expected, wouldn’t you say.” She tittered, before suddenly clasping her hands together. “Oh! Before I forget, I got you girls some Christmas gifts.” Springing from her chair, she hurried over to the tree to fetch two parcels.

Setting the smaller one in your lap, you found yourself looking to her startled. “Mrs. Hart, I apologize I didn’t come prepared, I…”

“Now none of that, it’s just a small token of the season, go on.” She nodded and sat down on her perch once more, eagerly watching you unwrap it.

Lifting the lid on the box you unveiled, you found yourself gasping for the second time that evening to find the distinct blue teardrop bottle of Evening in Paris perfume. While you had owned a few dime store versions of the scent, the genuine article had always remained out of your price bracket.

“Mrs. Hart–”

“Temperance!” She laughed in playful admonishment. “Oh I’m so glad you like it! You and Connie may be out there taking on the world but it’s important to never forget that you are women first.”

“I am unspeakably grateful, thank you so much.” You nodded firmly, cradling it to your chest.

“Now you, Connie, go on!” Mrs. Hart nodded eagerly, watching her daughter unwrap a velvet hinged box that opened to reveal a diamond fringe necklace and matching pair of earrings. “Those will look divine with that blue satin dress of yours, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely, mother.” Lionheart put on a bright smile and nodded firmly, though you did not doubt for a moment that she was also questioning the practicality of such a gift during a war.

Mr. Hart returned in a more casual suit just as Betsy stepped in to announce dinner was served. The food was immaculate, most certainly the best you had tasted in your entire life, and went a long way to making Mrs. Hart’s litany of society gossip more tolerable.

“Oh and you remember Victoria? James and Edna’s girl? Married one of those Mormon boys before he shipped out, though that’s hardly avoidable in this town. I would not be surprised if there’s a baby on the way in that household too!”

Mr. Hart seemed perfectly practiced at tuning out that which did not interest him, occasionally engaging Lionheart or yourself with questions about training or life on base, but as soon as dessert was cleared away, both of her parents drifted off to their respective lives – Mr. Hart to his study, Mrs. Hart to get ready for bridge night.

“Let me show you my room and then we’ll get out of here.” Lionheart muttered, grabbing her newly gifted jewellery.

You followed her up the grand staircase to the second floor, cradling your precious perfume, into to her perfectly preserved bedroom. The bed was neatly made, photos of her with a variety of planes tucked into the edge of the mirror. She walked over to the polished oak dresser to pull open the top drawer, sliding the velvet case in alongside numerous others of a similar nature.

“I was someone else when I left this room. I’m going to be entirely different again when I come back next time.” She sighed as she slid the heavy wooden drawer shut.

“It’ll be waiting here for you, all the same. No matter who you are.” You offered quietly and she sat heavily on the frilly duvet.

“And if I don’t come back to it?”

Frowning, you stepped closer to grab her hand. “Won’t do you any good to think like that, Lionheart. Your room, your family, your whole life will be waiting here for you. You just have to focus on doing your job and coming back to it. Don’t let the doubts in.”

Her eyes lifted slowly to meet yours before she clasped your hand with both of hers and squeezed tightly. “Don’t let ‘em in.” With a firm nod and one more squeeze, she rose to her feet. “Now let’s get the heck outta here before my mother finds someone to marry us off to.”

The return of her mischievous grin brought relief as it broke the ominous gloom of the previous moment and the pair of you dashed down the stairs and out into the night to enjoy your last twenty-four hours of freedom.

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

Read Part Three

The Last To Know Masterlist

Tag list: @luminouslywriting, @dustofbrokenheart, @precious-little-scoundrel, @beingalive1, @phyllisthefirst, @bcon24, @louzello

[thalialunacy]

[a wee character sketch interlude for the @calaisreno May Prompt Party]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) 26: manipulate (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

-440-

Orchestras always tune to ‘A’ on the oboe, because every string instrument has an ‘A’ string. Oboes can play sharp or flat, just like any other instrument, but modernly every oboist uses a little electronic meter to ensure that their ‘A’ is exactly right.

As a child, his violin instructor had made him start every lesson by vocalising A4 out of thin air. Or, at least, attempting to do so; Sherlock has always had excellent intonation, but perfect pitch -- the ability to name the frequency of sounds one hears and vice versa -- is not on his resume.

So the exercise always felt fruitless, and aggravatingly so, because of course he never actually got the correct pitch. Close, and closer with time, but never close enough.

Years later, watching a tiny human named Rosamund drag herself to her feet just to fall back down time and time again, it finally occurs to him: That was the point.

-415-

Baroque: relating to or denoting a style of European architecture, music, and art of the 17th and 18th centuries that is characterised by ornate detail.

He finds himself in a tiny overcrowded music hall watching a small early music ensemble (3 violins, 1 viola, 1 cello, 1 contrabass, 1 recorder, 2 bassoons, 1 trumpet, 1 harpsichord, and 1 very murderous theorbo player) and it takes him far too long to realise why he's uncomfortable. Why there is a little twitch below his left eye.

They are actually using a historically accurate tuning.

Sherlock blinks, feeling around his jaw to see if it could be something else, but no, a part of his overly-trained brain rebels against all the sounds being pitched slightly lower than modern sensibilities. It's like a phantom toothache.

It's like before, when Sherlock would glance up from his microscope and observe John feeling poorly. In those days, Sherlock had nothing to offer, really, so he'd just had to let John's unhappiness bury itself under his skin as something else to ignore.

Now, though. Now he can do something about it.

-432-

Some theorists and musicians claim that the 432 Hz tuning has better effects on the human body, but there are no scientific studies that support the hypothesis.

He brings an exhausted John a late night (and therefor unattractively decaf) cup of tea. 'What happened?' he asks quietly, settling in across from him.

John shakes his head vaguely. 'I couldn't… I couldn't convince a mother to respect her child's pronouns.' He coughs. 'I am an old man who is shit at not stumbling over such things, but… She wouldn't even try.'

He meets Sherlock's eyes over the rim of his mug. 'Please remind me of this when Rosie is a teenager and I want to throttle her for reinventing herself every two days.'

Sherlock pauses, then sets his tea down and leans in until he can palm the soft pyjama fabric covering John's knee. It's a small gesture, but it works-- the creases in John's brow lose a little of their severity. 'I have no doubt she'll try our patience and sanity severely. But, John… You are already a far better parent than yours were.'

John stares at him and breathes out heavily. 'Fuck.' His free hand comes down on top of Sherlock's, absently palpating his knuckles one by one. 'But you can't-- There's not exactly scientific evidence, is there, to support that.' 

Sherlock clears his throat. 'Yes, well. I'm confident there will be.' 

John's lips twitch. 'Sherlock Holmes, are you saying you have faith in something?' 

Sherlock tuts, then decides he doesn't care about propriety in this moment. He moves until he's kneeling before John, holding his face in his hands and focusing on the tiny freckle under John's left eyebrow, knowing John will understand.

'Yes,' he says simply. 'Just one thing.' And then he leans in. 

[❤️]

[music to which this was written: Britten's Violin Concerto, Op 15, which I'm certain Sherlock would hate, but he's wrong]

[ggukkiedae]

What would be the most touching things that Yoonmi has done for each of the members?

hmmmm let's go by age and just things off the top of my head

yoonmi was the one to cut and shave jin's hair (with the assistance of their stylist) despite her not wanting to accept what was happening and falling into an anxiety attack while she was doing so. yoonmi loves jin's long hair and would take every chance she could to decorate it or braid it. it meant so much to him that she did that because it gave him a sense of comfort and a reminder to keep himself healthy and strong so he can come back and grow his hair out for her to put her clips and bows in again

with yoongi it's just yoonmi acknowledging him as a dad figure. it meant that she put her trust in him like she did her adoptive father, and that she trusted him enough to know he wouldn't be like her biological sperm donor. he takes his role as her dad figure very seriously, and he'a absolutely honored that she goes with it and acts accordingly

with hobi it's maintaining their tradition. they used to go to the han river to do old school hiphop lessons or just to destress, then it changed to hanging out on the company rooftop when they were overwhelemed or stressed. she never let it die down, no matter how long it's been since the last time they did it. even now, she brought him to the rooftop once when he visited her on his leave

something that will forever stick to namjoon is how she once dropped everything just to go with him to a museum because his friend had cancelled on him. sure she always said she'd drop everything if they asked, but it didn't really hit him until it actually happened. she came, no complaints, dressed nicely, and 100% present in the situation physically, mentally, and emotionally. that's when he knew she would always have his back like he had hers

for jimin, it's something a lot more subtle. for a time when he unhealthily didn't really eat much for a diet, she would complain about being hungry and wanting to go out for streetfood. she'd always pick jimin to be the one to accompany her saying it's their "minmi time". he didn't even realize he was snacking with her while they laughed and talked and told stories about their day. he realized long after that period of time that, on those days, he'd sleep better, think better, and feel better

with taehyung, she was the one who got in touch with a trumpet and a violin teacher to help him with his want to learn them. no one else in the group knew how to, so she took it upon herself to look for someone who did know how to until she found the best instructor that she knew taehyung would get along with. it's something he's forever grateful for because she didn't have to, but she did

if you asked jungkook this question and it was on a day where he was up to answering seriously, he'd say continue being his friend. jungkook knows yoonmi could easily cut him off if he so much as did one thing to offend her seriously, but her patience with him, despite their multiple playfights and bickering, is so much compared to her usual level. never once did she let an argument get the best of them. she always made sure they talked it out, come to a compromise or solution, and continue being each other's other half. he can't explain it all too well, but her staying his friend is the most touching thing she's done for him in his point if view

[poppy-metal]

this is the first ask i’ve ever done ♡ i’m sorry if it’s cringy LOL, i literally just haven’t been able to get this out of my head and it’s 1:00am. steve!centric.

whatever you do, don’t think about how steve’s parents definitely forced him to play a classical instrument when he was younger. they wanted to use him in his adolescence to impress the other stifling parents in the rich neighbourhood of hawkins’, so they chose the cello. something deep, alluring, leading, etc. young steve would be hauled up in the living room of that near vacant house, watching longingly as the neighbourhood kids played rambunctiously on the sidewalks while he was tethered to darkness as the curtains closed, blocking his view of salvation. a brand new cello practically the same size as him would fight against his scrawny arms, weighing down on the right side of his chest suffocatingly. his firm instructor, one of the best in the country, sat across from him as he relentlessly instilled the art of classical music into steve’s brain day and night, until the soft pads of his nimble fingers were bloody and bruised.

once steve got to high school, he fought tooth and nail with his parents to not continue cello lessons, much to his parents now still evident resentment. he was afraid that if anyone found out that he knew how to play the cello, and god forbid, was continuing in junior high? they would group him in with the ‘band geeks’, thereby ruining his future ‘king’ title before it could even get up off the ground.

flash forward to the future (eddie didn’t die, duh) and it’s the summer of ‘86 after eddie has graduated (yay). the metalhead’s name has been cleared by hopper. town splitting earthquake? who’s she? so! eddie’s been struggling to find a bass player for corroded coffin, since maybe their old bass player decided to go to college, or get the hell up out of hawkins, or they broke their hands somehow, anyyyyways. eddie’s been sticking up audition signs all around hawkins with sticky, uneven sections of tape on every pole and establishment wall that he can touch. not to mention driving recklessly in his van, only to throw a few hundred matching signs out of his windows wherever he can, never failing to disturb the surrounding neighbourhoods’ of hawkins’ as they shoot him the bird before grumbly cleaning up the signs off the road.

it isn’t until a few days later when steve, robin, and eddie are in family video on a very dead saturday evening after the 5:00pm rush. eddie came to bug the two best friends, leaning against the counter as he played with his butterfly knife, deep in thought. steve was sat atop the counter absentmindedly with a mouthful of pringles, while robin lazily merchandised tapes near the till.

robin: “so, munson, you get any bites on your band’s bass player auditions yet?”

eddie: “no one except for ollie trout. he plays the cello, which is basically the same, but.. he’s just so.. stiff.”

steve, being the himbo, but genius he is, offhandedly mentions that he played the cello from when he was five to fifteen. for ten years, because his parents wanted him to and paid ‘fortunes’ for lessons from an old new yorker who smelt like olives. since he isn’t ashamed to talk about something that he found absolutely mortifying a short time ago, anymore. plus, robin plays the trumpet, so obviously it wasn’t that big a deal, right? he doesn’t see the awe in his friends’ faces until he reaches down to grab another pringle, the can suddenly gone. he looks up to see eddie’s jaw dropped incredulously, pringle can in his ring adorned grasp as robin is frozen in place, speechless. steve nearly sputters as he swears, believing some upside down thing was happening again before eddie practically got down on his ripped denim knees and BEGGED steve to play at least one gig with them.

i’m thinking that eddie bribes steve with maybe like, free work on his bmw for life whenever it needs to be repaired, or he’ll take initiative on driving the kids, particularly dustin, wherever they need to go for the rest of the summer. steve agrees at those propositions, but he’s hesitant, because it’s been a long time since he’s played. it’s something his parents made him do, and he doesn’t fit the image, but the bass feels different to him somehow. i’m thinking it’s kinda morphing into a school of rock! au. in addition to eddie teaching steve how to garner his confidence back into playing music again, he shows him how fucking cool black sabbath, metallica, motley crüe, etc. are. how the same chords that contributed to a piece he found static can electrify a space, how the sound he emits can become his, instead of his parents. it isn’t until steve finally picks up the glossy black bass that the band collectively owns, and fucking NAILS a complicated bass solo that eddie had walked him through moments before, that the metalhead silently thanks steve’s shit parents for allowing eddie to turn their goody two shoes boy into an entity his parents would loathe. the other two corroded coffin boys are SHOCKED, because they know they did not just watch the prince of hawkins’ get possessed by the gods of music for a good five minutes before reverting back into a nice guy. needless to say, jeff and gareth are more than down to have him join for a gig.

and whatever you do!! don’t think about robin calling your parent’s landline and asking you if you want to see steve’s first gig at the hideout with corroded coffin that night, because she doesn’t want to be alone, and you shyly saying yes. because you’ve always held a certain desire deep within the pit of your chest for the mature babysitter. and the thought of steve harrington? playing metal music? at the dingiest bar in hawkins? alongside the town outcast? it made your heart flutter and your core clench with anticipation and want.

you and robin dress in your best ‘metal’ outfits. if you’re more outgoing, you can definitely spice it up. practically painted leather leggings, shredded corroded coffin makeshift tank, glossy black boots that lick the bottoms of your thighs. or!! if you’re more of a coquette/girly girl, you could wear a really cute crop top and a verrryyyy short tennis skirt with slightly scuffed up mary janes (all black, because you still want to fit in with the band). those are just some options! anyways-

you and robin are near the outskirts of the crowd, away from the pending mosh pit (they’ve garnered quite a crowd, as word had spread fast that steve ‘the hair’ harrington had joined the only metal band in their small town of indiana). the chipped stage becomes bathed in a faded low light as the band walks on, and your breath hitches in your throat because there, on the right side of the stage closest to you, is the man of the hour.

steve’s dressed in a shredded band tee that’s been altered into a makeshift tank top, revealing the wiry rug of chest hair that makes your head go a bit fuzzy, with the way the chestnut strands glint in the slightly yellow stage light. not to mention the toned muscles in his arms flexing each time he moves from shoulder to fingertips, casting shadows within the indentations. black denim jeans, skinnier than you’ve ever seen on his legs are hanging low on his hips. the same hips you rarely ever see with how his large hands are always casing them in disappointment. except now, those same hands that make a pool of warmth spread within the base of your panties, are wrapped around the glossy black bass that’s strung around his torso. his dusky gaze is surrounded by an eyeshadow shade that resembles soot, with white glitter spilling down his waterline and onto the soft skin of his under eyes. a light sheen of sweat is beginning to cascade over his sun kissed skin, causing your saliva to become gelatinous as the tip of your tongue tingles longingly. he looks angelic.

and oh god, when they start playing? the crowd is going fucking nuts at eddie, steve, gareth, and jeff making the stage their absolute bitch. they sound like professionals, absolutely tearing the house down as the crowd moshes. broken teeth, black eyes, and nose bleeds inevitable at this point. your doe eyed gaze becomes cloudy as steve looks right at you, his hair damp with sweat as it droops over his sly gaze. you watch with parted lips and a searing warmth cascading you, as his rosy mouth morphs into a devilish smirk, pearly white teeth glinting ominously in the light. you can’t help the shiver that dances down your spine as steve puts on a true show. long fingers skillfully encasing the rough strings on his bass as he lets loose, screaming into the mic along with jeff as they act as background vocals for eddie, bass toned voice broken with the feeling of finally being free, alive. hopping and kicking around on stage with his steel toed combat boots as if his lungs had just taken their first real breath of air. tinged with stale cigarette smoke, metallic liquor, torn leather and cheap perfume.

and you swear, in that moment, that you would let his entire being swallow you whole.

hehe, thanks for listening to my word vomit! ♡ can i also be this emoji ‘🐇’ pretty please! ♡ if not than this one ‘💌’ 🥺🥺 i love your writing and hope you liked this! feel free to add on too hehe. i’m a slut for corroded-coffin!steve ♡

love, R! ♡

im going to pass out??? i need to suck his cock backstage immediately.

[lisa-russell]

INK THEORY AND THE GOLD BAZOOKA'S- Cause of Sizzle Season!

This classically trained, all-female 6-piece band creates jazz and samba-inspired battle music. They owe their unique sound to a blend of academic music theory and modern sensibilities. Ink Theory's eclectic approach makes them quite popular with young Inklings and middle-aged Inklings alike.”

— Live from the Squid Research Lab

Ink Theory is an all-female six-piece jazz band. The band has a history of classical training, with the members learning music since their childhood long before making their debut. Their songs were added in Version 2.0.0 of Splatoon 2.

Members

.....Yoko is the band's trumpet player and frontwoman, though she sometimes feels overshadowed by the other members' personalities. She is an Inkling with a mutation that allows her tentacles to have multiple colors, but it rarely proves useful. She is described as often getting nervous before large productions. She also has a weakness to atmospheric pressure; on rainy days she is said to have a dead face and while she struggles in sunny weather as well, she is a hard worker and always gives a solid performance. She has a sister in high school.

In Splatoon 3, Yoko is a member of a new band called Yoko & the Gold Bazookas.

......Karen, the band's pianist, is a nautilus who graduated at the top of her class from a famous musical university. She has participated in overseas competitions and has won many awards, as well as offering emotional support to the band. She provides the band with a crisp atmosphere, and looks self-assured, though she worries that she is not loved by fans. She formed Ink Theory after being amazed by Hightide Era's music,[1] specifically by Taka, who was a senior at the same school.

......Zuzu, the kazoo player, is an Inkling who graduated from a famous music academy. She is closer to the public than the other members of the band, and is renowned for her beauty, often being considered the "flower" of the band. As a result of this, she gets a lot of attention, often being pulled in front of cameras. Fans address her with the Japanese honorific "-sama", which is used to address those one considers to be on a higher rank than oneself. She is a large spender but has never struggled much financially.

.....Oonie, the band's bassist, is a sea urchin, specifically Hemicentrotus pulcherrimus. She grew up in a strict household with parents who are famous musicians. For a short while, she favored bands with a different musical style from her parents, but lately, she has been observing classical music in a new light. She is romantically inexperienced, often falling for self-degrading people.

.....Maya is the band's percussionist. She is a sea anemone who joined Ink Theory after graduating from a music academy. While her professor recommended she become a music instructor herself, she decided she would rather get experience creating her own music first. She mainly plays with Ink Theory but occasionally freelances percussion for other bands.

.....Kitamura is a sea urchin and the band's drummer. She acts as the band's mascot. She has a high singing voice and regularly follows new fads. She lives alone but pays close attention to her curfew.

...................

They've only done 2 songs

BROKEN CORAL :

RIPTIDE RUPTURE:

Kinda surprised that a six-member band has only managed to create 2 songs, than again theirs so many other bands out there for them to compete with, like there rival band the BOTTOM FEEDERS. Funnily enough both of these bands debuted simultaneously and use classical instruments, but have conflicting styles. Not only that both bands rivalry fueled a performance of the ages. Ink Theory chose to participat in a battle of the bands where they faced off against the Bottom Feeders at a popular venue situated in Inkadia called ZAPP square.  Got no clue where this square is located, but it sounds like it was a blast to be at!

Yoko & the Gold Bazookas is a band in Splatoon 3. Their lineup consists of a trumpet (Yoko), trombone, and baritone saxophone, accompanied by a full rhythm section, as well as vocals. The band is a side project of Yoko and other members of Ink Theory. The band was formed when Yoko joined a jam session in Splatsville to test her skills. After getting along with the other musicians in attendance, they quickly formed a seven-member group.

As we all know by that 7th member is the mysterious and quite stylishly dressed Octoling Girl, who is highly likely based on the poisonous blue ringed octopus.

This band has three fresh and sizzling hot songs to their name...

Ska-Blam :

Three‐Ringed Circus:

Rockabilly Blues:

[autumncrowcus]

To understand why, among the iconic representations of Athene, the warrior-type predominates, we must recognize how her martial aspect relates to her civilizing function. It derives from her original commitment to the royal citadel and then to the polis and, consequently, to their defense. Athene Promachus is a protectress, the helper in battle, the instructor in the art of war, not a battle-lusty aggressor. A beautiful relief of her leaning on her spear, her head drooping, pervaded with sorrow, introduces us to a very different Athene: the warrior goddess herself touched by defeat and loss. Farnell believes she is mourning some terrible national disaster and the deaths of all those who were killed.

When focusing on Athene's pathology we may see her as too much the defender, too well defended, but her transmutation of Ares' unrestrained aggressiveness into disciplined assertiveness is an important component of the process by which one brings creative insight to artistic expression. Virginia Woolf expresses her experience of the violence inherent in creation thus:

Sometimes I am out of touch; but go on; then again I feel that I have at last, by violent measures—like breaking through gorse—set my hands on something central. [quoting Virginia Woolf cited in Olson, Silences; emphasis Downing’s]

Athene's patronage of the arts also derives from her original character as goddess of the household and thus of household crafts. Although the source of Athene's name remains a mystery, it may well derive from words connected to pottery; in any case, she is reputed to have made the first earthenware pot. She is also, in both senses, a "spinster" goddess, closely associated with the feminine arts of spinning and weaving. Homer refers to “the elaborate dress which she herself had wrought with her hands’ patience." She invented the trumpet and the flute (though, because blowing it made her ugly, she quickly tossed it aside in disgust). According to Graves, she also invented the plough, the rake, the ox-yoke, the horse bridle, the chariot, and the ship.

Her role as goddess of art and artisan naturally brings her into association with the master artisan among the gods, Hephaistos. Her cult seems to have existed at Athens before his, yet Athens was his only major cult site; probably he was important there because, as Athene was more and more seen as the great city goddess, he seemed more directly available than she to the local craftsmen. The ritual connections between them are so extensive that Cook concludes that Athene and Hephaistos were originally the local Rhea and Kronos. Athene's relation to Hephaistos antedates hers to Zeus. One myth has it that Hera conceived Hephaistos parthenogenetically in revenge against Zeus's parthenogenetic creation of Athene; another, that Hephaistos served as midwife at Athene's birth. It is he who releases Athene from the head of Zeus, from being contained by the masculine.

As Athene's relation to war differs from that of Ares, so her relation to artistic creativity differs from that of Hephaistos. That Athene and Hephaistos work together seems a more essential aspect of her creativity than of his. He generally does his work in private and then brings the finished marvels into the world of others. She is more extroverted, more able to combine creativity and human involvement. Athene's art is the art made within and for the human community; in her realm the distinction between the fine and practical arts fades away. It is art that issues from work, from discipline and training rather than from untutored, unfettered inspiration. She "finds place and gives image to the driving necessities"; she offers the Erinyes a cave where they may reside and be honored. Hephaistos is only artist, whereas Athene is warrior as well. He is a crippled artist, and so represents the creativity that issues from woundedness. Proudly striding Athene is not crippled, unless that is her crippledness.

              From the perspective of the underworld, the ever-conquering Athene may seem fatally flawed. But this image of Athene as invulnerable is radically inadequate. To know Athene deeply is to see beyond the Athene that Rose describes as “one about whom few if any unworthy tales are told.” Remembering her treatment of Arachne should liberate us from accepting the image of her as cold and passionless, always reasonable and fair. She strikes Tiresias blind. Cecrops's daughters go mad and kill themselves after they disobey her command not to peek into the infant Erichthonios’s basket. She hounded the “lesser” Ajax to his death after he raped Cassandra at her shrine and gave Medusa her hideous petrifying face because she had yielded to Poseidon in a sanctuary dedicated to Athene. Athene is after all sister to Dionysos, Zeus's other parthenogenetic child, the god of madness and ecstasy, the male divinity most closely associated with the underworld. (One story has it that it was she who interrupted the Titans' banquet when they were feasting on Dionysos' dismembered body and rescued the heart and brought it back to Zeus.) Athene's bond to other divinities associated with the underworld is also closer than we usually recognize. The many ancient vases and coins representing a helmeted Athene holding a pomegranate suggest a connection to Persephone. A sculpture representing Demeter and Persephone greeted by Athene refers to that part of the Eleusinian ritual in which the priestess of Athene at the Acropolis is informed that the sacred objects have safely arrived at Eleusis. Whereas Hera represents an antagonism to Demeter and her daughter, Athene represents an intimate complementarity.  Persephone is involved with the soul's initiation into the underworld, Athene with its emergence into the human world.

There are other signs of Athene's connection to the realm of Soul. As a Mycenean household goddess she seems to have been close cousin to the Minoan snake goddess. (This connection may explain why, to facilitate Achene's birth, Hephaistos is represented as cleaving Zeus’s head with a double-edged axe, a fool peculiar to Minoan culture.) Even in the time of Herodotus, Athene was closely identified with the guardian snake believed to lie in the Acropolis. Just before Salamis the shake deserted the sanctuary; the Athenians felt the goddess had abandoned it, too. A vase painting representing the judgment of Paris shows an indignant Athene accompanied by a snake equal to the goddess in height and majesty. "The artist seems dimly conscious that the snake is somehow the double of Athene.” The child Erichthonios is guarded by a pair of snakes in the closed basket in which he is kept during infancy. Even in Pheidias's superb statue sculpted in the age of Pericles she is represented with a snake at her side, a scaly aegis on her breast, and snakes around her waist. Cook connects these snakes to Athene's role as rock mother. Their salient characteristic in respect to this goddess is their emerging from the rocky surface of the Acropolis and then again disappearing. He speaks explicitly of these snakes as representing soul emerging from the underworld.

Martin Heidegger helps us relate this theme of emergence from the rock to the particular understanding of the nature of the work of art represented by Athene. Heidegger speaks of the Greek temple rising from the rock (as the Parthenon rises from the Acropolis) as representing the "erection of a world" which occurs simultaneously with a "bringing forward of the earth" in which earth "becomes apparent as: undisclosable.” Heidegger's earth and world parallel what I have been calling soul and its outward expression in artistic realization. Under the aegis of Athene, art expresses its emergence from soul, from earth, and its dependence on its source.

-From The Goddess: Mythological Images of the Feminine by Jungian analyst Christine Downing

[it-happened-one-fic]

Lindy Hop - And to Think I'd Been Nervous - Strictly NRC Dancing

Author Notes: I'm not gonna lie. I struggled with this fic. But, in my defense, Cater is hard to write and the lindy hop is a nightmare to research. So far as I can tell, the Lindy Hop is, in some ways, an amalgamation of Swing dances with some hyper-specific dance moves. If you know anything about this dance, I would love to hear it and I hope apologize if I got anything wrong. Cater is Cater. The dance in this fic was loosely inspired by Melissa Rycroft and Tony Dovaloni’s Lindy Hop from Dancing with the Stars Season 8. Just like the rest of this AU/series the reader is female for this fic. I hope you enjoy!

If you would like to read more this AU/series, the fics can be found here: Strictly NRC Dancing AU Master-List.

Type: Dance AU/ female reader/ fluff/ you can probably take this one as platonic or romantic as you prefer

Word Count: 1038

The thing with the lindy hop was that, as the follower, I didn’t stay on the ground very long at all. 

While there were time frames where I would be dancing around alongside my lead, there were also lengthy periods where I was flipped around, on, and over my partner’s entire body. Which was fine, so long as you trusted your partner.

Which was why I couldn’t help but feel a teensy bit hesitant when I was informed that one of my many partners for this class’s performances was going to be Cater.

 In some ways, I was thrilled. I had no doubts that dancing with Cater would be a blast. Add that to doing the lindy hop, which was already an energetic, fun-filled dance, and it was bound to be a giggle-filled performance. My only concern was Cater’s ability to flip me around, though….

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Cater; it was more that I was worried about his ability to pick me up, flip me around, and then sit me back down multiple times throughout a single performance without either of us ever slipping and potentially hurting both of us.

I had yet to dance with the exuberant ginger, which left me beyond antsy when it came time for choreography practice. Cater, on the other hand, was excited and ready to go from the very second he stepped in the room.

“Prefect! Are ya ready to go, my little bud?” He’d already clasped my hands in his own, his green eyes bright with irrepressible sparkles.

I bobbed my head, finding myself relaxing in the presence of the laid-back junior. At my agreement, he grinned. Bobbing his head at Crewel  as a silent signal for the teacher to start the music. 

Cater released my hands and took several paces back as the trumpets began to blast out the bouncy tune he’d chosen. 

We only stayed separate for a few beats before he bent at the waist, flipping his hand in a come-on motion that had me trotting forward, fully prepared to follow his lead, wherever it took me, since at the very least I knew Cater would never let me get hurt.

It turned out to take me over his back, to the ground, and then back up in front of him. 

We proceeded to improvise our entire dance, which, to my surprise, ended up being approved by Crewel as our choreography for our performance.

“I’m glad you included the swing-out. Lots of people forget that. But let me ask you this, pups: do you both think you can remember all that?” Crewel glanced between the two of us, obviously approving of what we’d just done but still suspicious of whether or not we could remember all of those motions. 

Cater glanced my way, his gaze questioning, and I shrugged slightly before nodding. With my approval, the third-year grinned at me before looking back towards our instructor with a small, almost playful, shrug that mimicked my earlier motions, “More or less.”

Crewel nodded, not looking terribly surprised, as he wrote something down on his paper that would serve as a schedule for our judges, “Alright then, do your best come performance time.”

And that was how I ended up on the dance floor with Cater. All but slinging myself into his grip and letting him use the momentum to flip me around all over the place.

One second I’d be in front of him, and the next I’d be rolling over his back before I was guided back around to his front  where we’d perform a swing out and progress from there. 

True to form, Cater kept me grinning the whole time. Even when we met in the middle to dance a few steps hand in hand or even enter the briefest of closed holds, I was laughing.

What made the entire experience even better was that we weren’t the only ones enjoying ourselves. After only a few seconds into the dance, we already had that crowd around us clapping along as various Heartslabyul students cheered and called out random words of encouragement.

Unlike Trey, though, Cater didn’t get embarrassed. Instead, the young man seemed to thrive in the spotlight. But, even as the ginger was playing up his motions for the sake of the crowd, his attention never left me.

His gleeful green eyes were locked with mine almost the entire dance. The only time we didn’t have eye contact was when such a thing was impossible due a motion involving a flip, spin, or exhilarating combination of the two.

The judges even got in on the fun, with Crowley and Vargas both beep-bopping along and clapping in time to the tune as we whirled past their table.

By the end of the performance, we were both out of breath and laughing. But we had enjoyed ourselves far more than I had prepared myself for, even knowing that I was going to be dancing with Cater. 

To be honest, as we turned to head over and receive his grade, I was almost sad. There was no doubt in my mind that none of my other partners would be quite as much fun as Cater had been. 

And to think I’d been nervous about lindy-hopping with him.

Cater had certainly proved me wrong.

Sam was still clapping as we walked over to the table, still hand in hand and beaming despite our heavy breathing.

“I think it’s easy to say that you passed Cater. That was one of the best and most enjoyable lindy hops I’ve seen in this entire class.”

Cater shrugged, laughing a little at the shopkeeper’s flattery before he managed to catch his breath enough to respond, “Well, what’s a lindy hop without a little fun and improvisation?”

He wrapped an arm around me, giving me a quick half-hug before we separated. It had only been a few seconds, though, before he’d turned, calling after me, “I’ll be cheering you on for the rest of your performances, Y/n! Oh, and I’ll film them and tag you when I post them to Magicam!” 

I laughed, half-amused by his determination to keep posting these dances on his beloved Magicam, even as I waved him off.

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[larrylspikes1964]

I'd like to put this here: Happy Heavenly Belated Father's Day, Dad. My dad was a musician ( he was in the original Van Dykes [ the Black ones, not the White ones]), he was a security guard, a salesman for the first self help system (SMI - Success Motivation Institute), when Corvettes were the thing, he bought a Pantera (shouts out to Inglewood, CA.), he was my music instructor, and I was good enough to be in the Herald Trumpets of the 1982 Rose Parade. My dad was the type of dad who would call every week, just to ask how the week has been... what new things I've learned, if was still practicing my trumpet, and just there for everything. Now that he's gone, he went to heaven during COVID-19, I miss him drastically. I know that death is a part of life, and I choose to believe that when the time comes, we'll see each other again at the final tally, but I miss him. I miss his intelligence, his conversation, his demeanor, and everything that made him my dad. I love you, Lawrence Spikes. Always did, and always will. And if I'm wrong and all that happens is you lie in the dirt and rot, I still love you. And I miss you. Again, Happy Heavenly Belated Father's Day.

[cosmicbrass]

New Orleands Trumpet Player + Composer + Instructor = Wynton Marsalis! So many legendary musicians have come from Louisiana; from Louis Armstrong to Fats Domino.

[firespirited]

RoboDoc was a very fun watch, all four hours of it. It's an extended commentary about the original film from conception to aftermath and going scene by scene. Crew by crew.

My biggest takeaway is that the sound design oscar was well deserved, the suit does not work without the clever sound effects and constant droning. The stunts and practical effects teams deserve way more credit, I really hope they were able to take that portfolio reel and demand much more money in later jobs. The dude who was animating and editing "robovision" with no computer assistance at all (the "thermal imagery" was done by painting folks in bodysuits to look like thermal imagery and compositing it onto the scene frame by frame) and the guy who made the robo-face deserve the world.

There were also so many ways it nearly went wrong:

The mime instructor was brought in when Peter Weller couldn't move in the robot suit and shut down production because he'd trained to move like a fast robot in hockey gear. The mime guy goes "Well, suit team: you need to cut articulation into this thing and Peter you need to move like a very heavy trapped animal". Saved the film with a single day on set.

Verhoeven was unknown and barely spoke english: he would act out every role, demand more gore, screamed at everyone, didn't explain his vision, told pretty much every cast and crew member they were personally responsible for messing up the film on the regular, ignored safety protocols. About 80% forgave him when they saw the film: suddenly all that made sense (and the royalty cheques started rolling in). I think the other 20% would punch him on sight. I hope one day one of them does.

Makeup had to go on strike so their demands about shooting close-up shots first, action scenes later because the appliances would get damaged were actually heard.

Peter Weller's acting is brilliant but he went full method (robo and murphy only) and he was at work getting into the suit for up to ten hours before anyone else arrived. so he'd be cranky and perfectionist once 'work' started for everyone else (and his own weirdo trumpet playing, zen but inflexible, not partying with the rest but getting lots of ladies) which alienated a bunch of the cast, at least during filming when tensions were high.

Every single actor on set gave it their best. There is so much that would not work if they weren't invested in making their own characters unique, working in teams and actually selling these absurd situations.

The editing and pacing. There is such a fine line to walk to make the cheesiness work with the ultraviolence along with the comedy. You get that wrong, you get Showgirls. (yes I like Showgirls, minus *that* scene and viewed as unintentional camp, but it is undeniably cringy because it doesn't pull away to fake adverts at just the right time). The MPAA forced them to cut OTT violence scenes - again, this makes the film much better. When you see what was cut, you understand how it could have been a stupid slasher or too silly.

Stunt guy nearly got maimed so many times. I really hope they have better work conditions now.

They decided to shoot in Texas to sAvE MoNEy by paying people less. The heat nearly made the actors quit and people came to blows.

[unikittybigbrightworldau]

Citizens of Swan Lake

Let’s twirl on over into Swan Lake next!

Angela is Swanna’s mom and a ballet instructor. She has taught the dance to many students over the years. She’s easygoing and helpful, plus very elegant. Swanna goes to visit her at her studio whenever she can. Christopher, Swanna’s dad, is an expert trumpeter who has played the music for lots of dance productions. Like Swanna, he is quite stylish and experiments with his clothes. There are three things he often wears to represent his family: a bow tie for Swanna (that she made herself), a belt with zig zags on it for Ziggy, and dancing shoes for Angela. He’s quite the go-getter; he puts his all into everything. He and Angela met when they were out running errands.

Ziggy is Swanna’s little brother, and he’s a lot younger than her. His name comes from cygnets. Because he’s a young swan, his feathers are grayer than Swanna’s. He has a huge amount of energy in him. Wherever he is, he’ll zip around the place like a zig zag. He listens to music at full blast. He comes to stay with Swanna from time to time, but he zips around and digs in her stuff a lot, so she has trouble containing him.

Philson Philson, who's commonly called Phil, is an expert on emotions and feelings, as people say. As intelligent and straightforward as he is, though, he doesn't call himself that. He's very knowledgeable about the emotional states of people and how their feelings change. He has trouble wording his sentences every so often. Phil is friends with Dr. Fox's dad, Benton. They met when they started working as ice harvesters, traveling to Ice Cream Land to cut ice and dig up ice cream.

Marmotter, who goes by Armot, is a marmoset/otter hybrid who was friends with Phil in college. Phil majored in emotional psychology while Armot majored in statistics. He currently lives with Phil in his house, and he gets pretty antsy whenever Phil has guests over. He's easily frightened and doesn't do well in crowds, or other spaces where there are many people. Phil is the only person he's seen talking to most of the time.

Lila Fox-Beryl is one of Dr. Fox's cousins. She's a fox/gemstone hybrid who lives by herself. She's got her own sense of style, always trying to pick clothes that match her sparkly crystal half. She has a good memory and helps others remember things. To help people remember their dreams when they wake up in the morning, Lila invented the Sleeper Theater. It's a bed that records your dreams and lets you watch them on a screen.

Odetta Swan is the prime minister of Swan Lake, and she leads the land in her own right. She is known to be one of its most poised people. She has worked for the government of Swan Lake for years. She lives in a huge mansion with the other ministers, or as they're called, her sister swans. She has rather simple tastes, as shown by her everyday clothes, and she's very nonchalant. Siegfried is Odetta's husband who lives with all the lady swans. He's charming and suave, plus very polite, but he's also just as frivolous as she is.

Fiona is a perceptive swan girl who lives near the river harbor. She's always able to tell whenever visitors are sailing in from the river that leads out of Swan Lake. Edmund is her brother. He's full of determination and resolve, but he's easily grossed out. (I should note that in Swan Lake, it's considered proper for everyone to wear clothes.)

[dustedmagazine]

Christian Carey's year in review

2023 was pretty much an awful year for our world —climate disaster moves ever more quickly, violence abounds and US politics are a disaster. I would not write a thank you card to the universe for many of my own experiences during the year either. However, I am grateful for the extraordinary music I participated in, heard and wrote about: it was a great solace. A few highlights are below:

I composed three new pieces: Solemn Tollings, for microtonal trumpet and trombone, Just Like You for singing violist, and Cracking Linear Elamite for solo guitar. The latter premiered in December at Loft 393 in Tribeca, played by Dan Lippel.

In addition to editing Sequenza 21 and contributing to Dusted, I authored several reviews and a research article for the British journal Tempo. The article was on my research in narratology as a feature of Elliott Carter’s music, which I have been exploring and publishing on since writing my Ph.D. dissertation. It was great for this particular research, of character-types and interactions in the Fifth String Quartet, to finally see the light of day.

After a half-century of banged up and often unreliable used pianos, my wife Kay got me a new Baldwin grand piano for my 50th birthday. Since it has arrived, I have practically lived in it.

Post-pandemic and post-cancer, I began to dip my toe into attending live events. I went to the Tanglewood Festival of Contemporary Music, which was a mixed bag. As compensation, the Boston Symphony performances that weekend were excellent. I attended a great concert at the New York Philharmonic in November and another in December. For many years, Kay and I have made a holiday tradition of seeing the Tallis Scholars at St. Mary the Virgin Church in midtown. It was wonderful to return there. The Tallis Scholars’ performance was splendid, featuring a mass by Clemens non Papa.

After the Tallis concert, Kay was in Nashville, where her parents live, for two weeks, spending time with her brother Tom and sister-in-law Aymara, who were visiting from Qatar (Tom teaches at the Carnegie Mellon University campus there and Aymara is a yoga instructor), and celebrating Christmas with her parents. Here in New Jersey, it was just me and the felines, who were (mostly) well-behaved. To keep the holiday blues at bay, I went all out, decorating a natural tree and the house. I played every carol in the hymnal, and enjoyed old holiday standbys: Oscar Peterson, Dave Brubeck, and Mel Torme’s Christmas albums.

There was much excellent recorded music released this year, and I will not attempt to document it all. Here are twelve records, in no particular order, that I expect will stay with me and be played often in coming years.

2023 Favorite Recordings

Yo La Tengo —  This Stupid World (Matador)

Hilary Hahn —  Eugène Ysaÿe’s Six Sonatas for Violin Solo, op. 27 (DG)

Morton Feldman —  Violin and String Quartet (Another Timbre)

Natural Information Society —  Since Time is Gravity (Eremite)

Leah Bertucci —  Of Shadow and Substance (Self— released)

Juliet Fraser —  What of Words and What of Song (Neos)

Laura Strickling and Daniel Schlosberg —  40@40 (Bright Shiny Things)

Emily Hindricks, WDR Sinfonieorchester Köln, and Cristian Macelaru perform Liza Lim —  Annunciation Triptych (Kairos)

Bozzini Quartet and Konus Quartett play Jürg Frey​ —  Continuit​é, fragilit​é​, r​é​sonance (elsewhere)

Matana Roberts —  Coin Coin Chapter Five (Constellation)

Chris Forsyth — Solar Motel (self— released)

John Luther Adams —  Darkness and Scattered Light (Cold Blue)

Christian Carey

[1863-project]

For @nokiidot and @kaiyves-backup:

[ask meme]

🍇: What sort of friend are they? Where are they in the group dynamic?

Engie: Generally one of the "reliable" ones. Builds all her friends' furniture for them singlehandedly in return for dinner. Will forget to take care of herself, though.

Conductor: Absolutely the heart of things. He's a huge goofball but he always makes sure everyone's needs are met to the best of his ability.

Fireman: Boisterous and loud, but you'll never feel unsafe if she's by your side. She's got your back.

AC: The best listener there is, and arguably gives the best advice. Not the mom friend - a role she refuses - but she's cool with being the mysterious cool aunt.

Brakeman: "Younger sibling" friend. He's about a decade younger than the rest of the crew and they all treat him like a younger brother.

🍎: Do they share any features or traits with any family members?

Engie: Takes after her dad, especially in the love of steam locomotives department. Engie's younger brother is more like their mom.

Conductor: Has an identical twin brother who is eight minutes older than him. They both played brass instruments in marching band (trombone and trumpet respectively) and love railroading, cooking, and jazz and swing.

Fireman: Tries to blend things from her mom (Bengali) and her dad (Scottish) as well as she can. Definitely gets her personality from her dad, much to her mom's dismay.

AC: Is definitely more like her mother, who is a makeup artist. Her mom taught her how to style herself for personal expression and not for anyone's approval and as a result she picks bright, fun colors.

Brakeman: Idolized his uncle, an arnis instructor, growing up. Needless to say, that shows.

🍓: Does your OC have any particular scents they like? Or hate?

Engie: Loves the general smells of steam locomotives and being around them, as well as garlic. On the flip side, cannot walk into a Yankee Candle, Lush, or department store perfume department without getting a headache.

Conductor: Frying onions. His parents run a diner, and he and his brother used to help out there when they were younger. If he smells onions cooking it brings him right back in a good way. Extra points if the onions are chopped up and going in scrambled eggs.

Fireman: Against her better judgment (she has a chemistry degree), she loves chemical smells, like permanent markers, gasoline, and chlorine in pools.

AC: A specific perfume her grandmother used to wear. She has a bottle and uses it for special occasions.

Brakeman: Any dessert. If he smells dessert baking he can barely contain himself until it's ready.

🍫: Where does your OC go to think?

Engie: Will rubber duck with her locomotive when left alone. It helps her sort out problems and feelings.

Conductor: Tends to do a lot of his thinking in the staff car since he's alone in there a lot, but he has a favorite spot on the Hudson River waterfront that he sits at and looks out over Manhattan from too.

Fireman: She doesn't have anywhere she goes. She just kind of blurts out whatever's on her mind at any given point regardless of where she is. Her mom calls her "tactless" for this, but the truth is that she just has undiagnosed ADHD and lacks a filter.

AC: Actually does most of it via journaling, so she can do her thinking anywhere. She tries to write down as much as she can.

Brakeman: Actually thinks when working out, because running helps him clear his head and sort through things.

🍾: Does your OC believe in luck? If so, do they have any charm or ritual they do before a stressful event?

Engie: Keeps photos of Casey Jones and Joe Duddington in the cab with her and asks Casey to protect her when she's making up lost time.

Conductor: Not much for fate, but he does believe that he's incredibly lucky for being where he is (i.e. working with Engie on the same train). Has kissed Engie for luck before. She went Tomato Mode.

Fireman: Doesn't chance it. Asks Agni for blessings by throwing offerings into the firebox before important runs.

AC: Not superstitious, but isn't going to shame anyone for having them. Generally likes learning about them for writing purposes.

Brakeman: Believes you can increase your luck to a degree but not entirely by putting in the work - if you've practiced and worked hard, some things are more likely to fall in your favor, but not everything. Sometimes you're still just unlucky.

🍷: What's one of your OC's pet peeves concerning food?

Engie: Cannot stand seafood for textural and taste reasons; she even hates the smell of it and will get nauseous.

Conductor: The man knows how to cook, and he'll be verrrry clear if he notices someone isn't doing it safely or correctly. He won't let anyone give you food poisoning if you're eating with him. His twin brother is, after all, a professional chef who went to culinary school.

Fireman: It's masala chai, not a "chai tea."

AC: She feels silly about it, but if a dessert is too cute she can't bring herself to eat it. She doesn't want to ruin the art.

Brakeman: (WILL eat AC's desserts if she doesn't want them) Isn't too keen on fancy food and doesn't understand why people prepare it super formally if it's just going to be eaten. Will inhale things quickly.

[unhonest-iago]

Band

Aka me as a flute player assigning the chuckle sammie boys an instrument

Charlie

Brain keeps saying bassoon but really any reed instrument

Also cause the dude has a sleeper build, marching band drumline is a possibility

Follows his private tutor’s instructions on how to be a better player to the letter

Such as having a mini water cup to soak his reed in

Goes as far as to memorize the sheet music

Schlatt

Percussion, continuously called out for not paying attention or dragging/rushing the tempo

If not percussion then trombone. Has the energy but not the precise level of ego needed for trumpet

Don’t let him find out what trombone suicides are, break his phone if you have to.

Sight reads his way through rehearsals

Not caring enough to take his instrument home on the bus

Ted

Saxophone, specifically soprano sax; started out on alto and switched to soprano in high school

Jaws theme song >>> Careless whisper

Is 1st chair seeing as there’s only like one to two other soprano saxes

Hates being called out by the instructor

Would practice hours on end if it weren’t for his other classes and drama club taking up so much of his time