#jet management florida

[aureatelys]

hotch being super touchy with bau!reader during a night out with the team and like cannot wait until they’re home or something ? (idk if this helps!!)

citrus

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c. 1.5k c.w.: fluff!! suggestive content, established relationship, mentions of alcohol, needy touchy hotch <3

a/n: thank you so much for the request! i realize now while typing this that you may have been asking for horny hotch but instead i give you needy hotch with a touch of horny. not my best work but i hope you like it <33

You first start to suspect something’s wrong when Hotch sits next to you on the jet.

Not that Hotch sitting next to you was an abnormal occurrence, however ever since you two came clean about your relationship with the rest of the team, both of you made the effort to maintain as professional as possible. Which meant not sharing hotel rooms even though you’re sure the budget manager wouldn’t complain, no favoritism, and no PDA.

The no PDA rule was particularly difficult for you because, how could you not touch him?

The team had just finished up a kidnapping case in Florida. Nearly two weeks of suffocating in the humidity and dealing with swarms of mosquitos every time you stepped outside of the precinct. The relief from being in a familiar setting and the working AC is tangible when you plop down into a window seat facing the front of the cabin.

When you notice Hotch approaching you and taking the seat next to yours, you barely hide the surprise on your face. Hotch just merely raises an eyebrow at you before he jumps into debriefing.

Afterwards, when everyone has either fallen asleep or victim to playing chess with Spencer, Hotch knocks his knee against yours.

You look up from your book, a question forming on the tip of your tongue, when you notice Hotch hunched over his files and eyebrows creased in concentration.

It must have been an accident, you think. Except he does it again.

“You okay?” you ask, placing your bookmark and setting your book aside. It’s not like you were paying attention anyway, having had read the page at least two times by now.

“Fine,” he mutters, not unkindly, before scribbling something at the bottom of a file and moving onto the next one.

The past two weeks had been difficult for everyone, and the week before wasn’t any easier. You assume that Hotch was just itching to go back to your shared apartment to check on Jack before passing out in your bed.

And then he bumps against your knee again.

You don’t say anything this time, instead picking up your book and hitting your knee back against his. You just barely catch the corners of his mouth quirking up.

-

You could’ve sworn Hotch was going to decline tagging along with you when you decided to go out to O’Keefe’s with the rest of the team as soon as you landed. You were even expecting a glare, silently telling you that everyone needs to go home to get some rest and that he is driving you two back to the apartment whether you like it or not.

You start to think Hotch is really up to something now when he shrugs and agrees to tag along with you, promising just one drink.

And then, Hotch rests his arm on the console while driving, his hand worryingly close to your thigh despite Reid and JJ sitting in the backseat. Then, he’s placing a large hand on the small of your back when you’re walking into the bar, causing a shiver to run up your spine despite the warm evening air. Then, he sidles up next to you in the booth, thighs pressing against each other and his wide shoulder brushing against yours. It’s a lot of touching, which you’re clearly fine with, but touching from Hotch, at work, several times in the span of 30 minutes?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask, having to lean in to be heard over the music even with his good ear.

Hotch raises his eyebrows at you over his drink. “I told you, I’m fine.”

And it’s like you’re able to see the idea form in his head, having spent so much time with him on and off the clock that you’ve luckily gotten better at reading him.

You still nearly jump out of your seat when Aaron places his warm hand on your thigh, underneath the table where nobody else was able to see.

You’ve gotten used to how touchy Aaron can be behind closed doors. At home, he’s constantly touching you—an arm around your waist, a finger tracing the curve of your jaw, or a kiss pressed at the crown of your head.

But this? A hand on your thigh at a bar in front of your coworkers?

You can feel the heat of his palm seep through your pants, annoyingly close to where you really want him the most. Is that what this is about?

“You two lovebirds alright over there?” Emily calls from the other side of the table, looking spectacularly sober despite you witnessing her downing shot after shot.

The sudden weight of 7 different pairs of eyes on you has you even more frazzled because Aaron’s hand only squeezes the flesh of your thigh while he glances at you casually, his free hand wrapped around an old-fashioned.

“Just talking about how I need another drink,” you say, hoping that your voice doesn’t sound as strained to them as it does to you. And technically it is true as you shake your glass to emphasize the ice cubes clinking around with no fruity drink accompanying it.

When you notice Garcia’s mouth open to volunteer to come with you, you scramble up out of the booth, glad that you chose the outside spot, and weave your way through the crowd to the bar. You try to ignore the way the right side of your body suddenly feels colder without Hotch’s body pressed up against yours.

You’re waiting for your drink when you feel a hand snake around your waist. The only thing keeping you from spinning around to maybe unethically flash your badge is the familiar weight of Hotch’s palm pressed against your hip and the citrusy smell of whiskey on his breath against your ear.

A giggle bubbles out of you, instinctively leaning back against his chest. You’re secretly glad that he left his suit jacket in the car, leaving you to ogle the way the crisp white dress shirt stretches over his shoulders. “Seriously, what is with you today?”

His lips ghost over your ear, the low tone of his voice making your knees weak. “I’m not allowed to touch my girlfriend?”

Girlfriend. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing that.

You lean even harder into him, one of your hands coming down to grab at his toned forearm as you reach for your finished drink. “Of course you can. I just can’t remember the last time you’ve been this touchy in front of everyone, or ever really.”

“I don’t hear any complaints.”

“I might start if you don’t kiss me.” And it’s mostly to just poke fun at him because Hotch hasn’t even held hands with you in front of the team, much less kiss you in a crowded bar with them undoubtedly watching and whispering amongst themselves.

You’re expecting Hotch to huff a laugh against your ear, letting go and stepping away from you. Maybe even him holding your hand while he leads you through the dance floor and back to your booth to humor you.

You don’t expect Hotch’s free hand to come up and cradle your chin, tilting your face towards his almost uncomfortably to press his lips against yours. It’s soft, chaste even, but the fact that he’s kissing you in front of your colleagues and strangers, in a crowded bar with the loud music nearly thrumming through your veins, makes you feel hot all over.

His arm tightens around you, spinning you around until you’re facing him, and he swallows the gasp you unintentionally let out as he deepens the kiss, your mouth instinctively parting. You’ve been dating for months but kissing him still feels like that very first time in his office, the hard edge of his desk digging into your hip and the glow of the sunset highlighting the clear affection in his eyes.

When you pull back, you notice a pink tinge high on his cheeks and the way his tongue peeks out to lick his lips, as if chasing the taste of your fruity cocktail. “What was that for?”

“Just letting you know that I can’t wait to take you home,” he says, pulling you until the entire line of your body is pressed against his. Your hand unconsciously comes to rest on his chest and you’re not sure if you can feel the bass line for the song playing or the thudding of his heart.

His hands start trailing down to your ass and you seriously wonder how touchier he can get.

But, like you realized earlier, it’s been weeks since you’ve had alone time with Hotch. So, you untangle yourself from him despite his protests and slip your hand in his pocket to retrieve the car keys. You grin when it’s Hotch’s turn to jump.

“I’ll meet you at the car?”

“I already said bye to them for us, let’s go.”

And then he’s pulling you towards the exit with his thick fingers wrapped around your wrist. You barely have the chance to peer over the moving crowd to see the rest of your team waving at you, wearing shit-eating grins.

[kingkaisen]

𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔, and his friends always tease him about it.

Eren and his boys—Jean, Connie, and Armin—spent four days together in Miami, Florida. It was a much needed trip, and each of them wanted to focus solely on spending money, having fun, and meeting beautiful women.

Except Eren.

He enjoyed ziplining over pools, drinking at clubs, going to the beach, and eating nearly all of the complimentary hotel breakfast food with Connie by his side, who started stuffing fruits and cups of cereal—with no milk, as he forgot, of course—into his clothes once the staff told him breakfast would end in ten minutes.

Even so, as he sat in the hotel’s dining area that had a light aroma of stale coffee and sunscreen, he missed you desperately.

Armin, who sat down at the little table across from Eren with his muffin, fruit, and eggs, could tell that his best friend was upset by the way he stirred his own scrambled eggs around on his plate, but not actually eating them.

“Don’t worry,” Armin looked up at his friend after taking a sip of his orange juice—Armin loved hotel orange juice, and Eren hated it—and the blue-eyed boy flashed a reassuring smile. “We’re going home tomorrow, so you’ll get to see her soon.”

“Yeah,” Eren mumbled.

“Maybe you could FaceTime her before we leave for the day,” Armin suggested. After all, jet skiing and scuba diving were on the agenda, and he truly wanted Eren to enjoy it.

“I already talked to her twenty minutes ago,” Eren sighed, slouching back in his chair. “It only made me miss her even more. She has a new hairstyle and everything.”

“Eren,” Armin slowly chewed on a strawberry as he blinked. “It’s only been a few days.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Eren pinched the bridge of his nose, and that’s when Connie and Jean joined them at their table.

“Guess what,” Connie grinned, placing two packed plates of food on the table. “They said we can sit here and eat as long as we want even after they stop serving breakfast, but we just can’t go back for seconds.”

“Connie grabbed every fucking thing he saw,” Jean frowned, grabbing a seat next to Armin.

“Hell yeah,” Connie picked up a grape, tossing it at Jean’s head. “So don’t be shy, grab whatever you want and eat up!”

“Don’t throw the grapes,” Armin said. “They’re delicious, so try not to waste them.”

“Loosen up, will you?” Jean frowned, breaking his hash brown into pieces before diving right in.

“I’ll loosen up once I know everything’s going according to plan,” Armin paused. “I mean, someone has to make sure we’re on schedule. It’s our last day here, so if we miss something, we won’t get another chance to do it.”

“The hell does that have to do with throwing grapes?” Connie said, earning a laugh from Jean.

Jean ruffled Armin’s blonde hair. “Don’t worry, we know you love the beach. We’re not gonna miss anything, alright? So just relax.”

“Right,” Armin smiled softly, “sorry.”

For a moment, everyone ate their food and engaged in somewhat polite chatter about today’s planned events.

“Alright, so we have our entire morning and afternoon planned,” Jean paused. “What are we doing tonight?”

Armin took that opportunity to bring the one silent member at their table into the conversation.

“Eren, is there anything you wanna do?”

“Yeah. Pack.”

And with that, Eren left the table, tossing his uneaten food in the garbage before heading back to the hotel room.

“Damn it, Connie,” Jean frowned. “I told you to let the guy bring his girlfriend.”

Connie tossed his arms up defensively, swallowing his food before he said, “go to Hell.”

—

As the day went on, Eren managed to have a bit of fun with his friends. Even so, as he swam with colorful fish and zoomed across the sea, a tingle of pain would shoot through his heart whenever he remembered that you weren’t with him, experiencing all of the bucket-list worthy adventures by his side.

As the group headed home in Jean’s SUV, Eren sat in the backseat besides Connie. He pressed his head against the foggy window, looking out at the orange streetlights passing by.

“Eren,” Connie fought back a laugh, pulling his phone out to record the pouting man. “Why are you acting like you’re in a R&B music video right now?”

“Shut up, Constance.” Eren effortlessly tossed his hand out and smacked Connie’s tattooed arm.

Connie quickly ended the recording.

“I’m gonna drop Eren off first,” Jean said, gripping the steering wheel as he made a left turn, “I really think he might die if he doesn’t get to Y/N soon.”

“Turn left again,” Armin said, directing Jean from the passenger seat. “But guys, leave him alone. Y/N’s lovely. None of us can understand what he’s going through because the three of us are single.”

“Thank you, Armin,” Eren said.

Eren folded his arms across his chest, continuing to sulk like a kid who just had their favorite toy taken away.

But, once Jean turned down a familiar street, the depressed man instantly perked up.

“You’re grinning like a toddler, dude,” Connie teased, but Eren ignored him, gripping the door handle tightly.

Jean tugged on his hat, slowing down as he pulled up in front of your home. However, before Jean could come to a complete stop, Eren started to jump out of the car.

“Eren! Be careful!” Armin warned as Jean slammed on the brakes. His warning was utterly useless, as Eren was already halfway through your front yard by the time the words fell from Armin’s lips.

“You forgot your bags!” Jean shouted, rolling down his window. “Didn’t shut my damn door, either.”

Suddenly, you opened your front door, having heard all of the commotion outside. And when you smiled, all of Eren’s friends could easily see why he was so in love with you.

Eren nearly knocked you over once he finally made it into your arms, a big smile spreading across that beautiful face of his. He showered your forehead and cheek with kisses as he inhaled your comforting scent.

“I missed you so much,” he said.

“I can tell,” you teased, hugging the tall man back. “I missed you too.”

He pulled away from the hug only to cup your face with his large hands. He kissed your lips softly, melting over the touch he had craved for days.

“I’m not going anywhere without you ever again. I don’t care if it’s the grocery store or to the living room,” Eren mumbled against your lips, and you giggled softly.

“Hey!” Jean suddenly honked his horn. “You’ve seen her, now come get your stuff!”

“In a minute,” Eren shouted back, flipping the driver off.

He just had to stare at that gorgeous face of yours for a few more minutes, and who could blame him? He was madly in love with you.

[sinofwriting]

PDA - Logan Sargeant (smau edition)

Summary: A social media au companion piece to my Logan fic PDA

Masterlist | Support Me!

logansargeant

Liked by williamsracing, oscarpiastri, bearswhocare and 23,821 others tagged: yourusername logansargeant: We were honored to be invited to the shared gala for Give Kids The World & Bears Who Care. These charities mean the world to yourusername and I as they are based in Florida (our home state) and just want to help kids. To help them help kids click the link in my bio.

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yourusername: Last gala of the year and most definitely our favorite. Please click in the link mine or Logan’s bio to further help them ♥️ user1: No! I don’t want gala season to end, that means no more Logan in a suit givekidstheworld: Thank you, Y/N and Logan for attending and your generous donation. We wish you all the luck with your rookie season, Logan! user2: i want to be them user3: anyone else see how much they donated??? ⤷ user4: No. How much? ⤷ user3: 300k ⤷ user4: i always forget that logan is like rich rich

kyle_kirkwood instagram story

Caption: i didn’t even leave to go the bathroom, they just do this shit

yourusername

Liked by liamlawson, williamsracing, alexalbon and 8,315 others tagged: logansargeant, williamsracing yourusername: First F1 weekend as a WAG. First of many and it was spectacular. Love ya, handsome

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logansargeant: Love you more, princess user1: Logan and Y/N are really going to give the rest of the grid couples a fight for best couple user2: She’s so dressed up all the time! I aspire to be her alexalbon: thanks for the invite on the jet, don’t think I’ll be accepting again though. oscarpiastri don’t know how you travel with them ⤷ oscarpiastri: you get used to it ⤷ yourusername: that was us on our best behavior alex, wydm? ⤷ alexalbon: never again user3: we love a rich classy gf

logansargeant

Liked by arthurleclerc, f1wags, kyle_kirkwood and 31,834 others tagged: yourusername logansargeant: Just in time for three years together I managed to find a tiara fitting for my princess. Happy three years, Princess. I can’t wait for many more to come.

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yourusername: i’m still fucking crying ⤷ yourusername: i’m the luckiest woman in the goddamn world to be yours yourusername: love you so much, lo ⤷ logansargeant: love you more user1: a tiara??? He rich rich user2: my bf won’t pay for dinner and logan’s out here buying a tiara? williamsracing: Happy anniversary!

alexalbon instagram story

Caption: happy 3 years to you guys, now please stop touching in front of people. thanks

[sophaeros]

the strokes at a pub in london, with the robot gifted to them by rip it up's journalists

the strokes for rip it up - new zealand, october/november 2001 / no. 283 — web version print version

The Strokes, us and a robot in a pub...

by The Ballroom Regulars Photos by The Strokes and Ju-ju (unless otherwise noted)

'The coolest band on the planet', the saviours of Rock, featured in Elle Magazine, played on the Catwalks of New York and Paris, hounded, followed and adored - Not since Oasis broke have the British press put all their eggs in so fabulous a basket. Rumours abound - their names are made up, they were put together by the lead singers dad (John Casablancas, founder of The Elite Model Agency), they're constantly fighting with each other, they're constantly fighting with strangers, they drink too much, they're gay, they're straight, they're homophobes. Everybody wants to know everything they can. But one thing is sure, The Strokes are roundly agreed to be the quintessential Rock band, the 'great white hope' of nu-Rock'n'Roll. But they're more than that. They're five guys who hooked up in High School with a shared interest in booze, girls and guitars.

So what are they all about, besides saving us from the glut of pre-masticated pop and soul stifling dance, what are their hopes and ambitions?

Meeting Julian Casablancas is like meeting living proof that rock'n'roll will never die. At 22 he should be embracing the 'Now' culture of many of his peers. He should be scrupulously clean, drug and booze free, heading down to Florida for the summer break with a pretty blond on his arm and Basement Jaxx on his personal MP3 player.

But he's not. He's still in bed, hung over, refusing to get up. He is unwashed, jet lagged and beer crusted. YAY! When he finally does show, 2 hours late for the day's round of fanzine wackiness, he's disheveled and rye. His grin is about as infectious as rabies and he is, frankly, as sexy as fuck. "Hey" notes Ryan Gentles, their Wunderkind Manager, whose been sitting fretting in the hotel lobby for what appears to be half the night and all of the morning. "This is new..." he means Julian's tan La Coste jumper... not the attitude.

When we get our turn at The Strokes info trough the boys are tucking into Thai rice and a round of the amber nectar. It's 1pm. The sun is shining. Handshakes and suitably half-assed 'nice to meet you's' are flung at us and we wade in...

First, an Icebreaker. Giving them a present fresh from Brixton Market - Your All Plastic Friend: Sir Mixalot Prime - hastily re-christened toy Robot of Asian origin, is about as good as ice breaking gets. The mood of the interview is set... they like us, we admire and respect their ability to make Sir Mixalot simulate sexual intercourse with Nicolai Fraiture. "You bought us a present? That's so cool!" they chime satisfyingly. All except Julian who looks mortified, "I had a dream last night and that Robot... a Robot just like that destroyed the world..." Ah...Ok, maybe we should get straight to the questions.

Right, so what makes the world turn for them? Playing music and doing their stuff, by all accounts. Their stuff: a sublime mix of 70's NYC and noughty's savvy. Fashion flash and strep throats, with a smattering of anglophilia to match the op-shop chic. Garage soul sensibilities and themes as diverse as personal disgust and underage lust. They are 'The Kids' too so it seems right to mellow out with a few pop culture questions to gauge their mind sets:

In the movie Warriors, which gang did you relate to most? Fab: Oh wait...I've seen that. Is that like the 70's one where they're in gangs running across New York? Yeah! Nicky: There's the baseball gang, and the “girl gang” Fab: What was the main gang? WARRIORS! Albert: WARRIORS! Fab: Yeah, we're the Warriors!! Totally.

After an hour of this we discover that Julian always roots for the underdog and doesn't "really give a fuck about baseball" and that the last time Albert cried was "as the plane was taking off". For Fab it was when Nicky's girlfriend dumped him (for the cute one from Weezer no less). At this Nicky leaps to his feet to sing Don't Cry For Me Fabrizio! At the top of his lungs.

"The Beatles hated each other, but we love each other", Nicky says. To prove the point they all agree that if they could only take five things to a desert island they would take each other and their Manager. That is until Julian demands that one band member opt out so they can "take something more useful like a girl... or our fucking instruments". In the nick of time Nicky reasons that they can make their instruments out of coconuts and bamboo.

The band are open and unguarded - they want to chat. Chiefly with each other, but it's fine just being around this kind of energy. They even happily answer the question that's been raging through the music press for the last six months: YES! Their names are real. As Nicky puts it "Course they're fucking real," gulp, "what a stupid question."

"You wanna see my passport?" yells an unfazed Fab. Cue enormous Italian passport (he was born in Brazil of Italian parents but grew up in NYC) and suitably hideous soccer mullet teenaged photo, nom de: Fabrizio Moretti. "It looks ridiculous," he sighs, "It looks like I'm out of the Military!"

Julian is also carrying proof, so you know they've had this problem before. Cue credit card sized driver's license and an acute sense of having offended your new friends.

Julian F. Casablancas. Nicolai Fraiture. Fabrizio Moretti. Nicky Valensi. Albert Hammond Jnr. You have to ask. You just have to.

Oblivious to the fact that nearly everyone in England is named John Smith, they are dumbfounded that they get asked this question at all. "I guess we just had cool parents who chose our names," chimes Fab, "My mom was like (mock Italian accent) I think this boy will be a rocking roll star!"

The table then descends into chaos and spilt pints as they 'discuss' the finer moments of Mrs. Moretti's partum experience. "But," adds Fab soberly, "she didn't know I was only going to be a drummer... she was too extravagant."

And what about their collective name? 'The Strokes' brings all manner of vaguely squishy images to mind, not the least of which is that favoured by the British press. "What? You mean like...masturbation?" asks Julian looking all innocent, like he is daring us to say the word. Er...yeah, or is that more indicative of your interviewers mindset?

"Nah, it's got nothing to do with that... well... it has, but, no." Albert takes up the baton, "Actually I was reading something about strokes and it described it like a lightening strike in the brain that changes everything." He passes it to Fab, "It's like our music!" One hit and you're never the same again? "Exactly!"

Evidently no subject is sacred. When we finally get round to asking them the all-important 'Who was better - Wham! Or Duran Duran?' question, they almost all say Wham! (Except Fab who's enjoying singing 'Rio' at the top of his voice...bless) Why not Duran Duran? "They took themselves too seriously." states Nicky emphatically.

Fair cop. But a bit rich coming from a band that refuse to do video's, co-produced their debut album without taking any credit, and toured every little pub town from here to Toad Suck, Arkansas. A band who have yet to release an LP (slated for September) despite appearing on the cover of every self respecting music mag on both sides of the pond. They take themselves seriously, OH YES.

The album, 'Is This It', took them one month to record... one month... thirty days. It is the product of their 'salad days' gigging around Manhattan and Philadelphia.

 "That's why it works so well," says Fab, "we've had a really really long time to perfect the album outside the studio... an album that's like... that's who we are as The Strokes."

Who they are is a piece of carefully crafted art that WILL move you from the groin on out. A record to be cherished for its ability to make you smile and get up. Surely this is the wonder of 'Is This It', it's Rock 'n' Roll that makes ya wanna move.

After experimenting with a different producer, namely Gill Norton of Hüsker Dü fame, the boys went back to their old friend Gordon Raphael who originally produced their 3 song EP 'Modern Age'. They wanted to cut back on production, as Albert says, "To keep it true to the live set." They all agree that Norton was great, but not for them.

"Doing things professionally doesn't fit with our style," the lax and by now pissed voice of Julian crawls across the table, "if we stay...raw it sounds, like...great." RAW?! Talk about understated! On the track 'Take It Or Leave It' you can hear this man's tonsils crying out for mercy, you can smell the blood on Albert's shirt sleeves... This ain't no Radiohead mate.

The band even co-produced the album to maintain a level of control over the sound. The chemistry between them and Raphael worked it's way onto the vinyl.

"When you're working with someone and you know that the two of you are just doing something better than you were doing on your own. That's the best way to work." says Julian of the experience. They're not completely pleased with the Steve Albini School of Sound Engineering however. "I don't think it looks that cool when a band produce themselves," pipes Nicky, "You wanna picture the band going in and playing the songs (not) oh now they're too cerebral. It's like a fun thing." So no credits for the boys. They just wanna rock, and drink. Which has to be admired.

They're also un-phased by the press's insistence on linking them to The Velvet Underground, The Stooges, The Ramones and any number of late 70's NYC Punk they care to mention. 'Is This It' isn't going to shatter anyone's illusions about what these boys want to sound like. This album springs from the head of John Cale fully formed and fighting fit.

"What a cool band to be compared to," admits Julian about The Velvet Underground. He means a band that's beloved and credible, different and weird... not to mention fucking good. "It's sorta a subconscious goal to have music that cool, but actually make it popular... a cool way to make popular music more interesting." Hurrah.

We demand an explanation for so suddenly signing to majorinos RCA then. A chorus of oohs and ahhs goes up around the table before the earnest protestations that RCA are the best of a bad bunch, not so bad, and quite ok really fly. They do look slightly... defensive? Cautious? Albert pipes up: "It's like being a bisexual!" Being with RCA is like being a bisexual? "Yeah, you get the best of both worlds."

The rest of the band agrees. "They just give us money and stay out of our way" says Nicky, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

Are they unrepentant about signing to a major?

"I had the fucking head of RCA on the phone at 4 o'clock in the morning," states Julian, "telling me how much he loved the album." Yes indeed.

So sign to the Rough Trade phoenix for your soul's sake and the Big Money for lig? Why is this not sickening? Why are the credibility censors not in overdrive? Because this is a BAND pure and simple. Mates who saw the spark reflected in each other. And they ain’t that pretty or well dressed. OK they are, but the point is, they just ARE. The Strokes were always going to happen thank Christ. A wake up call for the apathetic. No slouching unless you mean it. More than the sum of their parts, more than The Velvets/Stooges/Television honorists.

"I had this idea to make it (the album) sound like music heard in the future from 30 years ago," says Julian. Fab explains, they were listening to the radio and La Bamba by The Gypsy Kings came on.

"It was terrible and Julian said we should make it (their music) sound like it was the original, by Richie Valens."

Huh? Julian pipes up, "I wanted to make the music sound like it was from 30 years ago, but being heard now. With everything that entails. Do you understand?" If he means pared down and honest to the point of embarrassing, then yes. "Or the other way", he says, "like music from the future heard now..."

True, 'Is This It', sounds a little like it's something you dug out of your Dad's wardrobe where the band on the cover are all wearing winkle pickers, whatever they are. There's more though, an understanding and knowledge that blasts the naïveté of 60's Garage out into space. It's lyrical. 'The Space ships they won't understand'?

"The lyric is 'IN space ships they wont understand'," corrects Julian talking about the bridge to 'Last Night', "and what it means is that in the future, when we're all flying to work in fucking space ships, it'll still be the same old shit. Like, no one will understand why you have to just do it." Fab leaps up to hug Julian, "That's fucking beautiful man!"

Julian's descriptive powers aside, aren't they worried that they'll loose this edge? Money, girls, and power, have wrecked havoc with better men than them.

"But who cares as long as it sounds like we want," mutters a very distracted Nicky, only putting his head up occasionally from his magazine. "I mean, rawness (derisive snort), maybe we will want it more produced if that's what we like."

And here in lies the rub. In a perfect world RCA would not throw money at these kids. RCA would ignore them no matter how good they actually were, no matter how much they want the cotton wool cosseting of the Big League. The band would have to work, creating themselves every step of the way. Paying their dues and becoming in the end a band utterly worthy of the great white hope tag that has been hanging so carelessly on their coat hanger shoulders. They are SO good, but you want them to be great. And Christ you can smell the greatness waiting to get out in every jangled chord of Hard to Explain, on every slinky line of Barely Legal. These things take time. One album does not a legacy make. There has to be more to come, and there is such a thing as too much too soon.

A friend said, they'll get exactly what they wanted. And the sad thing is so will we, the 20-episode Pop Stars fix. Will hype drown the creative spark? The worry is that in 6 months time no ones gonna give a fig about Fab's broken hand, and Julian's Dad, anymore than they'll care about any second album. The backlash that never should have been may have already begun...

A few days later we bump into The Strokes lending moral support to fellow NYC space cadets, the Moldy Peaches, at their first London gig. The boys are high as heaven having come straight from the BBC where they recorded three songs for the legendary Top of The Pops. "Man," wails Julian, resplendent in pink silk tie and shiny grey suit jacket, "It was so fucking cool! It fuckin' rocked!"

Fab is more sedate. "I can't believe we did it, but I fucked it up!" Surely not? "I was so nervous I kept making mistakes. I sucked." But watching their performance on the show later it is easy to see that this is a band still on the rise, perfectionism aside they control the stage, the cameras and above all the hearts and souls of an audience more accustomed to Shaggy and Nelly Furtado. The fact that they're on TOTPs at all (their single Hard to Explain entered the UK charts in the top 20 on a wave of passion and NME hype) speaks volumes about the music buying public's desire for some goddamn GRUNT.

At their epoch marking, celebrity studded, sold out show at Heaven in London, tickets are changing hands for £150! At the after party the place is in a frenzy. The boys can barely move for the cameras clicking, autographs to be signed and girls hanging off every thread of their thrift store suits.

"I've been trying to get to the other side of the room for the last hour," Julian says incredulous and separated from his mates as they are accosted from all sides.

Nicky is posing in a photograph for a fan. Nicolai is signing a CD. Albert is being followed and literally clawed by a young female. It is as if she senses that this is her only chance before he gets blasted into the rock god pantheon. Fabrizio escapes the seething mass, broken hand in a sling (sadly replaced temporarily half way through their UK and Australian tour with Strokes friend Matt Romano), opting to talk to people outside the guest pass zone.

They have made it, with all it entails. Young, talented, beautiful, cool and full of charisma, it seems that the rock and roll glitterati is at their blessed Rock'n'Roll feet. Hype and fashion aside, the music stands for itself. This is what we've been waiting for.

[dwntwn-strnlo]

Hi hi hi hi. Okay so here’s my idea. How about after Cochella (bitch idfk if that’s how u spell that shit) he’s super tired and so when he gets back to his hotel you are there to surprise him and he gets super happy. But he’s tired so he’s like super clingy so you get in bed and watch a movie while he tells you about his day. (This might be bad but fuck it we ballin) 😘

OMG 🤭 giggling already before i even start writing. thank you for the request pookie ❤️

N SIDE dominic fike

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓁𝓎, dwntwn-strnlo.

↳ 𝐀/𝐍. hooray! very short but whatever

↳ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. dominic fike x reader

↳ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. request!

↳ 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃? yes!

its the final night of coachella, and dominic was gifted the opportunity to sing a set all six nights. and with the needed preparation, he went out a week early. meaning- he has been away for almost three weeks now. and you would be a fool to admit that you didnt miss basking in the florida heat, by his side watching the tide roll up along the shore. your favorite musicians humming lightly through the speaker behind you.

so, after speaking with his manager in secret, you got yourself a ticket out to california. which explains why your now patiently impatiently waiting for dominic in his hotel room.

you practically roll of the bed when you hear someone at the door. desperately trying to turn the tv off as you get on comfortably hit the floor on the opposing side of the bed. anticipation rising the longer it takes for the door to open.

hearing the door shut, and things getting lazily tossed onto the tables, you smile to yourself. the second the lights flick on, you jump to your feet, throwing your hands in the air with a loud "boo!"

dominic flinches slightly, but is quick with forming a gentle smile on his face. not saying a word, he hurriedly makes way to you, wrapping his arms around your body in a much welcomed hug.

hugging him back, he places his chin on the top of your head. taking in your missed warmth.

"hi, love." you giggle, looking up at him.

he meets your eyes, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, "i miss you, baby."

"ive missed you too," you smile, moving your head to kiss him. the kiss is slow due to your fatigue from cross-country jet lag, and his fatigue from a thirteen long set.

he pulls away with a smile. his heavy eyes taking you in. "i was hoping you were gonna show up unannounced." he sighs, "ive missed looking at your pretty face."

you laugh, "and ive missed looking at yours," you say, pulling him back in to a tight hug. rocking the two of you side to side on your feet.

"i love you, dom." you mumble against his shirt.

"i love you, baby." he mutters back, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

TAGLIST

@slvt444smvt @thetriplets3 @theboyz-delulu @stxrniqlo @ifilwtmfc @iha8you @oneirophobic @20nugs

[trickphotography2]

Overtime

It was just supposed to be a football game. But then Hangman took Syla up on her invitation to watch the Blue Angels perform at the Miramar air show. A month after meeting and facing the last home show of her career, the history making Naval Aviator invited Hangman to visit her in Pensacola. She didn't actually expect him to accept. Payback definitely wasn't happy.

A continuation of First and Goal. This got away from me at 5.1K words. No physical description of the reader, callsign is Syla (pronounced like Cilla) and she's a Florida State fan.

Cross-posted on Ao3.

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

The humidity hit Jake in the face as he exited the Pensacola airport. His eyes darted up and then to the line of cars. “I’m under the Delta sign.”

“Okay, I’m pulling out of the cellphone lot,” Syla said. He heard her humming and felt his lip twitch. Over the month they’d been talking, he’d heard it many, many times, usually when she was focused on something. Once, when they’d done a video call while she was in Oregon, he’d asked her if she hummed while flying and was promptly flipped off. “I...think I see you.” The call disconnected as a blue convertible Mini Cooper stopped in front of him. Payback scowled, elbowing him out of the way as Syla got out and circled the car. 

“Reuben!” she squealed. Jake rolled his eyes, grabbing the other man’s bag as he hugged Syla, lifting her off her feet. Payback hadn’t been thrilled to find out he wasn’t the only one who had requested leave to head down to Florida for the Blue Angels homecoming show. Hell, Syla had been surprised when Jake had quickly accepted her half-joking invitation.

Jake had gone to the show in Miramar. It was his first time seeing them since their flyover at his Academy graduation, which he’d only half paid attention to back then. The Blue Angels were good PR for the Navy but had never caught his attention - pilots stuck repeating the same maneuvers every time? Sounded almost as bad as being assigned to desk duty. He'd take dog fighting every time if given the choice between it and the flying equivalent of synchronized swimming. But, after going through flight school and some experience with formation flying, he had a new respect for the Angels. 

The way Syla filled out her tight blue flight suit definitely didn’t hurt matters. Jake had managed to get close enough to watch the team march in a line to their jets and climb in, trading out their caps for helmets before taxiing and taking off in formation. For an hour, he watched them execute loops, inversions, pitches, and breaks. After the show, he’d joined the queue for her autograph and grinned at her surprised look. As she signed the team picture, he asked her about not wearing a g-suit that helped keep blood from pooling in the lower extremities and forced it toward the brain. From his estimation, they were pulling at least 7Gs at points.

“Can’t,” Syla had shrugged. “We have our right arm on our thigh for stability and to help with the 40-pound spring tensioned on the stick. Air bladders would inflate at the worst time and ruin the maneuver. ‘Sides, since we fly it constantly, we know when to tense to avoid G-LOC.” Sliding her aviators down her nose, the Blue Angel smirked and slid the picture across the table to him. “Good to see you again, Hangman.” 

Her phone number was under her loopy signature. 

“Hey,” Jake said when she turned her attention to him, eyebrow raised over her sunglasses. Crossing her arms over her chest, forcing her breasts higher into the tank top she wore, Syla cocked her hip. 

“I have so many questions. First - what the hell is with the pornstache?” Grinning, Jake ran a hand over his mustache. 

“Don’t like it?”

“You look like the other guy in your squad… um…” she snapped her fingers, glancing at Payback.

“Rooster.”

“Rooster! That’s right. He can pull off a mustache.”

“I make a mustache look good,” he chuckled, dropping the bags into the open trunk. Shaking her head, she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his waist. 

“Jury’s out. Also, people are gonna think you’re a Gator or Canes fan in that orange.”

“Hook ‘em, baby.” Over her head, Jake caught Payback’s eye roll.

“Alright,” Syla said, stepping out of his loose embrace and slamming the trunk closed. “Get in so we can go grab dinner. I’m starving.” 

“Please tell me we’re getting some seafood,” Payback moaned, beelining for the front seat. Jake rolled his eyes, following Syla around the car and pulling open the door for her before ducking into the back seat. His knees pressed into her seat, and he shifted to try and get more comfortable. 

The two aviators chatted while Syla pulled out of the airport and drove through Pensacola. It had been years since Jake had been back. Like many Naval aviators, his career had begun at a local flight school while stationed at NAS Whiting Field, just across the bridge and a couple of miles down I-10 in Milton. While he’d enjoyed his time at Annapolis during the Academy, it had been fun to cut loose and spend weekends on the white sand beaches, flirting with tourists and drinking at dive bars. But after he’d moved on to Intermediate Flight Training, he’d never looked back. North Florida had little appeal for him. If he had to be stationed in the state, he would go for the Keys.

“You good back there, Hangman?” Syla asked, pulling him from his musing. She’d twisted in her seat, strands of hair that had escaped her regulation bun framing her face.

“All good, just looking at how much it’s changed.” She smiled, turning back around when the light turned green.

After grabbing dinner by the beach at a local spot called The Oar House, the trio made their way to Syla’s place. It was a cute little white house with a red - “garnet,” she’d corrected - door. As another condition of his coming, Payback claimed the one guest bedroom while Jake was relegated to the couch. 

It helped to know that Payback only had the bed for one night and would join him in sleeping in the living room when Syla’s parents arrived the next day. 

So, while Payback went to bed early to call his kid, Jake and Syla hung out. At first, there had been some initial awkwardness, trying to navigate a friendship conducted mainly over the phone. It didn’t take long until Jake found himself itching to tuck her hair, free from the tight bun and damp from her shower, behind her ear. 

“Okay, I have to know,” she said, setting her glass on the coffee table before facing him. Propping her elbow against the back of the couch, she buried a hand in her hair and smirked. “What’s with the mustache? You weren’t deployed, so it’s not a deployment ‘stache. Or is this like a normal thing for you?”

“Definitely not a normal thing for me,” he chuckled, setting his beer on the coffee table and turning to mirror her. At her cocked eyebrow, he shrugged. “Payback.” 

“Are we talking Reuben or revenge for something?”

“A bit of both. He’s real protective of you and wasn’t happy to hear that we’ve been talking. Or that I was coming here.”

“Oh god, are you telling me you look like that because of me?” She let her head fall back at his shrug while taking a deep breath. The move pulled her sleep shirt tight against her chest, and he could see her pebbled nipples through the material. “I’m gonna kill him.” 

“It’s fine.” And it was. It was worth it if this was the penalty for violating the bro code - as the rest of the Daggers had ruled when they found out about his contact with Syla. 

“Your pretty face shouldn’t be sacrificed for his petty male ego.” 

“You think I’m pretty?” Jake teased. Syla lowered her head and gave him an unimpressed look. With a huff, she ran her thumb over his mustache. 

“When you don’t have a fuzzy caterpillar on your face.” Amusement sparkled in his green eyes when Syla raised hers from his mouth to meet his. Her fingers rasped on his stubble as they glided across his jaw. Jake watched, biting back a groan when she played with the hair on the nape of his neck. Gentle pressure guided him closer as her tongue darted to wet her lips. A smirk curved his mouth as his gaze narrowed to hers. 

A throat cleared, and Syla jumped, her hand falling to her lap. Payback stood beside the television, arms crossed over his chest. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked. 

“Absolutely,” Syla replied, even as pink dusted her cheeks. Payback’s eyes darted to Jake, who shrugged. “Oh no - this is not… If you have a problem with me talking to Jake, you’ll talk to me about it, Reuben.” 

“Okay. I don’t like it. You don’t know Hangman.” 

“Cool. Good to know. That’s part of why we’re talking - to get to know one another.” He groaned her name, running a hand down his face. 

“He’s got a reputation in Miramar.” Jake flushed with embarrassment. Sure, he enjoyed a one-night stand, but he hadn’t had one in a while. Definitely not since he’d started talking to the pilot beside him.

“So you’re telling me he knows what he’s doing and can probably find the clit. That’s great to know.” Both men sputtered, and Syla laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed, Payback, I’m not the 22-year-old girl you met. And as much as I appreciate you looking out for me, I’m a pretty good judge of character. So if I want to talk to Jake, kiss him, and maybe have sex, that’s our decision.” Patting Jake’s shoulder, she stood and gave Payback a sweet smile. “And with that, gentlemen, I’m going to go to bed since I have work in the morning. You know, where I’m a history-making Naval aviator whose judgment is tested and proven every day that I’m in the air flying inches away from other aviators, where one small deviation could mean death for either of us. Night boys.”

The two men watched Syla walk to the hallway, pausing to pat Payback’s chest and closing her bedroom door. 

Jake fell a little bit in love.

“Morning,” Jake said, his voice rough with sleep. Syla smiled and waved, continuing towards the kitchen where the coffee pot gurgled. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he joined her, taking the mug she slid across the counter and leaning against the stove, scratching his bare chest. 

“How’d you sleep?” she asked.

“Not the worst place I’ve bunked.”

“It’s a step above the carrier.” He smiled over the rim of his mug. He’d never dated a woman in the military and never would have even thought about pursuing another aviator. Sure, he enjoyed flirting with Phoenix to get a rise out of her, but their careers overlapped too much for him to ever think about pursuing anything. Plus, Rooster would kill him if he ever worked up the nerve to admit his feelings about his “best friend.”

But there was something comforting about talking with Syla. Over the last month, he’d enjoyed not having to explain things in his daily life. No explanation was needed when he rescheduled calls because he was doing late maneuvers. Honestly, she was the one doing the rescheduling more often than not. She was also the one who fell asleep when they were on the phone. He’d never admit it, but Jake usually stayed on the line for a few more minutes, listening to her soft breathing and half-heartedly hoping she’d wake before hanging up. 

“What’s your day look like?” he asked. Syla frowned and stepped past him to look at the calendar hanging on the refrigerator. 

“We’re briefing the show this morning and then going to a middle school. Not sure if we’re doing the interview there or if the camera crew is just getting footage. Then final dress rehearsal over the Gulf.” There was something sad in her eyes when she turned to meet his gaze. 

“What?”

“I just…” To his surprise, tears gathered in her eyes as she looked up at the ceiling and swallowed. “Sorry, just kinda hitting me that this is it.” Setting his mug down, he opened his arms. Syla rested her head on his shoulder, palms flat on his chest. Jake's hand ran up the back of her flight suit, tugging her closer as he brushed his lips against her temple. When she lifted her head, he kissed her cheek. But when he tried to do it again, she turned to meet him.

Their first kiss was a sweet one. Syla’s hands drifted up his chest to wrap around the back of his neck and tug him down as she surged onto her toes. He steadied her with hands on her hips, gripping the blue fabric tightly as she licked into his mouth. A groan escaped him as she smiled. The mustache prickled against her skin. 

“It’s too early for this.” 

“Morning, Reuben,” Syla sighed, dropping back onto her heels and resting her forehead against Jake’s chin. Slowly, she pulled away and looked at her friend. “Sleep well?”

“Other than a nightmare, yeah.” Chuckling, she stepped out of Jake’s arms and grabbed her travel coffee mug. 

“Duke is gonna pick me up so you can have my car for the day. I’ll be home around 5:30 or 6:00. My parent should be here around that time, too, so we’ll go out for dinner. I have to have an early night for the show tomorrow, but we can take two cars so you can have fun downtown.” The flight leader was happy to help her with a ride, seeing as he lived down the street. 

“An early night sounds good to me,” Jake nodded. 

“Great. Duke’s pulling up, so I’m headed out.” With a quick peck to both men’s cheeks, she left.

“You’re an ass,” Payback grumbled while opening the cabinets for a mug. Ignoring him, Jake returned to the couch and grabbed his cell phone, quickly pulling up their text thread.

Can confirm I know where the clit is

A few minutes later came her reply.

Seeing is believing

Syla woke early and pulled on her running gear. It was hard to sneak out of the house with the two aviators crashing in the living room, but she managed it. After slipping her earbuds in, she started her pre-show tradition of a five-mile run while mentally practicing the flight maneuvers. Hands clenched in front of her, she imagined Duke’s voice and positioned the stick and throttle. Deployed the smoke that allowed the crowd to follow them as they climbed. She would have the privilege of a sneak attack on the beach, buzzing the crowd who watched her wingmen fly ahead. 

Even after three seasons, every show made her nervous. And performing in front of the hometown crowd, while amazing, brought its own level of pressure. North Florida was the home to a huge military population. These people saw them the most - they practiced over the Naval Aviation Museum twice weekly and signed autographs. Hell, there was a sign as you got into town that said ‘Home of the Blue Angels.’ Pensacola had the Blue Angels, Corry Station, and Whiting Field, where many aviation careers started. The Air Force had three bases just an hour up the road - Hurlburt Field, Duke Field, and Eglin. Eglin had its own place in military aviation history, as it was where the pilots of the Doolittle Raid - the US’s retaliation on Japan following Pearl Harbor, where modified bombers had launched from the USS Hornet with no fighters as backup - had trained. The Air Force had their own fighter and test wings stationed there, and the Army was training special forces.

Further out were the two bases in Panama City - the Naval Support Activity Panama City and Tyndall Air Force Base, which housed their own fighter wing. That wasn’t even considering all of the veterans in the area. Syla had briefly dated someone who worked for the Veteran’s Administration, who had told her that the Gulf Coast was one of the fastest-growing areas for vets. 

So yeah, hometown shows made her nervous. And her dumb ass had invited a certain Lieutenant, who made her even more nervous. Who she outranked. As a Lieutenant Commander, she was responsible for ensuring they didn’t break any fraternization rules. And even though Jake wouldn’t be under her command - the Daggers were stationed at Miramar under TOPGUN but were not instructors - they might still get some looks.

Which was presuming that Jake even wanted something other than a fling. Panting, Syla stopped running and bent, wiping away the sweat on her brow. Even this early, the humidity was killer. “Fucking focus,” she ordered herself. 

There was nothing like an airshow. From the moment Syla stepped onto the tarmac, the energy was electric. For her last home show, they’d picked the theme of Celebrating Women in Aviation, focusing on the Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASPS) that began in WWII when the US needed pilots. Women could join the military to ferry, test, and deliver planes for repair. 

From the civilian aerobatic pilots to the Air Force’s Viper and F-35 demo teams and the explosive Tora Tora Tora reenactment, there was something for everyone. She joined her parents, Reuben, and Jake after the Angels’ morning briefing. While her parents and Reuben stayed in the tent, she and Jake did a quick walk around, pausing so she could sign autographs and take pictures. She was glad her sunglasses were on when a little girl traced over her embroidered wings and said she wanted to be a pilot, too. Jake’s fingers brushed hers as they walked, and she fought a smile. 

And then it was show time. Syla forced herself to focus on the moment. Doing anything else would endanger the team and her aircraft. So, she focused on saluting her flight crew and doing her checks. She wasn’t part of the diamond take-off formation but would be doing a high G vertical climb into an inversion. And then she thought about Duke’s final order - “Have fun.” 

So she did. She allowed herself to smile as she fought against gravity, admired the beautiful ocean she flew over, and laughed at the startled crowd as she executed the sneak pass. 

And yes, she did hum while doing it. 

Sunday was harder. Syla woke up early for her run and was surprised to find Jake awake in the kitchen, shirtless and wearing running shorts and sneakers. He joined her, her extra reflective belt wrapped around his bicep. It was still dark, their way lit by streetlights and the occasional passing car. Jake glanced over as she ran through the show, hands at her stomach moving the imaginary stick and throttle. 

Everything for her last show needed to be perfect. 

“You’ve got this,” he said when they turned back into her cul de sac. Feeling like a teenager sneaking around, she tugged him around the side of the house and pressed him against the siding. His hands wrapped around her hips, holding her tightly as her hands slid up his sweat-slicked skin to wrap around the back of his neck. It was still dark out, the sun not due to rise for another hour. If her neighbors looked out the glass door in their living room or someone drove past, they would easily be spotted. But that didn’t stop her from pressing against him, feeling his heat through her sports bra and running shorts. 

Jake pressed teasing kisses to her forehead, nose, and cheek before Syla gripped his hair and kissed him hard. His hand slid to her ass, squeezing and tugging her closer. She could feel his cock through his jogging shorts and dug her nails into his skin to keep from touching him. Nothing in the world would make her jeopardize her career with a public indecency charge. 

When his attention shifted to her neck, licking the salt from her skin, Syla forced herself to push against his shoulders and step back. His grip tightened, not letting her go too far. “Everything okay?” he asked. In the semi-darkness, she could barely make out his confused expression. 

“I need to know,” she said, biting her kiss-swollen lower lip. “I know we’ve only known each other for a month, but am I pissing off one of my best friends for a fling?”

“A fling?” 

“I outrank you, Jake. If there’s blowback, it’s gonna come back on me. Not only because of rank but because I’m a woman. I will always have Blue Angels in my bio, so I will always be held to the highest standard. So I have to know - is this just having fun? Or is this something we want to pursue? Because I’m fine either - ”

Jake’s lips silenced her, his tongue insistently licking into her mouth as he turned them to pin her against the siding with his hips. With his hands braced by her head, he pulled away, smirking when she chased his kiss. One knuckle traced from her temple and swept across her jaw before tilting her head up as he tutted her name. “You think I’d risk pissing off my entire squad for a fling? If I wanted that, I would have just waited for you to get to Miramar instead of coming out here, annoying Payback, and meeting your parents. This is my first vacation in years, and I wanted to spend time alone with you. If you want this to be a fling - ”

“I don’t.” 

“Good. Cause I don’t either.” They stood there, smiling at one another for a long moment until they heard a dog bark. Shoving him away, Syla turned and waved at her neighbor as he stepped out of the house across the street, dressed for his own morning run. Taking Jake’s hand, she tugged him back towards the front door, enjoying how he pressed himself against her back as she unlocked it. “Just wait until we’re alone, and I’ll show you just how well I can find your clit,” he growled in her ear as she gripped the doorknob.

“Just out of curiosity,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Did you tell Reuben that you were staying for a week? Or does he think you’re flying out tonight, too?”

“Now, where would the fun be in telling him?” Jake asked. Syla laughed, turning in his embrace to pat his cheek. 

“It’s your funeral, Hangman.” His grin was blinding as he leaned down to kiss her.

“What a hell of a reason to go.”

Emotion nearly choked her as Syla drove down Blue Angel Parkway toward the base. She’d left her parents to drive the other aviators in, wanting some time alone that morning. The squad had invited her guests to watch the last briefing of the season so they wouldn’t be too far behind. Reuben or Jake would be able to get her parents on base. While the air show gates didn’t open until 8:00AM, a few cars were already waiting at the Visitor Control building’s parking lot. After flashing her ID to the gate guard, she made her way to the hanger to quickly inspect her plane. Their flight mechanics were among the best in the world, and Syla trusted them with her life, but you could never be too careful. Once assured that everything was fine, she made her way to the briefing room, pausing to talk to some of the other early birds and to grab a shitty cup of coffee from the break room. Rather than take her seat, she took the opportunity to read the plaques that decorated the walls, running her finger over her name engraved on the list of pilots. 

“Big day, Syla. You ready for it?” Duke asked, coming into the briefing room and standing beside her. She glanced up at him and rolled her lips together, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. 

“As I’ll ever be,” she replied hoarsely. 

“One more flight, and then you’re back in the greens,” he chuckled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tugging her close. 

“I look so much better in blue,” she smirked, glancing down at her flight suit. After three years, going back to a green suit that didn’t have her name and plane number embroidered on her chest, that had a different squadron patch, would be strange. This wasn’t the first time she’d left a squad, but it definitely was the hardest. Their team, from the flight and ground crew to the Marine pilots that flew Fat Albert, the C-130J that carried the crew show to show, spent so much time together. From January to November, they saw each other every day - on Thursdays, they flew out to the show location and returned to Pensacola on Mondays; Tuesdays and Wednesdays were practice days. For three years, Syla had celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, new babies, and graduations with these folks. She’d babysat for their kids and hung out at their houses. They had gotten her drunk to celebrate her promotion before dragging her to the beach and tossing her into the Gulf in her whites - she made sure that they also got drenched - and teased her relentlessly whenever she dated someone. 

The other squad members slowly filed in, and Syla was subjected to brotherly teasing. When her guests arrived, she introduced Jake and Reuben by their callsigns. The looks her squad sent her when Hangman shook their hands were priceless - they’d seen his name pop up on her phone more than a few times. The corner of Jake’s eye twitched at every shake, making her wonder if they were squeezing his hand harder than necessary. Payback looked happy at the cooler welcome the other pilot got. 

“Alright,” the flight leader said once everyone had taken their seat around the table, him at the head. Crew and her guests sat along the wall. “We’ll leave the sentimental stuff for the boat party later, but as you all know, this is Syla’s last flight with us. And while we’re excited to welcome Lieutenant Commander Reyes in a few months, she will have big shoes to fill. So we’ll be perfect today, not only for Syla but for our hometown crowd. I want the debrief to be short this afternoon so we can go celebrate another successful season and get some downtime. Now, conditions today allow for the high show…” Syla opened her folder and retrieved the aerial map of Pensacola as he read out the wind and view data. The tip of her pen traced the maneuvers they would go through, as he called them.

She could feel eyes on her as they pushed away from the table and did a chair flight, Duke’s comforting cadence helping her block out everything else. Her own eyes remained closed as they talked through the flight, visualizing and practicing the throttles and stick positions, where they would have pull on the stick, tensing to fight the Gs, her calls on the radio, turning to check the alignment of their synchronized ascent into the loop, deploying smoke - every second of the 45-minute show.  

And when she opened her eyes, they caught on a pair of green ones that stared at her from across the room. The corner of Jake’s mouth twitched as he gave a curt nod. Beside him, her parents beamed. Payback sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest and grinned. 

Syla couldn’t help the tears that fell as she taxied back into position. Even over her engine, she could hear the crowd cheering as they announced her name and thanked her for her years of flying with the Blues. As the canopy rose, she swiped at her face and took a deep breath. 

It was over. 

After three years, she was now returning to the fleet. She would be assigned a new Super Hornet, grey instead of bright blue, with her name and callsign painted below the canopy. The next few months would be spent reviewing tactical and weapons updates, and she’d have a few weeks to refresh her air combat skills before taking on her first TOPGUN class. She was pretty sure that she'd spend some time with the meatball, the machine that helped baby aviators learn the dimensions of the ship's flight line; she felt rusty even with over 600 carrier landings under her belt. 

Thankfully, she was sure there was an active-duty pilot who would be more than happy to help her study.

“You good?” Syla looked up at her crew chief and nodded at the woman. Quickly, she handed over the helmet, realizing it would be one of the last times she wore it. Soon, she would be back in her garnet one with gold arrows - her nod to her alma mater. After smoothing down her hair, she put her cover back on and prepared to exit the cockpit. 

Three years. Over 900 days on the road. Hundreds of hours in the air. 

It was over.

A Week Later

Fanboy glanced at his phone, frowning at the text from Hangman. The Miami game was on a commercial break, so he quickly opened it and saw it was a video. 

He recognized the place immediately - Florida State’s football stadium. Doak Campbell. Fucking Hangman was at the Miami-FSU game. Hangman panned the camera around the stadium, and Fanboy realized he was standing on the field. In the endzone. The announcer’s voice was a bit muffled but became clearer as Hangman refocused the camera on Syla. 

“Callsign Syla made history as the first female aviator on the Blue Angels, carrying on the proud FSU tradition of excellence. Let’s give a loud welcome home to Syla!”

The crowd roared, chants of “USA” echoing as Syla held up her hands and waved before doing the tomahawk chop. In the background, he saw that she was being broadcast on the jumbotron. As it cut away, she held her hands up again. She brought her thumbs together to form the University of Miami ‘U’ symbol before dropping all but her middle fingers. The student section started a chant of ‘Fuck U’ as she laughed. 

“Fuck Miami!” Syla grinned. 

“Fuck Miami!” Hangman echoed, swinging the camera around to show himself flipping off the camera, that god-awful mustache still on his face. For once, he wasn’t wearing Texas gear but had swapped it out for a Seminoles cap and t-shirt. 

Oh, Fanboy thought. He was definitely gonna have to deal with way more bro code violations once he got back. Especially after he forgot to turn off the recording before kissing Syla. 

Fanboy debated forwarding it to the group chat but decided against it. Having a bit of blackmail was never a bad thing.

The group chat started popping off in the 4th quarter. 

What the fuck is this? Payback fired off, sharing a picture of Hangman with his arm around Syla and their back to the field. Her hand rested on his stomach. 

Damn, Rooster replied. Phoenix added a gif of Stephen Colbert eating popcorn.

Looks like fun, Bob added. 

Fuck the Noles, Fanboy typed out.

Is no one bothered by this??? Payback demanded. The chat went silent until Hangman’s name popped up.

Syla here. Two things - 1) Fuck Miami, and 2) I’m begging you to let the man shave the fucking mustache. Facial hair is not my thing.

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

Note: I didn't expect to write a follow up to First and Goal, but I also didn't expect the engagement with it. Thank you to everyone who read it. A major thank you to @mayhemmanaged for helping talk me through this fic and reading a rough draft of it. And @dreamlandcreations for saying she wanted a part 2.

The North Florida panhandle has a huge military population. I recently moved away from the Gulf Coast, after my dad was stationed at Eglin AFB. That is where I first got to see a jet engine up close and see how beautiful the afterburner could be. It's where I went to my first stateside air show. I completed an internship at the VA in Pensacola, and was able to see the Blue Angels fly every week. Like Jake, I didn't really appreciate the panhandle until I left. There's nothing like shifting from pine trees to an ocean view as you cross the I-10 bridge, going from Whiting Field to Pensacola.

Like Syla, I'm a diehard Seminole, graduating from there a total of 4 times. I actually stole her flight leader's callsign, Duke, from a guy I went to high school and college with, who flies for the Air Force.

So long story short, this fic was inspired by aviation and Lieutenant Commander Amanda 'Stalin' Lee, the first female Blue Angel. Thanks for reading ❤️

Tagging those who reblogged and commented on First and Goal:

kmc1989; gigisimsonmars; starset21; the-slytherin-library-12; ssa-sadboi; fanficfandomlove; shanimallina87; myfaveficrecs; roosterforme; thefandomimagines; dreamlandcreations; topherwrites; roosteraloha; tgmreader; love-in-light; starlightmoon2020; clockworkballerina; bibissparkles; top-hhun; just-in-case-iloveyou; scarlettwidow19; themusingofagothicsoul; milani-marie; rooseresintg; lets-turn-and-burn; bellaireland1981; shanimallina87; sydthekid1518; gspenc; mimi-8793; novagreen04; fulla02reads; alldaysdreamers; atarmychick007; onceupona-happilyeverafter-love; rosiahills22

[steddieas-shegoes]

lost an edge

rated t | 509 words for @steddiemicrofic prompt 'edge' cw: implied sexual content, mildly suggestive language | tags: hockey au, defenseman steve harrington, goalie eddie munson, enemies to lovers (mostly just implied babes this is only 509 words), chirps

⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️⛸️

Steve's left skate had felt wrong all night. It wasn't the ice, he'd already asked everyone else if they felt like it was rough and they said no. The equipment manager checked the blade and it was sharp, not loose at all.

Whatever was causing it was a mystery and he'd just have to adapt.

But it was quite possibly the worst night to have to adapt.

The Bruins were facing their toughest competition this season: the Florida Panthers.

It was stupid; They weren't even that good! They just found a way to always get in their heads and-

"Harrington, wake the hell up!" Hagan, his D partner, yelled right before the whistle blew.

The game started rough for all of them. They just got back from a ten day road trip, four wins but two in overtime, and they were all still struggling with jet lag. They just had to get through this game and they'd have four days off, but-

The horn blared and Steve let his head fall where he sat on the bench.

A goal in the first two minutes of the game was embarrassing, especially at home. He was still catching his breath from his shift when his coach tapped him to go back out.

He'd do it because that's what first liners did sometimes, but he wasn't thrilled.

He managed to keep the puck out of their zone for most of the shift, but he was giving 120%. He couldn't do that the entire game.

Plus his skate still felt weird, almost unstable.

Florida scored again right before the end of the first period and Steve tried not to feel defeated this early.

He took his last shift of the period, hopping over the wall to rush towards the blue line.

He felt his ankle shake, then twist, and he was down, sliding across the ice on his knees like a damn amateur. He looked down and saw everything was normal.

"Looks like you lost an edge, sweetheart," the Panthers goalie, Eddie Munson, said right behind him. "Might need to head to the local learn to skate before you play next game."

"Is that where you were earlier?" Steve barked back as he got up and skated back towards the play.

The second period went about the same, and every time he managed to get close to Munson, they chirped each other.

It happened every time they played, chirping turned to banter turned to outright flirting on the ice.

It was worse today because Steve always managed to lose an edge right near Eddie's crease. He caught himself most of the time, but Eddie always noticed.

"You want a private lesson after the game? Might be able to show you a few ways to stay on your feet?" Eddie said after a whistle for a trip.

"On ice or off?" Steve asked.

Eddie stared back at him, mouth open in shock at his comeback.

"Now look who lost an edge."

The Bruins didn't pull off the win that night, but Steve sure did.

[sorchathered]

Sacred New Beginnings- Chapter 8

A/N- thank you guys so much for being patient with me, I know that cliffhanger shook everyone up but I promise your patience will be rewarded!

Pairing- Jake Seresin x Reader (OC Stormy)

Warnings- injuries, cursing, smut

Song inspo- “Like I’m gonna lose you” - Meghan Trainor

It had been nearly 6 weeks since your accident, ejecting over the ocean in an aircraft during a dogfight which resulted in your shoot not properly deploying, sending you spiraling towards the ocean at a speed that thankfully didn’t kill you or your pilot. The emergency team that life flighted you to Maryland had to sedate you heavily to manage your pain, so excruciating that it required what the doctor had called a medically induced coma. Broken collarbone, broken left wrist, fractured femur and a gnarly concussion that had you out for several days, waking up alive certainly not what you were expecting; the first thing that caught your eyes was the golden blonde hair and green eyes of the man you loved. Jake had been there through it all, every sleepless night, surgery, pt until you were finally released to go back to your home in Pensacola. You knew your godfather had facilitated some sort of miracle to allow Jake so much time away from his job and for that you couldn’t be more grateful, Uncle Beau couldn’t be your support team so he made sure you had everything you needed.

You were exhausted, the plane ride had been painful and as much as you’d tried to put on a brave face Jake could tell you were suffering, he got you inside and settled in bed and refused to let you do anything other than rest, you knew he had to be running on fumes but if he was he didn’t show it. You weren’t wrong, he was wrung out both emotionally and physically but if he stopped pushing forward he knew he’d break down, there had been nights when you were sedated that he worried you wouldn’t get through it and having to face life alone without you was too much for his heart to bear. Now that he had you home and safe he couldn’t imagine going back to North Island, let alone watching you get back into your jet, the thought sent a shudder through him; losing you was never something he’d imagined before all of this but now it consumed his every waking moment. It wasn’t healthy, and he was a bad liar so he knew you could tell he was fraying at the edges, your doctor had suggested that it would be beneficial for you both to do therapy together or separate and he was sure that was an option that needed to be explored. He started a load of laundry and as the clothes swirled in the washer he scrolled through his phone to find admiral Simpsons number, maybe requesting a transfer could give him the peace he needed to sleep at night.

A week goes by, pt is going well, your godfather has extended Jake’s leave once again but his request for transfer was denied (which you expected and told him at least 1,000 times you didn’t need him to move across the country to babysit you), but you could tell his nerves were shot. when you woke up most nights he wasn’t in the bed, usually in the living room reading or watching tv, sometimes on a run that would last for hours. Therapy hadn’t been easy the first session, you’d rehashed the drama of your crash and had ended it in tears, you’d been assured it would get easier but it felt like it never would, especially with the walls it felt like Jake was building around you. He treated you like glass and it was becoming more and more frustrating, he didn’t want to talk about what was going on in his head, he definitely wouldn’t sleep with you and all you’d gotten were a handful of kisses and hand holding since you’d come back to Florida. It felt like he was pushing you away and that was what you knew would push you over the edge, injuries you could heal from but losing him? That would destroy you.

Jake of course is clueless to your fears, he is just pushing through each day trying to make sure you are healthy and getting better, the thought hasn’t even occurred to him that he’s been distant, how could he be? He’s with you all the time! But when he gets back from his nearly 10 mile run the tension he hadn’t noticed is palpable, you’ve somehow showered and changed without him and when he catches your eyes from your spot on the couch he knows you are ready for a fight. He’s seen that look over a dozen times but never aimed at him, the storm is raging in your features, jaw clenched and eyes red rimmed with tears; you’ve been crying and somehow it’s his fault.

“Baby what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Why didn’t you wait for me? You shouldn’t be doing anything by yourself-“ he started but you waved your hand dismissively and continued to scowl and tear up, he didn’t know what was going on but whatever he’d done he would get on his knees and beg for forgiveness if he had to. “I’m not hurt, I managed to take my brace off to shower and put it back on by myself, that’s not the problem. The problem is us.” You said the last part in almost a whisper as you burst into tears, you’d never been much for crying when you were upset but everything had gotten so overwhelming and you couldn’t get your thoughts together, Jake surged forward to scoop you up and it didn’t matter that he was sweaty and gross you needed his touch more than you could say. You clawed at his skin and gasped out as you tried to stall your tears, pulling at his face to kiss you and he reciprocated but continued to hold you as gently as possible, afraid to jostle you too much and hurt your leg. Your eyes looked wild as he pulled you back a little to calm you down, but you kept clinging to him and trying to pull him closer, he didn’t want to stop but the fear of hurting you was prevalent so he pulled back completely and stood up, only to be met with another round of tears. “Hey hey, you gotta talk to me sugar I don’t understand what’s going on? You’re scaring me baby, just tell me what it is and I’ll fix it ok?” You looked at him and huffed like a petulant child and he almost laughed but knew it would only make it worse, something was eating you up and he didn’t have a clue where to start. “I don’t understand how you don’t get it, you’re doing it to me right now! You’re pushing me away, I’m not made of glass Jake! You’ve barely touched me since we got home, it’s like you don’t even want me anymore and I can’t stand it!” You wailed out and he had never felt more idiotic in his life. He had been so focused on your recovery that it had never even occurred to him that you would want him like that right now, but of course you did; you needed him physically just like he always had when things were hard and somehow he’d completely missed it. You were still sniffling as he ran his hand over his face and chuckled, which made you scrunch your face up angrily at him because how was this funny? He had been acting like an ass, of course he’d done everything to be your caretaker but damnit you wanted your boyfriend.

“Oh sweet thing I’m so sorry, I really have been stupid huh?” He said as he stepped back into your space and wiped your tears with his thumbs. “I didn’t realize, baby, can I fix it? Take you to bed and show you how sorry I am?” You nodded furiously and put your hands out for him to scoop you up, letting him carry you down the hall to the bedroom as you kissed his face and neck, running your hands through his sweaty hair and down his shoulders. He still treats you like your fragile, but it’s in the form of soft touches and gentle kisses placed all over your body as he removes your clothes, there’s a reverence in the way he loves you, you’d missed the intimacy of being with him so much it hurt, and now that he knew what you needed you knew he’d give you everything. He could tell you were irritated by the leg brace, couldn’t quite get close to him the way you wanted, you were terrible at hiding it with your furrowed brows and frustrated huffs as you tried to gain leverage and push up against him. He stilled you with a hand on your hips and kissed you sweetly on the forehead trying to smooth away the irritation. “You’re so stubborn, lay still and be a good girl ok baby girl I’m gonna get you there I promise, be sweet for me like I know you can.” You huffed out again but did what he asked, watching as he kissed down your torso and hitched your good leg over his shoulder, you were already so wet and gasping for him but he was going to draw this out as long as possible, you said you needed him to touch you so he would until you couldn’t take it anymore.

He was so damn lucky, and he knew it. He could’ve lost you, missed out on moments like this, watching you come undone for him as he tasted you over and over again until you were a crying mess, taking you to the precipice as you writhed and begged for him to let you cum, but he wouldn't let you just yet, white knuckling the sheets and sobbing his name, pussy leaking all over his hands and mouth as your beautiful eyes rolled back, it was heaven on earth being with you like this and he’d never take it for granted. You were positive that you’d come out of your own skin if he didn’t let you come soon, pulling at his hair and pleading him with wasn’t working, and soon you were too far gone to even do that, just letting little noises out as you rolled your head back and forth and gasped his name, and finally he pulled away from you, climbing back up your body to sloppily lick into your mouth, he was covered in you and it was sinful, you couldn’t stop bucking into him and squirming and he just chuckled as he groped your chest and kissed your neck. “Jake- I get it ok, I was being a brat just- just please please fuck me, need it oh fuck please please” you couldn’t stop babbling even as he began to glide his cock through your slick, and he slid into you with no resistance, your body so wound up that you couldn’t stop, immediately clamping down on him and succumbing to your orgasm. He growled into your neck at how good you were, continuing to fuck you through it as you gushed all over him and onto the sheets, he’d been so turned on by edging you that he was hopeless to hold back his own orgasm, thrusting into you hard a few times and spilling into you, both of you sweat slicked and sated, finally feeling like maybe you’d made it through the worst of this season of life.

You’d fallen asleep shortly after, going in and out as he cleaned you up and tucked you in, promises to come back after he started the laundry. You knew it hadn’t been long because the sun was still out but when you woke his side of the bed was still made and cold, so you hobbled down the hall until you could hear him talking to someone on the phone. “I know Mama, she’s gonna be alright but I don’t know how to leave her, I’m scared to death to let her out of my sight let alone in her jet again. Yeah, they’re sending me back next week, I’m gonna do everything I can to make things easier but- I don’t know mama I can ask if she wants the company, she’s got an extra room but I don’t want to overwhelm her, I just want to keep her safe.” You could hear the rawness in his voice, and your heart broke, you weren’t ready to be without him either but he had to go back, you’d already been given too many favors and the navy wasn’t likely to give anymore. “Jake” you called to him and he fumbled with the phone and swiped his eyes, looking up at you with the saddest smile you’d ever seen. “Tell your mama I’d love to have her here, you’re right I could use the company and we are definitely overdue for the girl time.” There it was, his thousand watt smile you fell in love with, he crossed the room to scoop you in his arms and you could see the relief on his face. You swiped the phone from his hand and laughed, “Hey Mama Leigh, how about we order you that plane ticket? We’ve got all sorts of catching up to do, and you can fill me in on all Jake’s most embarrassing stories.”

Leigh Seresin was the very picture of a southern grandma, styled blonde hair and perfect makeup, but none of the catty attitude, just warmth and kindness. When you and Jake picked her up from the airport she pulled you both up into a hug, fussing at you for not using your crutches and producing a big container of homemade chocolate chip cookies. She reminded you so much of your grandmother in so many ways, she wasn’t pushy but she wouldn’t let you lift a finger, making sure you were settled and then ushering Jake into the kitchen to help her make dinner as you dozed on the couch. She knew you were the one for her son, could see it on his face months ago when he’d admitted that you two were together, she wasn’t surprised one bit, she’d known for years that he had a thing for you and eventually you two would figure it out. Checking to make sure you were still asleep she dug through her never ending coach bag (Jake always called her Mary poppins because she seemed to have everything) and produced a small velvet box. “You said you wanted me to give this to you when you were ready, and I know right now may not be the right time but son one day it will be. She’s the right one sweetheart, I can feel it in my bones.” There inside the little green box was the thing he’d dreamed about putting on your finger from that very first weekend, Grandma Seresin’s vintage engagement ring. He knew he’d have to wait a little while, let you heal up all the way and see where your career took you but holding it in his hand and watching you sleep on the couch he couldn’t help but feel like everything was falling into place.

Jake Seresin masterlist

Tagging- @mamamaystbr @mamachasesmayhem @roosterforme @attapullman @bobgasm @djs8891 @mygyn @pinkdaisies9285 @mrsevans90 @seitmai @jessicab1991 @shanimallina87 @dizzybee03 @86laura11 @its-the-pilot @jostan456 @the-aspiring-fanfic-writer @kmc1989 @nouis-bum @dempy @floydsglasses

[ciaossu-imagines]

So, because I didn’t have quite enough Christmas asks from readers, I decided to pad out the missing days with some fun prompts that weren’t used for some of my lesser loved fandoms! I hope you all will enjoy these headcanons for The Covenant – a so bad it’s good film masterpiece that I will always love.

What are their favourite winter activities?

So, first off, I do believe that all of the boys do know how to ski or snowboard. I really do see Reid, Tyler, Pogue, and Caleb all heading to a local ski place to snowboard together, really making a day of it. It’s something they all enjoy, especially since there’s always a little bit of competition to it between them all.

Pogue’s the one who likes winter the least. He’s not a big fan of the cold and he’s especially not a fan of the ice and snow. It means putting away his bike for the season and it’s something he dreads every year. However, there is one perk that does come with the snowy winter season and that’s snowmobiles. They’re not as good as his bike but they’re almost there. He loves heading out, either with friends or by himself, often spending hours out snowmobiling, seeing just how fast he can go. If he’s driving by himself, he might take a lot more risks in his driving, finding fun in the thrill of near misses, than he will with someone with him.

Caleb’s favourite winter activity is something he’d be a little embarrassed to admit. He really likes building snowmen and playing in the snow. He kind of misses when they were all young enough to still want to build snowmen, to have snowball fights, and to just dick around out in the snow. Now the winters seem colder, no one has snow pants, making snowmen is considered uncool. Still, he builds one himself up by his parents, since the boys don’t go up there often except for Pogue, who won’t really make fun of Caleb for having built one like Reid would do. He does, however, manage to instigate a snowball fight with the others every year, despite them claiming they hate them. He’s got a great arm and once one of the others get hit by a well-timed snowball in the back of their head or to their butt, Caleb knows they just can’t resist.

Tyler has a weird one, but since he’s started driving, he really finds that he likes long winter drives. He doesn’t want to drive in a full white-out blizzard or anything, though he knows he could, but a drive on a quiet winter day, with light snow coming down? It’s wonderful to him. There’s something calming and beautiful, in his mind, with the white flakes hitting the windshield, hearing the sound of the car’s tire’s crunching over the snow, heated seat nice against his legs, maybe some low Christmas music coming from the radio, just driving to nowhere in particular as he watches the world slowly get coated in white. Top it up to a stop at some random diner he discovers for a meal and he’s in heaven.

Reid’s parents have a hot tub that they maintain all year long and one of his favourite things in winter is to get in the hot tub. While it is protected by a roof and two walls (there’s sliding glass doors leading from the house to this enclosure that make up the back wall), he likes the contrast of the hot water and jets relaxing his muscles and warming him up with the cool air outside. It’s even better if he can manage to sneak a drink or two from the family’s well-stocked bar. Enjoying the hot tub with a stiff drink in hand, watching the snow fall and just relaxing? There’s nothing better.

Chase’s favourite part of winter? Escaping it, if at all possible, and travelling to somewhere warm. He’s a snowbird at heart and winter is best celebrated in places like Florida, in his mind.

[spacetimewithstuartgary]

Can Life Exist on an Icy Moon? NASA’s Europa Clipper Aims to Find Out

With a spacecraft launching soon, the mission will try to answer the question of whether there are ingredients suitable for life in the ocean below Europa’s icy crust.

Deep down, in an ocean beneath its ice shell, Jupiter’s moon Europa might be temperate and nutrient-rich, an ideal environment for some form of life — what scientists would call “habitable.” NASA’s Europa Clipper mission aims to find out.

NASA now is targeting launch no earlier than Monday, Oct. 14, on a SpaceX Falcon Heavy rocket from Launch Complex 39A at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center in Florida.

Europa Clipper’s elongated, looping orbit around Jupiter will minimize the spacecraft’s exposure to intense radiation while allowing it to dive in for close passes by Europa. Using a formidable array of instruments for each of the mission’s 49 flybys, scientists will be able to “see” how thick the moon’s icy shell is and gain a deeper understanding of the vast ocean beneath. They’ll inventory material on the surface that might have come up from below, search for the fingerprints of organic compounds that form life’s building blocks, and sample any gases ejected from the moon for evidence of habitability.

Mission scientists will analyze the results, probing beneath the moon’s frozen shell for signs of a water world capable of supporting life.

“It’s important to us to paint a picture of what that alien ocean is like — the kind of chemistry or even biochemistry that could be happening there,” said Morgan Cable, an astrobiologist and member of the Europa Clipper science team at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Southern California, which manages the mission.

Ice Investigation

Central to that work is hunting for the types of salts, ices, and organic material that make up the key ingredients of a habitable world. That’s where an imager called MISE (Mapping Imaging Spectrometer for Europa) comes in. Operating in the infrared, the spacecraft’s MISE divides reflected light into various wavelengths to identify the corresponding atoms and molecules.

The mission will also try to locate potential hot spots near Europa’s surface, where plumes could bring deep ocean material closer to the surface, using an instrument called E-THEMIS (Europa Thermal Emission Imaging System), which also operates in the infrared.

Capturing sharply detailed pictures of Europa’s surface with both a narrow and a wide-image camera is the task of the EIS (Europa Imaging System). “The EIS imagers will give us incredibly high-resolution images to understand how Europa’s surface evolved and is continuing to change,” Cable said.

Gases and Grains

NASA’s Cassini mission spotted a giant plume of water vapor erupting from multiple jets near the south pole of Saturn’s ice-covered moon Enceladus. Europa may also emit misty plumes of water, pulled from its ocean or reservoirs in its shell. Europa Clipper’s instrument called Europa-UVS (Europa Ultraviolet Spectrograph) will search for plumes and can study any material that might be venting into space.

Whether or not Europa has plumes, the spacecraft carries two instruments to analyze the small amount of gas and dust particles ejected from the moon’s surface by impacts with micrometeorites and high-energy particles: MASPEX (MAss SPectrometer for Planetary EXploration/Europa) and SUDA (SUrface Dust Analyzer) will capture the tiny pieces of material ejected from the surface, turning them into charged particles to reveal their composition.

“The spacecraft will study gas and grains coming off Europa by sticking out its tongue and tasting those grains, breathing in those gases,” said Cable.

Inside and Out

The mission will look at Europa’s external and internal structure in various ways, too, because both have far-reaching implications for the moon’s habitability.

To gain insights into the ice shell’s thickness and the ocean’s existence, along with its depth and salinity, the mission will measure the moon’s induced magnetic field with the ECM (Europa Clipper Magnetometer) and combine that data with measurements of electrical currents from charged particles flowing around Europa — data provided by PIMS (Plasma Instrument for Magnetic Sounding).

In addition, scientists will look for details on everything from the presence of the ocean to the structure and topography of the ice using REASON (Radar for Europa Assessment and Sounding to Near-surface), which will peer up to 18 miles (29 kilometers) into the shell — itself a potentially habitable environment. Measuring the changes that Europa’s gravity causes in radio signals should help nail down ice thickness and ocean depth.

“Non-icy materials on the surface could get moved into deep interior pockets of briny water within the icy shell,” said Steve Vance, an astrobiologist and geophysicist who also is a member of the Europa Clipper science team at JPL. “Some might be large enough to be considered lakes, or at least ponds.”

Using the data gathered to inform extensive computer modeling of Europa’s interior structure also could reveal the ocean’s composition and allow estimates of its temperature profile, Vance said.

Whatever conditions are discovered, the findings will open a new chapter in the search for life beyond Earth. “It’s almost certain Europa Clipper will raise as many questions or more than it answers — a whole different class than the ones we’ve been thinking of for the last 25 years,” Vance said.

TOP IMAGE: This artist’s concept (not to scale) depicts what Europa’s internal structure could look like: an outer shell of ice, perhaps with plumes of material venting from beneath the surface; a deep, global layer of liquid water; and a rocky interior, potentially with hydrothermal vents on the seafloor. Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech

LOWER IMAGE: The puzzling surface of Jupiter’s icy moon Europa looms large in this reprocessed color view made from images taken by NASA’s Galileo spacecraft in the late 1990s. The images were assembled into a realistic color view of the surface that approximates how Europa would appear to the human eye. Credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech/SETI Institute

[tomorrowusa]

We really do need to be concerned about NOAA. Nitwits with Sharpies are no substitute for professional weather forecasting.

Forecasters at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) predict “above-average” activity this season, with six to 10 hurricanes. The season runs from June 1 to November 30. At least three of those storms will be Category 3 or higher, the forecasters project, meaning they will have gusts reaching at least 111 miles per hour. Other reputable forecasts predict a similarly active 2025 season with around nine hurricanes. Last year, there were 11 Atlantic hurricanes, whereas the average for 1991 to 2020 was just over seven, according to hurricane researchers at Colorado State University. A highly active hurricane season is obviously never a good thing, especially for people living in places like Florida, Louisiana, and, apparently, North Carolina (see: Hurricane Helene, the deadliest inland hurricane on record). Even when government agencies that forecast and respond to severe storms — namely, NOAA and the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) — are fully staffed and funded, big hurricanes inflict billions of dollars of damage, and they cost lives. Under the Trump administration, however, these agencies are not well staffed and face steep budget cuts. Hundreds of government employees across these agencies have been fired or left, including those involved in hurricane forecasting. What could go wrong?

Warm seas act like jet fuel for developing storms. The Caribbean and the adjacent Gulf of Mexico have been getting hotter and hotter.

If this sounds familiar, that’s because the Caribbean has been unusually warm for a while now. That was a key reason why the 2024 and 2023 hurricane seasons were so active. Warm ocean water, and its ability to help form and then intensify hurricanes, is one of the clearest signals — and consequences — of climate change. Data indicates that climate change has made current temperatures in parts of the Caribbean and near Florida several (and in some cases 30 to 60) times more likely.

Thanks to DOGE, we have fewer forecasters studying worsening conditions.

[U]nder the Trump administration, hundreds of workers at NOAA have been fired or otherwise pushed out, which threatens the accuracy of weather forecasts that can help save lives. FEMA has also lost employees, denied requests for hurricane relief, and is reportedly ending door-to-door canvassing in disaster regions designed to help survivors access government aid.

Forecasting depends on observations and taking readings. There's less of that under Trump.

As my colleague Umair Irfan has reported, the National Weather Service is also launching weather balloons less frequently, due to staffing cuts. Those balloons measure temperature, humidity, and windspeed, providing data that feeds into forecasts.

Perhaps the only thing that might cause a reversal of this stupidity in the near future is back-to-back direct hits by hurricanes at Mar-a-Lago and the SpaceX launch site near the Texas-Mexico border.

Related: Trump disasters will become more expensive...

Trump​ Is Going to Raise Your Insurance Premiums

[mariacallous]

David W. Brown Brown has been writing about NASA and space since 2010.

Usually, when I write about NASA the research points me to primordial asteroids, or icy oceans inside radioactive moons. This is the first NASA story to point me to a Total Wine & More in Palm Beach County, Florida. The Trump Administration and Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency are indiscriminately firing federal workers and cancelling contracts, and I wanted to know what DOGE’s presence would precipitate at NASA headquarters.

As I pieced together the story, publishing today, I heard one name more than any other: Darren Bossie. The new White House liaison to NASA, Bossie seems to be an embodiment of Trump in the hallways of the agency’s headquarters. I’d never heard of him. But I knew that who he was would be telling of Trump’s agenda. I found Bossie’s profile on LinkedIn. To my astonishment, he’d spent the bulk of his professional life as an assistant manager of a Total Wine & More. (The NASA community was surprised, too. “Cannot make this stuff up,” someone wrote on the Jet Propulsion Laboratory subreddit.) I called every Total Wine & More location in the area, repeatedly, hoping to speak with someone who remembered him. I talked with many people, but found only one who did.

Details on Darren Bossie were hard to pin down. There was a David N. Bossie, the president of Citizens United—yes, that Citizens United, whose 2010 court case upended American democracy by allowing corporations unlimited political spending—and a fervent Trump supporter. I couldn’t find any wedding announcements or obituaries connecting the two men, but my editor, Daniel A. Gross, found the names of David’s parents in the dedication of a book he’d co-authored. Our search of public records finally placed all of them—David, Darren, mom, and dad—at the same address in the nineteen-eighties. The family connection shed some light on Darren Bossie’s sudden rise.

In my fifteen years covering NASA, I’ve never seen its workers so concerned—not just about individual projects, but about the agency’s core values. The Administration wants co-workers to snitch on one another. Employees are removing pride flags for fear of being targeted, and using Signal for everyday correspondence. It’s also remarkable that the White House seemed to preëmpt NASA when we reached out for comment, responding on the agency’s behalf—a first in all my reporting. Musk’s reusable rockets revolutionized the way NASA operates, but his MAGA politics now threaten the agency’s bipartisan support. Space exploration is a human endeavor, and acolytes like Bossie seem to be helping Trump remake NASA in his own image. What will this mean for the final frontier?

[feelingravityspull]

Thinking about traveling somewhere this spring, maybe even to Europe. Spain seems so romantic, the dry hills and sleepy afternoons, or Italy, which almost seems too obvious a choice, with the art and history and everything. I have a friend who's managed to travel all over with very modest means, and I thought: very little of interest has happened in my life, and it's really been a matter of personal choice and timidity. So maybe it's about time.

I lost all my pictures from my California trip from two falls ago, but my girlfriend sent me this picture, flying over the Sierra Nevada:

A year before that was my trip to Florida with my family. Florida (and California) was very beautiful, and two moments in particular often return, that (forgive the prose) I hold in my palm like two little gems: one, a quiet morning in late April, the sunlight falling so dazzlingly through the leaves, alone except for the small lizards and an ibis, a bird that seemed to me to step out of myth onto the board walk in front of me. And another: we'd rented jet-skis and taken them out into the Gulf. They're so loud and brash, jet-skis, fun for sure -- but after a while we all slowed to a stop, and it was silent so far out, the condos and hotels distant on the white sand and the still waters stretching on endlessly. I hopped off to float for a while. It was a peaceful feeling, kind of uncertain and undefined but still peaceful. Those are just the kind of innocuous little things that stick with me.

When I was little, and my grandmother was still alive, we'd take summer vacations out in Montauk, at the easternmost tip of my Long Island. It was usually just us kids, my mother and hers, for a few days in the summer. We had so much fun, though it was essentially the same beach we had at home. I can remember bonfires on the beach at night, and misty days when the sand, sky and roaring waves all blended together in the same white. Gram seemed to always be smiling, always singing some little song she'd made up, just to share some of her joy. She had a favorite store in town, a little cramped knick-knacks and odds-and-ends type place; we'd walk the few blocks from the hotel and she'd sing, "A Lit-tle Bit of Ev-'ry-thing!"

She always loved to shop. She never drove, so she'd take the bus down to the mall where she could spend all day. Maybe she liked the faux-urban environment of a shopping mall out in suburbia. She was a city girl at heart and was resistant when my grandfather decided to white-flight out of Brooklyn to the middle of nowhere -- "the sticks" as she called it. On weekends, they'd drive out from the city to see their new house being built, a cookie-cutter American split level with barely enough room to fit their five kids and mother-in-law. My mother, number six, was the only sibling born outside of Brooklyn, a fact she resents.

My grandmother died when I was seven, some 16 years before her husband. He grieved for a long, long time. He loved her dearly, and he showed it. With us kids in the car, he would play his John Denver CD, and cry, and cry, and cry. He was of that type of big-strong-military man, but he was never afraid to show his love, to his wife especially. She was different. My grandfather told me, years after her death, how she was embarrassed to hold hands with him, or sit together on the couch with company around. He came from money, apparently, a well-to-do family, raised the right way. She didn't. Her father was a drunk. They met as teenagers, on the train in the 40s. Damn, what was I talking about again?

[sergeifyodorov]

Any interest in grading everyone’s first day of free agency? Would love to hear your thoughts!!

ooh okay ! well as tuned in as i am i didn't catch everything so this is going to be pretty incomplete/fairly uninformed but here's my attempt:

boston bruins: that zadorov contract LOL AND LMAO (i say as if hes not going to immediately skyrocket to excellence.) that lindholm contract might be even worse with the same caveat. A+ for me, a hater

buffalo sabres: what did they even do? C.

detroit red wings: kane is a bad move + jack campbell is fine at that contract + cam talbot is the epitome of "goalies? what's up with goalies?" + why do they have 4 goalies now. C-

florida panthers: lost montour, lost oel, lost lomberg. that reinhart contract is really good though. C+

montreal canadiens: if slaf continues on his upward trajectory that contract looks great; if he doesn't, they're already bad so it doesn't matter all that much. B

ottawa senators: what did they even do? get noah gregor? i hear he's very fast. C.

tampa bay lightning: where do i even start with this one

toronto maple leafs: the problem w/ all of the leafs' acquisitions is that they are Fine, some of them even Good, but they're just overpaid enough for me to not only get annoyed about it but also see 30 ft of insufferably rancid discourse every time i open twitter. B+

carolina hurricanes: appear to have lost half the guys i remember being on their roster, but the one dude they did end up signing was one of the small handful of good deals i saw handed out today. C

columbus blue jackets: this team's quality does not matter. you know what does matter? gaudreau/monahan reunion. A

new jersey devils: brett pesce's good. B+

new york islanders: anthony duclair's good but i mourn what lou lamoriello will make him do with his hair. C+

new york rangers: what did they even do. C.

philadelphia flyers: MATVEI MICHKOV IS COMING. TELL YOUR FRIENDS, TELL YOUR ENEMIES, TELL TRAVIS KONECNY, TELL EVERYONE!!! A

pittsburgh penguins: incredibly committed to the bit of only signing players over 30 and they don't have poj back yet. C

washington capitals: genuine home runs in here. chychrun... pld... matt roy... didn't even give out valuable picks to acquire these assets! A

chicago blackhawks: i think they're trying to crawl out of this rebuild with no other serious potential core members other than bedard, which don't get me wrong is a bad move, but i also think they're not doing a terrible job of crawling out of the rebuild. B

colorado avalanche: kept jo drouin. C+

dallas stars: lyubushkin is incredibly bad and they gave him 3.25 aav. and casey desmith is there. F

minnesota wild: extended one of the sexiest toothless men on earth jake middleton. A

nashville predators: A+

st louis blues: what did they even do. C

utah hockey club: that durzi price is a bit steep but hey, if you've never had the money before i guess you might as well spend it. also sergachev was a BALLSY move i will miss you my cunty mistress. also we (the nhl) have a fucking iginla again... for our health. we need an iginla. B-

winnipeg jets: what did they even do. C

anaheim ducks: what did they even do. C

calgary flames: sharangovich extension + anthony mantha. tidy bit of business. zayne parekh YOU are the 2025 calder trophy winner. C+

edmonton oilers: managed to get a couple good players on nice cheap contracts, improved their rush game even more somehow, and will have to re-print their goalie's jerseys because they now have two different guys named skinner. A

la kings: gave joel edmundson nearly 4 million dollars a year. D

seattle kraken: stole brandon montour from florida. B+

san jose sharks: unlike the hawks, seem to be actively prepared to break out of the rebuild and trying to do it. toffoli? great! wennberg? a little overpaid but they're trying to hit the cap floor at this point so it's quite good! rumours of pavs return to san jose but you didn't hear it from me. B+

vancouver canucks: jake debrusk is gonna be a good linemate for petey imho. the hronek and myers contracts were a little rich but honestly they seem to be a lot more coherent ideologically than they were just a couple years ago. B

vegas golden knights: basically lost every remaining original misfit/otherwise quality forward in an effort to keep marchessault, and then lost marchessault anyway to the Power Of Divorce. and now they have ilya samsonov as their starting goaltender. F

[sophaeros]

the strokes for rip it up - new zealand, october/november 2001 / no. 283 — print version web version

Simple Scruffy Spunks

Scruffy rock stars get all the chicks. Julie Warmington and Kylie Klein Nixon corner the dashingly shaggy boys from the Strokes in London — once at an interview, then at a party — and find they just wanna drink and rock.

Meeting Julian Casablancas is like meeting living proof that rock'n'roll will never die. The 22-year-old New Yorker and singer with the Strokes should be embracing the "now" culture of many of his peers. He should be scrupulously clean, drug and booze free, heading down to Florida for the summer break with a pretty blond on his arm and Basement Jaxx on his personal MP3 player.

But he's not. Rip It Up still hasn't met him. He's in bed, hungover and refusing to get up. He is unwashed, jet lagged and beer crusted. Yay! We don't mind. When he finally does show, two hours late for the day's round of interviews, he's dishevelled and rye. His grin is about as infectious as rabies and he is, quite frankly, sexy as fuck.

"Hey, this is new," notes band manager Ryan Gentles, who’s been sitting fretting in the hotel lobby for what appears to be half the night and all of the morning. He's referring to Julian's tan La Coste jumper, not the attitude.

When we get our turn at the Strokes info trough, the boys are tucking into Thai rice and a round of amber nectar. It's 1pm. Handshakes and suitably half-arsed "nice to meet yous" are flung at us and we wade in.

"New Zealand," bellows Fabrizio "Call Me Fab" Moretti (drummer) when he hears the article is for Rip It Up. "Man, that's supposed to be a beautiful place. I have a friend who went there on an exchange, he said it was really cool." Aww, how sweet, he's heard of us. So when are you gonna go play there? "Dunno," whispers bass player Nicolai Fraiture shyly, "but we're going to Australia next month." Ah, great. Let's move on shall we?

—

"The coolest band on the planet", "the saviours of rock", playing on the catwalks of New York and Paris, hounded, followed and adored. Rumours abound — their names are made up, they were put together by the lead singer's dad (John Casablancas, founder of the Elite Model Agency), they're constantly fighting with each other, they're constantly fighting with strangers, they drink to much, they're gay, they're straight, they're homophobes. Everybody wants to know everything they can. But one thing is sure, The Strokes are roundly agreed to be the quintessential rock band, the "great white hope" of nu-rock'n'roll. They're more than that.

They're five guys who hooked up in high school with a shared interest in booze, girls and guitars. Casablancas (the vocals, wit, sex, and charm behind The Strokes) met Nicky Valensi* (the guitar playing, gorgeously cynical, faux English schoolboy) at New York City's Drake School before being shipped off to L'Institut Le Rosey in Switzerland for some "discipline". It was here that Casablancas bonded with Albert Hammond Jnr (dead pan and wised-up afro with a guitar).

Seems the Hammonds were having the same problems as Casablancas. Neither Julian nor Albert has anything particularly nice to say about the school, apart from adoring it for introducing them to each other. A year later Julian would be re-united with Nicky and meet up with Nicolai Fraiture (bass, stoically shy and sweet) and Fabrizio Moretti (drummer, earnest and excitable, all round ace guy) at The Dwight School on Manhattan's Upper West Side.

When fate drew Albert to the Big Apple via Los Angeles (his songwriting father, Albert Hammond, wrote It Never Rains In Southern California), Julian was the first person he looked up. Luckily the first vestiges of The Strokes had already been formed and all they needed was another guitarist. Albert was their man.

They performed together — properly — for the first time in 1998. There are stories floating around about debuts at Nicky's sister's 21st birthday and seedy bars in the village. Almost all these stories they will admit, are true. So they slowly built up up a reputation until finally getting booked at New York's Mercury Lounge. There they met Ryan Gentles, who became their manager. The Strokes were complete.

The rest will be history, as premature as that might be for a band who have just released their debut album, Is This It?.

So what are they all about? Besides saving us from the glut of pre-masticated pop and souls stifling dance, what are their hopes and ambitions?

Playing music and doing their stuff, by all accounts. Their stuff: a sublime mix of 70s New York City and noughty's savvy. Fashion flash and strep throats, with a smattering of anglophilia to match the op-shop chic. Garage soul-sensibilities and themes as diverse as personal disgust and underage lust.

We discover that Julian always roots for the underdog and doesn't "really give a fuck about baseball," and that the last time Albert cried was "as the plane was taking off". For Fab it was when Nicky's girlfriend dumped him (for the cute one from Weezer no less). At this, Nicky leaps to his feet to sing, Don't Cry For Me Fabrizio, at the top of his lungs.

"The Beatles hated each other, but we love each other," Nicky says. To prove the point they all agree that if they could only take five things to a desert island they would take each other and their manager. That is until Julian demands that one band member opt out so they can "take something more useful like a girl, or our fucking instruments". Just in time Nicky reasons that they can make their instruments out of coconuts and bamboo.

The band is open and unguarded — they want to chat. Chiefly with each other, but it's fine just being around this kind of energy.

Julian F. Casablancas. Nicholai Fraiture. Fabrizio Moretti. Nicky Valensi. Albert Hammond Jnr. The Strokes have got cool names. "I guess we just had cool parents who chose our names," chimes Fab. "My mom was like: (mock Italian accent) 'I think this boy will be a rocking roll star'."

The table then descends into chaos and spilt pints as they discuss the finer moments of Mrs. Moretti's experience. "But," adds Fab soberly, "she didn't know I was only going to be a drummer... she was too extravagant."

—

They take themselves seriously, oh yes. The album, Is This It?, took them one month to record... 30 days. It is the product of their "salad days" gigging around Manhattan and Philadelphia.

"That's why it works so well," says Fab, "we've had a really really long time to perfect the album outside the studio... an album that's who we are as The Strokes."

Who they are is a piece of carefully crafted art that will move you from the groin on out. A record to be cherished for its ability to make you smile and get up. Surely this is the wonder of Is This It? It's rock'n'roll that makes ya wanna move.

After experimenting with a different producer, namely Gil Norton of Husker Du and Pixies fame, the boys went back to their old friend Gordon Raphael who originally produced their three song EP Modern Age. They wanted to cut back on production, as Albert says, "To keep it true to the live set."

They all agree that Norton was great, but not for them. "Doing things professionally doesn't fit with our style," the lax and by now pissed voice of Julian crawls across the table. "If we stay raw it sounds, like... great."

Talk about understated. On the track Take It Or Leave It you can hear this man's tonsils crying out for mercy, you can smell the blood on Albert's shirt sleeves. This ain't no Radiohead mate.

They just wanna rock, and drink. Which has to be admired.

They're so un-phased by the media's insistence on linking them to The Velvet Underground, The Stooges, The Ramones and any number of late 70s New York punk they care to mention. Is This It? isn't going to shatter anyone's illusions about what these boys want to sound like.

"What a cool band to be compared to," admits Julian about The Velvet Underground. He means a band that's beloved and credible, different and weird... not to mention fucking good. "It's sorta a subconscious goal to have music that cool, but actually make it popular... a cool way to make popular music more interesting."

Rip It Up demands an explanation for so suddenly signing to majorinos RCA then. A chorus of oohs and ahhs goes up around the table before the earnest protestations that RCA are the best of a bad bunch. They do look slightly... defensive? Albert pipes up: "It's like being bisexual. Yeah, you get the best of both worlds."

The rest of the band agrees. "They just give us money and stay out of our way," says Nicky, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

Are they unrepentant about signing to a major? "I had the fucking head of RCA on the phone 4 o'clock in the morning," states Julian, "telling me how much he loved the album." Yes indeed.

Why is this not sickening? Why are the credibility censors not in overdrive? Because this is a band pure and simple. Mates who saw the spark reflected in each other. And they ain't that pretty, or well dressed. OK they are, but the point is, they just are. The Strokes were always going to happen thank Christ. A wake-up call for the apathetic. No slouching unless you mean it.

Julian says: "I wanted to make the music sound like it was from 30 years ago, but being heard now. With everything that entails. Do you understand?" If he means pared down and honest to the point of embarrassing, then yes. "Or the other way, like music from the future heard now."

True, Is This It? sounds a lot like it's something you dug out of your dad's wardrobe where the band on the cover are all wearing winkle pickers, whatever they are. There's more though, it's an understanding and knowledge that blasts the naïveté of 60s garage out into space.

Julian's descriptive powers and the knowledge aside, aren't they worried they'll lose this edge? Money, girls and power have wrecked havoc with better men than them. "But who cares as long as it sounds like we want," mutters a very distracted Nicky, only putting his head up occasionally from his magazine. "I mean, rawness, maybe we will want it more produced if that's what we like."

And herein lies the rub. In a perfect world RCA would not through money at these kids. RCA would ignore them no matter how good they actually were, no matter how much they want the cotton wool cosseting of the Big League. The band would have to work, creating themselves every step of the way. Paying their dues and becoming in the end a band utterly worthy of the 'great white hope' tag that has been hung carelessly on their coat hanger shoulders.

Will hype drown the creative spark? The worry is that in six months time no one's going to give a fig about Fab's broken hand, and Julian's dad, anymore than they'll care about any second album.

—

A few days later we bump into The Strokes lending moral support to fellow New York City space cadets, the Moldy Peaches, at their first London gig. The boys are high as heaven having come straight from the BBC where they recorded three songs for the legendary Top of the Pops. "Man," wails Julian, resplendent in pink silk tie and shiny grey suit jacket. "It was so fucking cool. It fuckin' rocked."

Fab is more sedate. "I can't believe we did it, but I fucked it up." Surely not? "I was so nervous I kept making mistakes. I sucked." But watching their performance on the show later it is easy to see that this is a band still on the rise, perfectionism aside, they control the stage, the cameras and above all, the hearts and souls of an audience more accustomed to Shaggy and Nelly Furtado. The fact that they’re on TOTP's at all (their single Hard To Explain entered the UK charts in the top 20 on a wave of passion and media hype) speaks volumes about the music buying public's desire for some Goddamn grunt.

At their epoch marking, celebrity studded, sold out show at Heaven in London, tickets are changing hands for £150 (NZ$500). The after party — the place is in a frenzy. The boys can barely move for the cameras clicking, autographs to be signed and girls hanging off every thread of their thrift store suits.

"I've been trying to get to the other side of the room for the last hour," Julian says incredulously. He's separated from his mates as they are accosted from all sides.

Nicky is posing in a photograph for a fan. Nicolai is signing a CD. Albert is being followed and literally clawed by a young female. It is as if she senses this is her only chance before he gets blasted into the rock pantheon. Fabrizio escapes the seething mass, broken hand in a sling (sadly replaced temporarily half way through their UK and Australian tour with Strokes friend Matt Romano), opting to talk to people outside the guest pass zone.

They have made it, with all that this entails. Young, talented, beautiful, cool and full of charisma, it seems that the rock and roll glitterati is at their blessed rock'n'roll feet. Hype and fashion aside, the music stands for itself. This is what we've been waiting for.

—

*Note 16/03/2025: Rip It Up appears to have gotten Nick and Nikolai mixed up. Julian and Nikolai were the ones who met first.

—

Stroke it

by Scott Kara

It’s nothing new, but God bless The Strokes. The comparisons between The Strokes and some bands from the past are obvious. Remember the first time you heard Nirvana's Nevermind or the Pixies Surfer Rosa and every damn song on the album was catchy –- well, that is true for the Strokes debut Is This it?

Even the band themselves make no secret of the formula behind their success. Julian Casablancas told Rip it Up: “I had this idea to make is This It? (their debut album] sound like music heard in the future, from 30 years ago.*

It's no surprise The Strokes stripped back gargle hails from New York, the home to the Ramones and Television.

At present American rock is known for either nu-metal - Linkin Park, Mudvayne, Limp Bizkit - or the clean and "nice" variety - Incubus, Train, Staind and Lifehouse. So it's a relief to have something as simple, raw and raunchy as The Strokes.

It makes you recall the past golden era of some American bands who paved the way for the Strokes like the Pixies, Husker Du, Sonic Youth and of course, Pavement.

As an indication of the influence these American bands had on world music take a look at Pavement front man, Stephen Malkmus. This low-key, lo-fi singer/guitarist is credited with inspiring Blur's true break-through album, The Great Escape.

Malkmus used to be friends with Blur's Damon Albarn but since Blur "ripped off" Pavement's signature sound on albums 13 and Blur, the relationship has been touchy. Malkmus is also credited with having some influence over Radiohead's OK Computer.

But if the USA has Malkmus and Pavement, then England would argue that they have Mark E Smith and the Fall. And if the USA and England have their patron saints of simple, clanging and banging music then New Zealand bands like The Clean, the Verlaines and Straitjacket Fits can claim some part in The Strokes DNA.

These so-called Flying Nun bands were a huge influence on Stephen Malkmus. "For me it was the years 1986 - 1990 when I was into Flying Nun," he told Rip It Up in April this year upon the release of his latest solo album."I went off to college and got into punk and New Zealand music. It was kind of poppy and jangly but it was slightly underground." What better way to describe The Strokes?

Clean, clang, bang

THE AMERICANS:

Ramones

Ramones (1976)

Blitzkrieg Bop was the Ramones first anthem. Rock’n’roll stripped back to its bare essentials — four chords, catchy tunes and deliciously daft words.

Television

Marquee Moon (1977)

The Strokes could very well be Television. But the difference is, Television played three-minute songs as well as ten-minute songs.

Husker Du

New Day Rising (1985)

Sonic three-man guitar rock. The opening assault of New Day Rising could just as well have signaled Apocalypse rising.

Sonic Youth

Daydream Nation (1989)

If the Ramones were simple, catchy rock’n’roll then Sonic Youth were simple, catchy, noise. Whether you’re sailing Cross The Breeze or riding a Silver Rocket — it’s a trip.

Pavement

Slanted and Enchanted (1992)

Debatable whether this is their best work but it’s what the public wanted and apparently what Blur — and Radiohead to a certain extent — needed.

THE BRITS:

The Fall

458489 A-Sides (1990)

This album encompasses the mid to late 80s when the Fall was at their arty, deviant best. Everything from warped opener Oh Brother! to the jaunt of Dead Beat Descendent.

THE NEW ZEALANDERS

The Clean

Boodle, Boodle, Boodle (1981)

Simple, catchy and child-like. It’s music that became uniquely Kiwi sounding and is a sound that many overseas still associate most strongly with NZ.

The Chills

Kaleidoscope World (1984)

This eight-song collection included everything from the dark foreboding Pink Frost to the rollicking Rolling Moon and the flutter of Kaleidoscope World.

The Bats

Daddy’s Highway

Noisy country pop music you can stage dive to. Their line up read like a mini NZ-super group including Robert Scott (ex-Clean) and Paul Kean (ex-Toy Love).

Straitjacket Fits

Melt (1990)

Shayne Carter (now Dimmer’s head honcho) has a unique voice and shows on Melt his genius songwriting talents. She Speeds might not be here, but who cares.

The Verlaines

Hallelujah All The Way Home (1985)

Graeme Dowqnes (see story over page) is a poet and story teller and puts it to music. He now teaches the rock’n’roll degree at Otago University.

[trulybetty]

october | 09 x ravens

pairing: frankie x f!reader word count: 719 warnings: smoking, as always unbeta'd summary: it's been over a week since Frankie was supposed to be home, an ominous sign brings news. ao3: linked

{ x. series masterlist }

author note: prompts are not in chronological order, the story is told throughout the life span of the relationship. once all are posted, I'll post a list of the prompts in chronological order.

09 x Ravens.

The cigarette felt foreign between your fingers, its weight wrong, like it didn’t belong to you. You didn’t smoke, in the past maybe the odd one here and there, but never a habit. You took another drag, feeling the harshness of it in your lungs—it wasn’t even one of your own. It was one of Frankie’s. His secret stash he thought you didn’t know about. He’d promised—sworn—that he was done with it, quit finally for good. However, the pack remained a quiet lie tucked away. It felt fitting somehow. 

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, casting the yard in the dim hazy light of early evening. Everything felt thick—the air, your head, the suffocating silence that had grown louder with each passing day since Frankie left for Colombia. 

Your hand shook as you tapped the ash against the side of the porch, staring out at the yard, hoping the nicotine would calm the anxious pit in your stomach. But nothing could settle the gnawing dread that had taken root there days ago.

Three days. That’s how long this ‘consulting’ trip was supposed to last. Maybe four, tops. But now it had been over a week. You hadn’t heard a word from Frankie since his plane touched down in Colombia. No calls, no texts, nothing. It was like he’d vanished off the face of the earth.

You flicked the ash again, biting down on your bottom lip as you remembered how casually he’d mentioned it. Just some quick work with Pope, babe, it’s nothing. In and out. A week, max. You’d been through this before, but something about this time had felt different. Maybe it was the fact that Santiago had managed to get everyone involved, including Tom, or maybe it was the way Frankie had hesitated before kissing you goodbye, like he knew something you didn’t.

The smoke curled from your lips as you exhaled slowly, your phone buzzed in your pocket startling you. Without even checking the screen you knew who it wasn’t. You’d been ignoring Molly’s calls for days. She was desperate for answers like you, but you couldn’t face her—nor the others, not when you knew no more than any of them did. Every call from each one of them felt like salt in the wound. None of you had any information. What would it do to talk to them when you were all in the same boat, stranded without a word?

It was supposed to be a simple recon mission, in and out, nothing dangerous, but the silence spoke volumes.

As you took another drag, holding the smoke in your lungs, like it’d fill the void in your chest. Your eyes caught movement at the edge of the yard. There, perched on the fence, was a raven. Its jet-black feathers gleamed against the setting sun, a stark contrast to the greenery of the garden. You froze as it stared back at you, its beady eyes locked on you.

You blinked, momentarily confused. Ravens weren’t supposed to here—certainly not in Florida. They were rare, seldom seen. And yet, there it was, staring at you as if it had come with a message, its head cocked slightly, watching, waiting. A shiver ran down your spine, your pulse quickening, a chill creeping over you despite the sticky warmth of the evening.

You took a step forward, the cigarette forgotten between your fingers, as if to confront it and if its presence had some significance. It tilted its head, watching you. But before you could even take a full step forward it flapped its wings with a loud rustle and took off. The sound of its departure was unnerving in the stillness of the evening. 

You exhaled slowly trying to settle the unsettled beating of your heart as you took a final drag of your cigarette. Just as you started to stub it out on the railing, your phone buzzed in your pocket in quick succession. Notifications pinged one after the other in rapid succession. You pulled it from your pocket, the screen lit up in your hand, notifications still buzzing though as an incoming call waited for a response. Your heart skipped a beat and the nicotine that once served as a quiet buzz now made your stomach churn as you read the caller ID.

Frankie.