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lambsouvlaki · 1 year ago

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For the Hell of It - Anniversary

Characters: Jason Todd x fem!oc

Rating and warnings: G, no warnings.

Word count: 1,800

Summary: After two years together, Jason takes her out somewhere special for their anniversary.

Masterlist

It was mid morning when Jason called.

That was deeply unusual, this month especially. He had been so busy lately she barely saw him except for the days she got up and found him dead to the world on the other side of her bed.

Idly cataloguing the possible reasons for the call, Andy turned down the radio and stepped away from her laptop.

A serious injury? Unlikely, that call typically came from Alfred and would have happened three hours ago. Location compromised, maybe? Pretty good chance, although it wasn’t usually a call but an emergency alert telling her to get her ass out the door. Maybe he was loopy on fear-toxin antidote again and needed to hear she was still alive.

Most likely situation was Jason calling to tell her he was leaving the country, or the planet, or possibly the universe. Given the timing, it would be… well. Not crushing, but disappointing.

Two years into this relationship, she knew better than to get too precious about calendar dates.

“Hello?” she said with a jaunty tilt of her head. No pre-emptive sulking, she refused.

“Hey beautiful,” Jason’s voice came through the little speaker. It was warm and low. “I’ve missed your voice.”

Her eyebrows rose and relief lit up her face. “Did you just? I’ve got a presentation tomorrow that needs some rehearsing, want to listen to my dulcet tones talk about community support funding?”

He laughed. “I would actually, but I’d rather hear the whole story from the beginning. Are you free this saturday?”

“Hmm, am I free this saturday?” she drawled. “On our anniversary?”

“Yup, that saturday.”

“Why, yes, baby, I think I am. Why do you ask?”

“You’re not free anymore. I’m calling dibs.”

“Oh?” She dared to feel not just relief but anticipation.

“8pm. I’ll come get you.”

“Alright. How am I dressing? Steel capped boots? Running shoes? Ballet flats?” She had learned the vital importance of this question since going out with him. Jason’s plans were best faced prepared.

“Heels,” he said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. “Wear that slinky red number you hide at the back of the closet.”

She paused. Of course he’d seen it. “I’ve… never actually worn that before.”

“What did you get it for then?” he asked, teasing.

“Oh, you know. Maybe I’ll get invited to the Oscars.”

He laughed, low and promising. “I’ll make you feel like you did.”

She bit her lip. She was grinning like an idiot, alone in her own apartment. Two years in and she could still melt her with a word.

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you Saturday, sweetheart.”

They hung up and she drifted to her closet, eyeing up the dress.

He couldn’t make their first anniversary. The planet was under an invasion while Bruce was off-world dealing with some other, separate invasion, so Jason and Dick split up cowl temping duties. Dick went to go play Batman with the Justice League and Jason stayed to play Batman in Gotham.

He was more than capable of it and the average criminal didn’t even realise there was a different guy under the cowl. They just thought Batman was feeling extra mean this month. But it more than doubled his workload.

It didn’t blindside her. They were both disappointed but didn’t make a fuss, they had a system in place for these things. Both made compromises and extended grace to the other, and their relationship was stronger for it.

All the same, when Saturday night rolled around and she heard the purr of a car rolling up outside, excitement fizzed in her chest like bubbles in champagne.

She put on her finishing touches and went out to meet him.

Jason waited for her in a perfectly tailored black suit. He didn’t fancy himself up very often, or ever, in fact. Having him dressed up was more of a luxury than the McLaren sports car he was leaning against.

She drank in the sight of him. He looked like he could put Brucie Wayne to shame. The smirk on his face completed the ensemble.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said.

She wore her floor length evening dress, with a halter neck and the most indulgent plunging neckline she had ever worn, to say nothing of the split in the skirt. It was also bright red. She felt a little shy in it, but it wasn’t a dress for hiding in. She had towering black stilettos on her feet and a lazy swing in her hips. She wanted him to look his fill.

His eyes roamed over her with open appreciation. They were shortly followed by his hands, settling on her hips. He pulled her to him.

How was he still so much taller than her?

He kissed her, slow and deep and hungry. She leaned into him. He luxuriated in her.

Her night was off to a wonderful start.

Once they could bring themselves to part, he helped her into the car, and drove them off into the night. She put her hand on his thigh. He interlocked his fingers with hers and drove one handed. Gotham’s lights flashed by as they left their native little corner of the city behind. They wound through the Diamond District.

They slowed to a stop in the courtyard of a softly glowing restaurant. There was a cellist playing in the foyer. She recognised the name in a looping font over the door. She’d read it on some list of world best’s.

“You did not get a booking here on Wednesday. Did you?”

“I booked a year ago.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t going to miss it twice.”

She squeezed his hand. A ‘thank you’ wouldn’t encapsulate just how much it meant to her. She knew the case he was working on wasn't wrapped up yet. He lifted her hand and kissed her palm.

She looked out the window at the people getting out of cars ahead of them. Doubt niggled at the back of her head.

“I may not actually be fancy enough for these people,” she confessed.

Jason scoffed. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna put everyone else here to shame.” He killed the engine and turned to her. “They should be grateful for the privilege of seeing you. I know I am.”

She smiled, ducking her head a little. He tilted her chin back up and looked into her eyes, leaning down towards her.

“You know these windows are tinted?” he said.

She snorted a laugh. He snatched a kiss.

“If you smudge my makeup, so help me.”

“Sweets, you know that’s a challenge.” He tipped her chin higher and kissed her neck, expertly dodging where she had blended her foundation into her skin.

She sighed. She loved this ridiculous man so much.

A valet tapped his window and Jason drew back with a sly grin.

He got out and came around to open her door for her. It was a necessity given how low the seats and how tall her heels were, but she was happy to lean into the fantasy as he took her hand.

Doubt was for behind closed doors. With the world watching she stepped out into the courtyard in a flutter of red silk and her chin held high. Jason slung an arm around her waist, resting low on her hip. They walked like they belonged because who the hell was going to tell them they didn’t?

They were welcomed in by the maitre d’ and led across the packed restaurant floor. Jason caressed the curve of her hip without shame.

She spotted the empty table their path led them to. Jason stiffend at her side.

At the table directly next to it sat another couple, presumably also on a date. Bruce Wayne and a gorgeous brunette with a pixie cut, staring deeply into each other’s eyes.

Bruce glanced their way only briefly, and his expression froze.

Dread broke through his public persona for just a moment, a look perfectly mirrored on his son’s face. The collision course was set. Jason walked like he was approaching the gallows.

The brunette noticed the hiccup and looked back, revealing Miss Selina Kyle. She looked at Andy and rolled her eyes in commiseration.

“Actually,” Andy said, tossing her hair back and stopping in place.

The maitre d’ paused in his path.

“I would love to sit on the mezzanine floor. With the wall of flowers? It must be so beautiful.”

She ruthlessly silenced her internal scream over making a fuss. She was not surrendering her evening to Wayne bullshit. She got waxed for this.

“I’m so sorry, Ma’am, the orchid display isn’t currently available, we are preparing an exciting new display for the spring after Poison Ivy-”

“It’s what I want,” she said pleasantly.

“Of course.”

The maitre d’ redirected them with perfect poise. He whispered in a passing waiter’s ear, and led them to the stairs.

Jason took her hand and squeezed it in silent thanks. The tension seeped back out of him. She squeezed back.

The mezzanine was comparatively quiet, with a giant print of Monet’s water lilies erected to cover some construction works. It had a lovely view of the rest of the restaurant however and the glinting chandeliers hung down over the main floor.

Table settings were arranged for them with a swiftness and subtlety even Alfred Pennyworth would approve of. Jason got to sit with his back to a wall and with sightlines over the entire pace, which always made him more comfortable. The table was small, they sat very close together, making it feel more intimate and private.

There were no prices on the menu and she didn’t grasp what the minimalist dish names actually meant. For a moment it filled her with a mute panic. Jason gave her a calm look and played with her hand on the table.

“We’ll have the chef’s menu, and the paired champagne for the table,” he said.

She was more than happy to be swept along. And she could pronounce the champagne better than the waiter, which calmed her fear of making a fool of herself. Jason managed to look exactly as at home here as he did while having a smoke on top of a dumpster in the Alley.

The food was all delicious, albeit in tiny portions on very large plates.

Below the table Jason ran his hand up her bare thigh, his fingers sneaking under the split in the dress.

She made eye contact as she licked the last of a creamy sorbet off her spoon. He watched with unadulterated focus. She ran her bare leg against his briefly, tastefully, and then retreated. He smirked at her. It was the smile of a man who knew exactly where his evening was heading.

He lifted his glass, with the last of its golden liquid in it. “To another year, beautiful.”

Next>>

#jason todd #red hood #jason todd x oc #red hood x oc #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x reader #for the hell of it #my fanfic #dc #fluff

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scrollonso · 4 months ago

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Race Winners — Pedroscar

Pedro scrolled through the extensive collection of movies on the TV catalogue in front of him, finally breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over the room. “Wanna watch another film?” he asked, his tone light and casual, though he already sensed what the answer might be.

Oscar, slouched on the sofa beside him, gave a small, unsteady shake of his head. “I dunno, Pedro,” he slurred, the effects of too much celebratory champagne making his voice thick and his words lazy. He’d earned the indulgence, though — winning his first race was a moment that deserved to be savored. But now, the alcohol was pulling him toward sleep. “Think I might head to bed.”

Pedro straightened slightly, trying not to let the disappointment show on his face. “Oh. Yes, 'course.” He smiled, a gentle curve of his lips, understanding and fondness in his gaze as he looked at the obviously inebriated Aussie sprawled on their shared sofa. He stood and offered Oscar a hand, which was quickly and gratefully taken.

“Thanks,” Oscar murmured, his fingers gripping Pedro’s a bit tighter than usual as he rose to his feet. The room tilted slightly, and he swayed, leaning heavily on Pedro's shoulder for balance. For a moment, he seemed to pause, gathering his bearings before making the unsteady journey toward the stairs. He almost bumped into a bookshelf, causing Pedro to wince in sympathetic concern, but he managed to right himself in time. “‘G’night,” Oscar said, turning to smile at Pedro, his words softened by the alcohol still in his system.

“Goodnight, mi amor,” Pedro replied, his voice tender as he watched Oscar disappear up the stairs. Once alone, Pedro let out a small sigh, turning to look at the room they had just been in. He could still feel the warmth of Oscar’s presence lingering in the space, making it feel fuller, more alive. But now, with Oscar off to bed, the house suddenly seemed too quiet.

Pedro made his way to the front of the house, busying himself with the mundane tasks that filled the silence when Oscar wasn’t around. Cleaning, organizing, tidying up — these were the things that kept his mind occupied in the quiet hours of the night. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the peace; the world was beautiful at night, the kind of beauty that poets wrote about and artists tried to capture. But it was a different kind of beauty, one that came with a sense of solitude that Pedro was learning to navigate.

He started with the little things — straightening the small shark figurines that lined the windowsill, each one a gift from Oscar, a token from every country they visited together. It had become a tradition since they met in 2021, a small but meaningful gesture that made Pedro feel connected to every place they had been, even when they were back home. Next, he rearranged the stack of books next to the phone, ensuring everything was in its rightful place. He checked the door, making sure it was locked, and finally, when there was nothing left to do downstairs, he headed upstairs to their bedroom.

As he entered the room, Pedro’s gaze immediately fell on Oscar, who was already fast asleep. The sight made him pause, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. There was something undeniably peaceful about seeing Oscar like this, his features relaxed, his breathing slow and steady. Humans often agreed that people looked more serene in sleep, and Pedro found himself agreeing with that sentiment as he watched Oscar. It was strange, he thought, how someone so full of life and energy could look so angelic in their sleep, a sight that was both beautiful and calming.

Oscar had curled up on his side, just as he always did, his McLaren shirt discarded on the chair beside the bed. In its place, he wore the soft koala pajamas that Pedro had bought him last Christmas. Pedro chuckled softly at the memory of that holiday — their first Christmas as a couple, a time filled with shy smiles and awkward exchanges as they tried to navigate the newness of their relationship. It had been a holiday full of learning, both of them figuring out how to function together in this new dynamic. And now, here they were, comfortable in each other’s presence, their lives intertwined in ways neither of them had fully anticipated.

Pedro moved quietly, changing into his own pajamas — a matching set with sharks on them, because, as they had joked, sharks and koalas were clearly meant to be together. He pulled back the duvet and slid into bed beside Oscar, settling himself against the headboard. He wasn’t quite tired yet, so he grabbed his phone, turning the brightness down so as not to disturb Oscar.

As he scrolled through the familiar feeds on his phone, Pedro couldn’t help but let his thoughts wander. Maybe it was sin, he pondered as he read comments he had read so many times before — hardly ever processing the words on the screen at this point. — Maybe this was sin in Heaven’s eyes. But lying there, with the being he loved most in all of God’s creation sleeping beside him, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Instead he set his phone down on the bedside table, pressed a soft kiss to Oscar's forehead, tapped the lamp off, and laid down to sleep.

The room was dark now, save for the faint light of the moon filtering through the curtains. Pedro settled down, pulling Oscar a little closer, his arm draping over his shoulders. He let out a contented sigh, closing his eyes and letting sleep finally take him.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a waste, he thought as he drifted off, if he got to wake up with Oscar beside him. And when morning came, with the sunlight streaming through the window, Pedro woke to find Oscar still in his arms, his race winner safe and sound, and for that moment, everything in the world was just as it should be.

The early morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm, golden glow over the bedroom. Pedro stirred first, his senses slowly waking him to the peaceful quiet that enveloped the room. He could feel Oscar's steady breaths against his chest, the gentle rise and fall of his body a comforting rhythm that grounded him in the present moment.

Pedro opened his eyes, blinking away the remnants of sleep, and his gaze settled on Oscar. The Aussie was still fast asleep, his face nestled against Pedro’s shoulder, looking every bit as serene as he had the night before. Pedro couldn’t help but smile at the sight, his heart swelling with a quiet joy that only Oscar seemed to bring out in him.

Careful not to wake him, Pedro shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could get a better look at Oscar. His hair was a mess, sticking out at odd angles from where it had been pressed against the pillow, and his lips were parted slightly, his breath slow and even. Pedro reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Oscar’s forehead with a tenderness that belied the strength in his hands, fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

As much as he wanted to stay like this forever, Pedro knew they both had a busy day ahead. Races, meetings, and the never-ending demands of their careers loomed just beyond the walls of their quiet sanctuary. But for now, in this small slice of morning, it was just the two of them.

Reluctantly, Pedro began to pull away, but as he did, Oscar stirred. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the light, and a soft, sleepy smile spread across his face as he looked up at Pedro.

“Morning,” Oscar mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. He reached out, his hand finding Pedro’s and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Morning, race winner” Pedro replied, his voice soft, filled with affection. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s forehead, then another to his lips, lingering just a moment longer than necessary, savoring the warmth of the connection.

Oscar hummed contentedly, the sound vibrating through Pedro’s chest where they were still pressed together. “What time is it?” he asked, his words slightly slurred as he tried to shake off the remnants of sleep.

“Early,” Pedro said, glancing over at the clock on the bedside table. “We’ve got time.”

Oscar let out a small sigh of relief, snuggling closer to Pedro, his arm wrapping around his waist as if he could pull him even closer. “Good. Don’t want to move yet.”

Pedro chuckled, his hand coming up to rest on the back of Oscar’s head, fingers threading through his hair in soothing strokes. “Then don’t,” he whispered, his breath warm against Oscar’s ear. “We can stay here a little longer.”

And so they did. The world outside could wait, for just a little while. In these precious moments, it was only the two of them, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading into the background. It was in these moments that Pedro felt most at peace, most at home, like everything had finally fallen into place.

Eventually, though, the demands of the day began to creep in, and Pedro knew they couldn’t stay in bed forever, no matter how much he wanted to. He pressed one last kiss to the top of Oscar’s head before gently nudging him.

“Come on, cariño,” Pedro said, his voice gentle but firm. “We’ve got to get up.”

Oscar groaned in protest, burying his face in Pedro’s chest. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the fabric of Pedro’s shirt.

Pedro smiled, his heart swelling with affection. “Alright,” he relented, lying back down and pulling Oscar close again. “Five more minutes.”

And for those five minutes, they stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, savoring the warmth and comfort of the moment. Because as much as the world demanded of them, as much as their lives revolved around speed and competition, these quiet moments of peace and love were what truly mattered.

Finally, though, reality called them back, and with a reluctant sigh, Pedro began to pull away again. This time, Oscar let him go, though he stayed in bed a moment longer, watching as Pedro climbed out and stretched, his movements slow and unhurried.

“You’re too good to me, you know that?” Oscar said, his voice still laced with sleep but filled with sincerity.

Pedro turned back to him, a soft smile on his lips. “You deserve it,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Oscar’s heart swelled at the words, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight now streaming through the windows. “I’m lucky to have you,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost as if he were speaking more to himself than to Pedro.

Pedro’s smile widened, and he walked back over to the bed, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Oscar’s lips. “I’m the lucky one,” he whispered against his mouth, and Oscar felt a surge of affection so strong it nearly took his breath away.

As Pedro pulled back, Oscar finally swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching as he stood. The day was waiting for them, full of challenges and responsibilities, but as long as they had each other, Oscar knew they could face anything.

“Let’s get going,” Pedro said, offering Oscar a hand, just as he had the night before and just as he will every day after.

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mistressemmedi · 8 months ago

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re: cash is king this year mclaren marketing theme feels a lot like a magazine catalogue. in fair to them they're hitting it out of the field - every soc med had a subtle (or not) tag of a merch sell - though some of the seasonal/gp centric merch looks good (or compared to other competitors). tbh, it also feels a bit nostalgic? (target market - adults with cash flow - grew up with magazine catalogues probably existing, and tv ads)

Well, they either sell merch or they'll be forced to sell one of the boys from the twink farm to One Direction, and Zak doesn't want to separate them 😞

#anon #q&a #for legal purposes this is a joke

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boonesfarmsangria · 2 years ago

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In March 2022, Ben Howard was sat in his garden when he found himself unable to think clearly, form sentences or speak for almost an hour. A month later, after the same thing happened again, the Ivor Novello Award-winning singer-songwriter learned he’d suffered two TIAs (transient ischemic attacks - known as mini-strokes). “It was out of the blue,” says the 35 year-old. “It was a confusing time.”

That June, after a month of inconclusive hospital tests Howard and his band returned to Le Manoir de Léon recording studio in south-west France, where they’d previously worked on his acclaimed third album ‘Noonday Dream’.

“We went in and put down ten songs in ten days, then spent the rest of the year tinkering with them”. The record was produced by Bullion, known for his work on Westerman’s ‘Your Hero Is Not Dead’ and Orlando Weeks ‘Hop Up’. Howard says, “We worked through the heatwave, the air conditioning broke, after what had happened I was so tired in the afternoons that I slept a lot. We just played solidly and slept, they was no time for retrospection”.

The result is ‘Is It’, a lush, sonically splintered album which captures Howard working through those moments of seismic shift. “I found it impossible not to dwell on the absurdity of it, that with one tiny clot, one can lose all faculties. It really ate into the writing of the record”.

The songs range from the peaceful quotidian Days of Lantana, to cut up samples and driven beats of Walking Backwards, the formers’ pitched and warped Linda Thompson chorus reminiscent of Malcolm Mclaren´s ‘Madame Butterfly’.

Moonraker, a song about climbing in the Guadarrama mountains touches on the meditational, while in the cyclical Richmond Avenue Howard talks of shared childhood moments with his father.

There are colourful, left-field production choices throughout- a staple of Bullion - but with a twist

“We really bonded over records in the studio” he says. “Nathan has an incredible ear and catalogue of sampled beats and rhythms which quickly became the bedrock…There were contributing factors also. Our mainstay drummer Kyle lives in Seattle and as we made the record on the fly we just leaned into drum-machine world, and really left almost all of that side of things up to Nathan.”

“We also did a session at Real World Studios and put most of the record through an echoplex”.

That session featured additional instrumentation from Raven Bush (violin, viola) and Mick Mcgoldrick (flute, Eileen pipes) as well as Howards mainstay band of Mickey Smith (Bass, guitars, percussion) R.D. Thomas (synths, keys, harmonium) and Nat Wason (guitars).

“It’s actually mostly a guitar record, but there are some nice additions. We bought an old harmonium at the beginning of the trip which made its way onto most tracks. I was very much stuck in stuttered delay and synth led guitar patterns. Mick McGoldrick came in to play on Richmond Ave and straight away played Liam O´Flynn lines from the Mark Knopfler record ‘Cal’ which is a long favourite of mine and a big connection to my Dad who had it on tape. That was a beautiful moment, perhaps one of my favourites moments in the studio ever.”

“It was a refreshing way to record, unweighted by the past”

The change is evident on ‘Is It’ - an album which represents a further creative evolution from an artist known for never repeating himself throughout his already-storied career.

¨I was so aware of the overwhelming information coming from everything, almost like my brain couldn’t filter what was happening and had to start again. So we just pushed forward, lyrically it seems obvious to me in parts, It’s about sitting there wondering what the hell is going on.”

Yet with each listen it feels like more than that. A characteristically onion-layered record which rankles like a series of questions, or a series of vignettes throughout Howard´s life, perhaps best distilled in the whirling chorus on ´Spirit´.

‘What’s mine anyway?

My feelings seem to be arranged.

What´s mine anyway?

Spirit? Is it?´

‘Is It’ stands quite starkly on it’s own, buoyed by the circumstances of its creation. “Just to be playing music in the studio felt like a real privilege and a luxury,” says Howard. “It was probably the best studio session we’ve ever had.

#ben howard #is it #i feel i reading this made me feel sunk #mitv

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c-40 · 4 months ago

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A-T-4 156 So Def So Def So Def...

It's a Def Jam. It's 40-years since the first hip hop records from one of the genre's definitive labels Def Jam came out. The first two albums I bought as a kid were on Def Jam so the label holds a special place for me

Def Jam Recordings actually debuted as a label two years earlier. Before the hip hop records the label, which was being run out of Rick Rubin's NYU dorm, had released two punk rock records. The iconic hip hop track It's Yours was produced and put out by Rick Rubin before he meets manager and promoter Russell Simmons and they become business partners

Rick Rubin's friend Ed Bahlman encouraged him to out his own records independently and Bahlman's label 99 Records handled the distribution of the first two Def Jam releases. The first two Def Jam Recordings records are records by Rick Rubin's punk rock band Hose. The inaugural release carries the Def Jam Recordings logo that is still used today on the record label and its sleeve. The logo was designed by Rick Rubin who was studying art at NYU at the time. Because of Def Jam's significance to hip hop these releases are nearly always written out of the label's history but they have Def Jam catalogue numbers and a Def Jam Recordings postal address (Rick Rubin's dorm)

As well as being the year Rick Rubin released the first Def Jam record 1982 was the year the Beastie Boys put out their debut the "Polly Wog Stew EP". Like Rick Rubin's band Hose the Beastie Boys were punk rock. Adam Horovitz wasn't a Beastie Boy yet he was in another punk rock band The Young and the Useless. Both bands played the New York hardcore circuit sometimes opening for each other and they shared the same manager, Nick Cooper

Why is the early history of the Beastie Boys important to the Def Jam story?

In 1983 guitarist John Berry leaves the Beastie Boys. Horovitz, who was still a member of The Young and the Useless, takes his place. DJ Anita Sarko is described by the NYT as a 'crucial bridge between the city's punk and disco scenes', this is certainly true for the Beastie Boys who would dance to the records she spun at Manhattan club Danceteria. One record was "Buffalo Gals" by Malcolm McLaren and the World's Famous Supreme Team which the Beastie Boys loved so much they decided to make a parody of sorts. This became the group's next release "Cooky Puss" and amazingly it became an underground club favorite

Why am I still on about the Beastie Boys?

Having a club hit meant playing that track at club appearances. "Cooky Puss" is unlike their earlier punk rock material to perform it the band decided they needed a DJ, like RUN DMC had. The Beastie Boys manager Nick Cooper contracted Rick Rubin to be the Beastie Boys' DJ who used the name DJ Double R

A television commercial made for British Airways uses a segment of "Cooky Puss" b-side "Beastie Revolution" without permission and the Beastie Boys and their manager, being the middle class children of art gallery owners, art dealers and collectors, and playwrights, sue British Airways for copyright infringement. The case is settled the out of court for $40,000. This gives them the financial freedom to concentrate on their music. With his share of the payout Adam Horovitz buys a Roland TR-808 drum machine

Adam Horovitz, Adam Yauch, and Michael Diamond begin spending a lot of time with Rick Rubin in his dorm. They share an appreciation of hip hop. Adam Horovitz is bringing round his 808. It's the beats Rick Rubin makes on Horovitz's 808 that convinces Russell Simmons to go into a partnership with him and provides the beats for many Def Jam Recording releases, including all of those featured on this page. With the success of "Cooky Puss" Rick Rubin convinces Horovitz, Yauch, and Diamond to ditch their drummer Kate Schellenbach and punk rock in favour of becoming three MC's and one DJ

The last thing I want to say about "Cooky Puss" is the Beastie Boys logo on the sleeve is made by Cey Adams who will become Def Jam's first art director

Boom Bap

Rick Rubin is deejaying for the Beastie Boys and creating beats on Adam Horovitz's TR 808 and he wants to make a credible hip hop record. This record would be "It's Yours"

"First I met Kool Moe Dee from the Treacherous Three, who were my favorite group. And I said, “Let’s make a record together. Let’s make a Treacherous Three record.” And he said, “We can’t really do that. We’re signed to Sugar Hill, but talk to Special K, another guy in the group, because he has a brother who can rap, and maybe he’d be good for you to do this with.” I didn’t know that there were contracts, I didn’t know anything. I had no experience whatsoever. I was just a fan. So I met with Special K, and Special K introduced me to his brother T La Rock, and he wrote the words." - Rick Rubin interview for Vulture in 2014

"It's Yours" isn't by T La Rock alone, it's T La Rock and legendary DJ, member of the member of Soulsonic Force, Jazzy Jay. But Jazzy Jay wasn't the first DJ considered for "It's Yours". T La Rock had a DJ named Louie Lou (who would co-produce later tracks like "Breakin Bells" with T La Rock.) According to his brother Special K and Louie had a falling out over the demo recording and Louie was out. Luckily Rick Rubin had a connect with Jazzy Jay and the rest is history

Jazzy Jay tells a different story he's pretty bitter about the record and Def Jam Recordings in general. He doesn't think he gets enough credit for his contribution or royalties. Jay Quan asks Jazzy Jay about making "It's Yours"

"[Jay Quan] Whose idea was it to use the Uncle Louie break in the [intro]? That “Da-na Da-na Na--?”

"[Jazzy Jay] It was mine. Every bit of scratching was done live--no takes or punch-ins or whatever. Everything other than the beat and the rap, I put in it. There’s so many tracks… The scratching on that is meticulous.

"Louie Lou had done a draft on a cassette… Rick gave him the beat and he did some scratches, but it wasn’t full orchestration like the way I did it, where you had scratches coming in and I’m complementing everything. He just had a couple of scratches going in and out and that was about it." - check out Jay Quan's interview with Jazzy Jay here

The beat on "It's Yours" was made by Rick Rubin on the aforementioned 808. Jazzy Jay claims it was him who taught Rubin to program the 808 and that he also did additional work on the beat for "It's Yours." On the record label Jazzy Jay gets a co-production credit just like Special K gets credit for writing the lyrics

Something there's no disagreement on is that the Beastie Boys were in the studio when the track was being recorded and were conscripted into providing the atmospheric crowd response on the chorus and on the Scratch Party Death Mix version

As I've said Rick Rubin didn't know Russell Simmons at this time. The record label Rick Rubin had used to distribute his first two Def Jam releases, 99 Records, was in a legal dispute with Sugar Hill Records in 1984 and struggling financially. So Rick Rubin approaches Streetwise to see if they will distribute the record. Streetwise is run by Arthur Baker who produced "Planet Rock" and "Looking For The Perfect Beat", Jazzy Jay was also involved with those records as a member of The Soulsonic Force. Streetwise like "It's Yours" so much they offer to release it on their subsidiary Partytime. "It's Yours" becomes a massive hit and gets a 2nd pressing, the difference between this and the first press is that this one has the Def Jam Recordings logo underneath the Partytime logo on the label. All subsequent 1984 represses also include the Def Jam logo. The picture sleeve for "It's Yours" features Rick Rubin's now legendary Def Jam tone arm (according to Stacy Gueraseva, the tone arm was created by "a girlfriend of Hose’s lead singer, Mike Espindle," working under Rick’s direction), there is a Def Jam catalogue number on it's spine, the Def Jam logo on the back and most importantly a postal address (still Rick Rubin's dorm)

When did T La Rock realise he's made a hit? He was working in a pharmacy and heard it on the radio

"There was a DJ named Tony Humphries who played it around noon when they’d do a master mix hour. So Humphries mixed in my song and it was so unexpected that I damn near lost it. Back then, you might hear Kurtis Blow or Run DMC occasionally on the radio but that was it. After the song was over, they said that it was the most requested song of the day!" - T La Rock interview with David Ma

youtube

T La Rock & Jazzy Jay - It's Yours

youtube

T La Rock & Jazzy Jay - It's Yours (Scratch Party Death Mix)

#1984 #t la rock #jazzy jay #rick rubin #special k #beastie boys #def jam #hip hop #new york #usa #80s music #Youtube

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exoticautopart · 1 year ago

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madomkasak · 3 months ago

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During this trying day, and it might not be the best moment but here's the complete thing on AO3. Can't believe Daniel made me break a writing drought because I'm overcome with emotions (not true I have many wips for rpf). Whole thing under the cut too - ~6k wc. H/C. Daniel retirement and Max implied and developing retirement. Daniel's farm is the MVP.

The phone rings. Daniel answers at the second tone, like always. Max wonders if he keeps his phone on ringtone just for Max, as he knows Daniel keeps it on silent these days.

Only answers to a few phone numbers. His family, Seb, a few others from the grid and — Max. Always Max. Since the first day, after Singapore. Before even, when Thursday was halfway done.

There’s an anxiousness in him that makes him feel like he is years younger, cameras in his face, waiting for Daniel to lead the way. Like they’re playing football or throwing axes again. But. But Max is older, and he knows Daniel needs him to lead this time. That he won't let Max follow him, just because.

Daniel doesn't even say hello. Max stumbles over his thoughts and his words. Doesn't say hello either. Hears the door close and he doesn't need to be thousands of miles away from where he is to know Daniel is on his porch.

They breathe together. The world settles back into its axis. Max feels phantom touches along his spine.

“You haven't asked yet.” Max says into the speaker phone. He hears the creaking of the lawn chairs - ugly things that make him snicker when they Facetime each other. Daniel always complains he can't get up easily when he sits down.

He doesn't buy new ones. Even if Max sent him entire catalogues worth of links like little love letters. Daniel once turned down a delivery - sent the chairs to his parents. Grace sent him pictures.

He always sits down, when Max calls. Always seems to think their conversations will last hours even when Max still feels words heavy on his tongue, get his English twisted, his accent thicker than batter in his mouth. He isn't good enough with them still to let them be formed fully, clumsy but sharp attempts at speaking his feelings.

Daniel gets it. Goads and jabs and guides anyway, weathering the bullishness Max can’t outgrow.

Max’s cheeks hurt, always, at the end of their calls. From talking. From smiling, even when hidden from view.

Max isn't smiling. Stutters a breath. Feels English spill from his fingers and not his mouth.

“What you want -” he starts. Thinks. Swallows. Max doesn't know how to do it, when Daniel isn't with him anymore. The calls, the texts — it isn't Daniel's hand at his back or the laughter unbridled. It isn't a moment of reprieve after a media heavy day. Max doesn't know how to ask.

There was always a next time, before. Max always thought he’d be the one leaving first. Even after Renault, after McLaren after -

Singapore.

“Max? Maxy?” Daniel nudges, but it’s tight, quiet. Half a breath, a thick accent just like Max’s own lisp. Max wants the elbow in his side, and wants the way Daniel would turn to him like a sunflower. Like fields of tulips.

He gets static instead. Cut off silences. Max didn't even facetime. Doesn't think he could face Daniel. He feels seventeen and too small and too tall always.

“What you wanted - for Christmas.” he says, because Daniel asked. DId you miss me? Do you miss me? Max wants to look to see if there’s a camera but it is only his own thoughts. Not even a mirror for him to see the flush on his cheeks, the tightness in his chest. How he fights the words. “I will give it to you.”

I will give myself.

They were easier to say to the media pen. When Daniel was not the one listening. “You said I owed you a good Christmas gift.” he finishes lamely. I of course thought you would have me.

“Huh.” Daniel answers. It churns something fierce in Max’s stomach. Long drawn out breath. Like Daniel got punched, but it is Max who feels it between his ribs. Right into his solar plexus. Max wants to fill the silence. Doesn't — “I said a lot, I guess, that day. Too much. yeah.”

He doesn't say it was a joke, that it means nothing. Good. Max can work with Daniel’s nerves, but not rejection.

Max doesn't ask again - are you sure? Are you ok? Is it still fine? Wants to ask if Daniel regrets - no, not the grand Prix. The hotel, them. He knows Daniel doesn’t - that what he regrets from that week is everything else. Not the lap though, not his gift to Max - his gift to himself, perhaps. A last fuck them all. To everyone.

Doesn't dare to voice it anyway.

“How is the farm in December?” He asks instead, half begs. Wishes Daniel was here because he would see Max’s needs and wants on his face, would corral them together into words with a hand half placed at his elbow. Max needs him to kiss the words out of his mouth, wants Daniel to form them on his own tongue and press them into Max’s throat and his heart.

“Have you got enough blankets? To fight off the cold, of course. You are always cold Daniel, but never wear jumpers when needed” It is never cold in Australia. Not like it is in Monaco, and definitely not how it can be in Zandvoort, even in summer. They both know it.

Max also knows Daniel burrows into beds like a groundhog. Hides like polar bears through the winter and Max fishes him out of oceans of hotel cottons. He wonders, if this Daniel sleeps in very little now, with the warmth. If Max will kiss his skin like the austral sun does.

“Nah mate,” Daniel answers after a beat too long. Max begs him, beams the thought into Daniel’s mind, wills it into existence. “Summer is just starting, remember? The days are nice right now, not too hot. I’m having too many barbies though.”

Too much food, like Daniel is already sharing his dinners with Max. Max wonders, wants to ask if Daniel has a Max shaped hole at the farm, thousand of miles away. Is he waiting like Max? Anxious and unnerved and misshapen. Not because he isn’t racing anymore, but because Max isn’t there.

Max does have a Daniel shaped hole, despite racing. Despite winning. Lingering glances, expecting shadows and sounds in garages he barely recognises anymore because they are leaving. Max doesn’t want to stay anymore. It isn’t fun.

Daniel isn’t there with him.

Max has never forgotten to switch his brain down under. Never needed to remind himself that Perth, that the farm, Daniel’s farm, Max’s own little paradise lost, his white whale — it’s not how it is in Monaco. In Belgium. At Home.

He thinks it will fit him. To think of snow there and summer with Daniel. Maybe he can convince Daniel to escape the warm Australian winter for the warmish European summer. It always rains in Belgium anyway, they wouldn't miss the sun for too long.

He has his laptop open. He knows there’s an email from his lawyers, a dozen documents attached and a warning. Max doesn't heed it. He has data, clauses he read through, ready like the trigger on a firearm. He has the documents too, a steely determination he only feels when the journalists ask stupid questions. When GP talks to him before a race —

When GP talked to him, after he told him he kissed Daniel. Got kissed back. Half bitten cheeks from the inside, and a pride that swirls into anger just before GP grabs his neck and pulls him into a hug.

Max thinks GP started counting the days then. Max started weeks before.

Max makes Daniel talk about the farm. Asks for pictures of the two new chickens. Whines laughs when Daniel says his cow is expecting. A calf, not veal Max, he says sternly. We won't eat the baby. Max would love to see the wink he feels through the phone.

They talk for an hour and thirteen minutes. Thirty seven seconds of them lingering with love half on their lips. Max stares at the number, thumb hovering above Daniel’s name. Wonders if it is already too soon to text.

Daniel doesn’t ask. Max texts him anyway, makes a joke about veals and baby cows and a stew that has Daniel send him thumbs down down down.

He sends a voice note even — does his little spiel that introduces the voice message like Daniel is as old as Fernando. It’s a millennial thing, Max. It’s endearing, when it annoys Max usually.

Makes his stomach jump when Daniel drawls his name out for too long, admonishes him. Makes him promise to love the not yet born baby cow like Max has told him he will come to the farm already even though Daniel hasn't asked him to. Hasn't asked him to stay.

Max will anyway. He will fill the Max-shaped hole in Daniel’s farm. Will burrow into this life to fill his own Daniel shaped hole that never quite left since Daniel stopped wearing navy. They both understand, he thinks - that hunger.

He makes the decision halfway through November. Signs a dotted line during their short break. Stops sending his Red Bull assigned clothes to the pressing down the road and packs a nondescript bag full of his own clothes. Grabs a jumper just for Daniel, even if Max knows he will be sweating in Australia. Sends an email and a wire transfer. The email chain counts 43 emails between him and his team. The last email is from them, confirming it’s in motion. Confirming he doesn’t need to be in Las Vegas if he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t. Las Vegas will have a Daniel-shaped hole too and Max will hoard him, won’t let them have a piece of him anymore.

He won't be copied into the emails to the team in Milton Keynes. Made sure it is only his lawyers that handle it. He is still plagued by Daniel’s eyes from that night. Wants to protect him from it, when it comes to Max. Max doesn’t care anyway, how he leaves. Knew in his gut in Singapore that the championship wouldn’t be his - but Daniel could be.

Easy balance to tip.

In truth, he had booked the flights back then too. On his phone, carelessly between gaps in his media schedule. Still angry at the stewards - fuck em all. The farm lingered on his tongue. The sadness clung to him like sweat. He didn't tell Daniel then. Not even when they laid in the hotel room, breathless, hearts full, Daniel hiccuping in laughter even as Max pressed fingers between his ribs. Millimetres shy of his spent cock.

Doesn't tell him now either.

He thumbs up the congratulatory messages Daniel sends after the races whilst they talk and Max schemes, never saying anything. Swipes to open their phone calls. COTA. Then Mexico. Then —

He is extra careful not to message the wrong person when his team messages and doesn't call instead. Little updates about sponsors and timelines he only opens when he knows he is alone. Not even those he keeps close can see what Max is doing. He doesn’t want them to. Daniel will be the first to know from Max’s own mouth like a I love you they don’t need to say. Have said for years and years anyway.

Max looks up the weather app on his phone always. Sets one of his widgets to be AWST and keeps it at the centre of his homepage. He sets one of the pictures Daniel sends him - half a burnt cake, one made with the first chicken eggs - as the wallpaper. Swaps it to a blurry selfie Daniel sends one day at midnight, just before he called Max without remembering their time difference.

Max answers, always, tells Daniel to shut up when he thinks about hanging up because Max is half asleep and his voice is croaky, grumpy. He smiles anyway.

Max hadn't slept. Played video games with a tremor just after, limbs loose and lips bitten with Daniel’s name as imprints. Feels the Daniel shaped hole more candidly, more carnally. Half jokes to himself he should book another flight. He checks the departures daily now. Thinks about missing his own last grand prix. None of the press is the wiser, this time.

He counts down the days. Ask himself to be patient. Sits in meetings, races against the clock but it isn’t against the chequered flag - it is again the date in his calendar he marked with an inauspicious cow emoji. His phone doesn’t have a calf emoji. He looked online before a stream, found ugly ones - uglier than Maximillian the baby cow. Daniel keeps sending him updates Max doesn’t ask for, says that in fact Maximilliam is a girl baby cow.

Surprise, it’s a girl, Daniel says and Max’s heart stutters again. He admonishes Daniel because he should have called the vet and why did it take him weeks to check on Maximillian the baby girl cow.

Doesn't tell anyone. Doesn't even tell Daniel. He thinks about asking - what do you want for Christmas, Dan-iel. Daniel. Do you want me there? You said - I promised.

Max checks out without asking him anyway. Knows the door will open and Daniel won't judge him for the decisions he made.

He doesn't take the jet there in the end. He thought about it, even after he booked tickets and had to remember his own passport details. Had to fill out applications for his stay painfully late at night, worried he would mess it up. Max doesn't want people - his people even, to know. To think they can stop him. He doesn't even text Daniel about it, even when he hovers on the details of who he is visiting. He cannot yet put a word to them - thinks it is forever anyway.

They talked before his flight, although Daniel doesn't know Max was leaving. Was landing. Max remembers saying something about sim work, words about the race in Las Vegas half swallowed in embarrassment, in excitement. He remembers the soft smile - indulgent even, that Daniel kept throughout. You’ll win, he said and Max doesn't want to correct him. Max lies about the time difference between them. Thinks always about what time it is in Las Vegas. Looks up a flight path there - thinks about sending Lando and Oscar on his jet without him so people don’t follow him to Perth. Nico had liked the flight too. Max even thinks he should give it to the rookies - but no, not anyone from VCARB.

He would win the GP, just for Daniel. Could have. Still can – but Max does not want to. Or rather, he thinks – he wants, for himself, for the first time.

He wonders if Daniel has found peace now. Does it have Max’s name on it? Does it make a place for him? Max rubs sweaty palms into his jeans as he waits for take off. Downs the little miniature bottles with soda. Wishes Daniel was with him to laugh at his drunkenness. He would kiss him sloppily if he were there.

Refuses the offer from the stewardess to have more to drink. Screws the cap on further against his brow just in case someone recognises him even when they boarded at 2am.

The gin doesn't taste as nice as in his own jet, he decides as his stomach swoops unhappily. He sweats more. Sleeps through a guy snoring even with the space between them in first class. He sleeps an hour, two. There are eighteen more to go.

Max watches the plane travel across the world on the screen instead. His heart doesn't stutter when it glances near Abu Dhabi. It flutters when they cross Hong Kong, aches as they cross the ocean and the Australian coast appears in the corner like the DVD logo of Max's childhood.

Words spill behind his tongue. Daniel’s name too. He rehearses what he wants to say. Mimes the words as the figure plane follows the dotted line. Have me, Daniel. I am here to stay, Daniel. I’m sorry. It doesn't get easier.

He turns Airplane mode off when they land. It blows up with notifications. GP, Rupert – Christian emailed a schedule. He starts the sim session tomorrow, followed by media. They sent questions already, Daniel’s name lingering on them like he hasn’t been gone for two months.

Max looks at the time, thinks hard. It’s today now, in Las Vegas. Daniel just messaged as well, asking if his flight was ok - it seems like only his guests were caught on camera. He lies about it too, with a smile. Hopes Daniel will be surprised.

Max may already be late. He scrolls past them. Marks them muted. Crosses into Australian land and hot tarmac. It doesn't quite smell like the Melbourne track.

Daniel sent him memes in the last few hours. Before he started feeding the animals. Max has learnt and memorised their names. Even Maximilian the calf. It still makes Daniel snort when he says it - says the baby cow stares at him as much as Max does. Hence the name, Maxy.

Asks Max ten times if he gets the joke - Max, Max Emilian, Maximilian. Max nods, laughs anyway, as it makes Daniel laugh harder. Tells him his joke is silly, and Daniel replies he spent an hour thinking of the name thank you Max. Rambles about how he thought about it as baby cow not Max was being licked by his mother, calf hair sticking up everywhere just like my Max after a race.

Daniel doesn’t say anything when Max chokes on his water, when he breathes too loud. Chokes on Daniel’s name. Tries to find a joke about his hair and the baby calf. Doesn’t come up with one. Daniel smiles, pleased thing Max screenshots with clumsy fingers. It’s blurry. Max sets it as Daniel’s profile picture everywhere. Sends it to Victoria unprompted and gets a heart and a thumbs up from her.

Sends it to team redline. Mutes Luke’s dms for an hour or two after.

Max thinks he stares morethan Maximillian the baby calf anyway. Loves Daniel more than the baby cow. Wants the way Daniel smiles softly at it, the cooing in his voice making Max’s stomach tighten with need. The baby cow doesn't realise how lucky it is, to get Daniel’s affection so freely. Max will be there soon.

Max wants to beg Daniel to give it to him too.

Two more memes. He likes them all, even if Lando sent them to him two weeks ago, when they first appeared on TikTok. It’s cute. Max can't wait to watch them and hear Daniel laugh as he does so - always.

Daniel also keeps sending this guy - burly, hairy - working on a farm. Max always gnaws at his lips so he doesn't ask Daniel if he would like Max that way. Would Daniel be ok if Max burns under the sun instead, that his hair is blonde everywhere and will not be as dark as the TikTok man’s. He can get burly, he thinks — but Daniel will need to let him race with the team online, in exchange.

He knows there is a spare room, Max thinks he can fix his set up. Can buy a new one. He already knows the ridiculous shipping fees, and has it on back order anyway.

“i won't come back.” He says. Blurts out. The words are lead on his tongue, sand in his teeth. Max hasn't actually told anyone. It’s half madness, smoke against his scissorhands. “Of course, we have already lost the constructor’s and —”

He stops himself.

“Max?” Daniel akss, questions. Queries. Max feels it just like the way pressers make him feel. He can't even rub sweaty palms into his jeans. His thighs are sweaty too. Sticks to the plastic high top chairs.

“If Lando doesn't get the championship, I'll fly to Woking. I’ll email the FIA to complain because he should, even if of course the front wing should still be investigated. And-” he rambles. Smiles through it. Speaks of what Christian said about the McLaren’s wing and how even Lewis messaged him, messages still about it. Like they’re friends – Max never replies to his texts. He thinks Lewis knows, understands. Has seen it before, with Nico. He can’t imagine a world where Daniel and him aren’t close - where it is not Daniel and Max. Max and Daniel.

Maybe that’s what a blessing feels like. Max might just watch him and Charles battle it out on the track next year and bitch about it. Just to message Lewis once. Like they’re friends, now they’re not competing.

Daniel stutters. Like a washing machine stuck between filling up with water and turning for the first time. Max watches every little emotion on his face. The seven stages. Daniel skips acceptance, stays on denial only.

He accepted Singapore too quickly, Max thinks. Allows Max idiosyncrasies Daniel doesn't like in anyone else, not even himself. Max feels loved, to be the exception.

“You didn't take the—Max!” Daniel squeaks.

Max smiles, feels the itch of a flush. He is proud, to surprise Daniel.

Daniel speaks, Max doesn't quite listen. Let the words wash over him, let Daniel work it out in the way his hands fumble, glance at Max’s hand, point at him in a spasming movement. He hums, nods when Daniel starts swearing because I gave you the fastest lap, Maxy. Max will always remember.

Max knows he can't tell Daniel yet that he was too tired to get hard when GP said it. He watches the onboard of the lap every week. Gets hard then, since it is not after two hours of intense racing. Since Daniel isn’t with him.

“You cant- Christian will -” half aborted words and thoughts. Lists every Red Bull Racing management stakeholder, and three mechanics. Doesn’t say GP’s name, as if Daniel knows already it is not a joke. Max plays with the screw top of his beer. It’s Heineken, the non alcoholic one. He flushes deeper. Did Daniel think of him when buying them? Max can't look at wine without hearing Daniel’s voice. “You won three championships, you can't ret—leave now. You- you deserve—”

“Eh.” He scrunches his face like a joke. Cuts off Daniel’s rambling. “I didn't want to go back to the same restaurant as Sebastian in Abu Dhabi. The food wasn't good, Daniel.”

You deserve more. That’s what Max had said, hissed yelled between too tight teeth when Daniel and he talked in Singapore. Max doesn't remember if they kissed before or after this.

“The FIA won't like it.” Daniel says. Accepts. Max grins, even as Daniel mouths the words before Max can eagerly tell them. Fuck the FIA. Max wants to beg Daniel to make a joke about community service. Team Redline hasn't stopped since September. They will call Daniel his community service again and Max will flip them off. Will make them race Australian time so they get up at 2am on a work day.

“Maxy.” Daniel says. Quiet. Wondering.

“Merry Christmas, Daniel.” He toasts. Max doesn't need him to ask today. Didn't need him to ask in September either. Max doesn't imagine winning without Daniel. Doesn't imagine a victory if Daniel isn't here. It should have been them. And then Max would have left later.

Austin hadn’t been all that great. Mexico even less so. Even if Max won both. Even if VCARB was out in both races. Max doesn’t even spare a thought to Yuki.

Max wakes. There’s hushed sounds, off key notes. He thinks he recognises that singer that came over to the paddock, even if he was not a guest of Daniel’s. Max had not been jealous. Daniel had sent him unopened Spotify links. Highlighted lyrics Max didn’t read. Daniel calls the coffee machine a cunt. Calls the bowl a cunt too, when he knocks it against the counter and fruits softly thump on the floor.

Shushes inanimate object and Max’s name is said twice with love even as Max softly pads into the room. Scratches at his belly, slaps the elastic band of Daniel’s boxes against his skin. You can't wake Max, Daniel says to oranges. Max missed him already.

Calls Max a cunt when he snorts too loud, not pretending to sleep anymore and Daniel nearly hits himself against an open cabinet.

“You could help, Maxy. The coffee’s burning.” Daniel says, points lazily at the machine whirring on the counter. It is one of those instant ones. The coffee won't burn. Daniel looks at Max, glances down at the too tight boxers. Tighter even. Max licks his lips. Breathes in and Daniel’s eyes crinkle in a smile.

“Will the coffee be a cunt too, Daniel.” He snickers and Daniel laughs back. “The machine will remember, like in that old movie.”

“Talk to my hand, Max.” Daniel says in his American accent. Max hasn't actually watched The Terminator. Doesn't think he would remember how they say it in Dutch, because he would not have watched it in English. Laughs anyway because Daniel shimmies, and Max feels now like the flowers, sleep ebbing away because Daniel is here. Opens his petals.

Thoughts come and go, and Max feels more and more sure of his decision. Even with his notifications still happening. Calls being forwarded. It is fine, he can focus on Daniel instead. He gives it until after the race to finally accept at least Rupert’s calls. Will send a thumb up to GP.

Max doesn't think about working out. Or what he will eat today. Or the simulation work he has to do.

He does. But the thoughts slip away like molasses, like the way the shadows dance beneath the curtain, sweeping the wooden floor clean of sunlight. It is replaced by thoughts of Daniel. Eagerness under his skin to learn about the farm, to slow down for the first time in his life.

It’s sunny, in Perth. On Daniel's farm. Max knows it will be sunny there too, in winter. In March. Thinks they both will be able to watch the lights go out on TV and not feel any way about it. Max for sure doesn't want to go now that he doesn't have to.

Or maybe he should. They could all gather outside the paddock and Max could talk about what they will do on Daniel’s farm. Could swear at them and smile happily through it. He could get Daniel to send him texts with suggestions as he speaks to the press. Maybe he can make it happen, show him the hidden folder full of Maximillian pictures Max swears he doesn't save. He will take a hundred today.

Of Daniel. At least two of the baby calf. Maybe three. Will send them to the driver’s group chat he didn’t mute and laughs every time they say they can see he has read messages. They haven’t stopped.

“Ask me.” He says, slides into the counter. The marble is cold under his sweaty palm. Does Daniel have sunscreen? Max squints, trying to figure it out. He didn’t pack much. Max doesn’t think he will want to wear some of Daniel’s RedBull merch - not anymore. Unless it has the number 3 then, maybe.

The tan has made Daniel's skin darker, but the crinkles around his eyes show more too. Like a Zebra. Maybe he does not have sunscreen. Max makes mental notes to go grocery shopping. After. He will put the sunscreen on Daniel’s skin himself. Will rub away wrinkles and laughter lines.

Will make Daniel slather him too, so he does not burn.

“Ask you what? What do you wanna do now? You will be bored, Maxy, even with just old me – you can do—” he rambles, plays with oranges until his fingertips bleed juice. Max thinks he could just reach out and suck them clean.

Maybe they’ll still taste like his come too. Daniel didn't scrub his fingernails, Max listened for it. Wanted to slither into the bathroom with him. Didn't. Will pull Daniel back into a bed or against his ugly garden chairs and Max will lick him clean there.

“Ask me, Daniel.” Dan-iel — not da-niel. It makes the other man smile. A half turn of his lips. Fingers stop digging into orange flesh. Max wants to kiss him. Maybe he can now, even. Maybe Daniel would let him again. And again.

“What’re you going to do next year, Maxy?” Daniel asks.

Max doesn't miss a beat.

“I was thinking of chilling on your farm, Daniel.” he replies. Sure. Sharp. It’s like they’re back there, and Max wants to have a group of pressers following him so he can say it again. I’m thinking of staying, Daniel. You asked.

They laugh again. Like Daniel hadn't cried in Singapore two months ago. Like Max hadn't said it to him too at the hotel, between padel games. I’ll come, he’d say, and Daniel hadn't asked. Patted his cheek, kissed the angle of his jaw. Stayed silent. Didn’t say no.

“Yeah Max.” he says “Yeah, nah - ok.” Max waits. Watches Daniel swallow air rather than coffee. See, he wants to say, I have learnt to be patient. I waited. I was good, see? “You want to see how cold it gets on the farm in June? Wanna overcome your fear of sharks?”

“No.” he drags out the sound as he steps away. Daniel looks at him, half turned smile again. Flushed pink against tan. Max’s tongue is too big in his mouth, he tests soft fricatives against his teeth. Swallows them for a plosive, forms Daniel’s name in his heart. It never left. “I’ll teach you to overcome your fear of the sea, of course. There is nothing else for me to do.”

It’s a lie. Max will have hours of meetings to go through. Will need to call his mother, Victoria — GP. They'll of course understand. It is Daniel. And it is Max. The car is fucked anyway. Maybe he’ll change his phone number. Maybe Daniel’s farm doesn’t have a phone signal deep into the sparse land. Maybe he can get him to talk to Christian and Helmut so Max doesn’t have to.

Max doesn’t even own a boat. Yet. Would Daniel laugh when he shows up with a tinny? The thought floats away. Max looks at Daniel again. Or is it that Daniel doesn't look away.

“Yeah? Heard Melbourne isn’t bad in March, Maxy.” Daniel half laughs, but Max knows better. Remembers the strained laugh and the tears and the way Daniel hesitates, always. “There’s something big happening over there this Spring. Couple of guys we know will be there.” “No.” again, drawn out. A shared smile. Max steps into Daniel’s personal space.The stop sound of Daniel’s name fits in his mouth “You asked me to stay, Daniel. And it is autumn Daniel. It is all wrong here, but I don't forget.” Max doesn’t have to be conscious of repeating names now. Can say fuck too

He presses in, kisses dark hair on a jaw, bumps his nose against Daniel’s. Kisses him. Finally.

Daniel lets him. He doesn't call Max a cunt when he knocks the pitcher off the countertop. It doesn’t break, but Max’s socks are wet. Laughs against his lips and Max can feel the laughter sleep into his own bones. Vibrates against the hand he lodges beneath Daniel’s ribs. He digs into the too tight skin there, feels the bumps of Daniel’s rib cage. Feels the flutter of too quick heartbeat and Max tastes Daniel’s tongue.

He’ll stay. He will meet baby cow Maximillian and stare it off so the calf knows Max is Daniel's favourite. He is not jealous of Daniel’s farm animals. Won't be for too long, he guesses. He has a handful of names written on a paper he put in his bag, for the chickens and Maximillian’s own baby cow. He will call the vet first so they do not call the calf the wrong name. He has a dozen ready.

Max sighs into Daniel’s mouth — he will have to live with the spiders, he gathers. Can maybe convince Daniel to go to a hotel once in a while, to a top floor room, so Max can be spider free for a night.

He only answers his phone when it is Victoria who messages him. When it is his mother.

GP may or may not be sending him updates. A picture or two. A tired selfie at a meeting Max knows he shouldn't be taking pictures in. GP doesn’t even blur the data. Max frowns because the telemetry isn’t good. Too bad. He wants to tell GP to keep the new job, now that he won't need to engineer Max anymore. He shows this one to Daniel instead, who goes to gossip with GP immediately, phone in hand and GP’s hushed laughter on the phone. Daniel puts a finger to Max’s lips when he protests, and Max bites at the soft pad. Daniel laughs louder. GP says hi on speakerphone.

They still call him Daniel. Marko called him Verstappen to the press the other day, now that it is announced Max has retired unexpectedly. He is happy with it. It makes him want to bite skin more, pleased and angry from it. For Daniel.

Daniel says fuck no when Max asks if he can talk to Christian for him. But they laugh together about it, Daniel’s fingers spasming against Max’s, intertwined. Calls them cunts under his breath and Max knows the lilt of Daniel’s accent between the good and the bad cunts.

Learned it the first time Daniel called him a cunt. Laughs every time after, just to get Daniel’s pointy elbow in his ribs, bruises like tattoos on his heart he still carries eight years later.

He makes a poor impression of it that makes Daniel choke on his own voice, breathing hard against Max’s throat in puffy bouts of sunshine.

Max doesn't talk to Christian. Leaves it to his lawyers. Leaves it to GP, who makes Max and Daniel promise to take him to the farm, to meet Maximillian the baby cow.

GP laughs when he sees Max’s face scrunch in displeasure. Laughs when Max promises a first class ticket, Daniel snickering in the background when GP asks for Air Max instead.

It’s fine, Max can call the company any time. Doesn't sell the jet. Missed the comfort of it on the flight to Perth. Will coax Daniel with promises of quickies so they can travel on it together too. Promises even harder that no, Lando won't join them this time. Or if he does, Max still wants his quickie with Daniel.

Daniel laughs, opens the door to the back porch. Maximilian moos somewhere in the distance. Daniel hollers a Max that isn’t the way he says Max’s name. It makes Max happy - he is the favourite Max. The first one. Maximilian the baby cow doesn’t need to be stew yet, but he has not been won over yet. He will continue to hide the baby cow photo folder from Daniel.

Max tells him not to break his collarbone yet, as Max hasn’t gotten his supplies. Daniel laughs harder.

Max will stay. Burrows into ugly lawn chairs and let the morning warm him up. Doesn’t get dressed until it’s past noon and Daniel wakes him up with a kiss to his hair, smelling like hay and dirt. Like sweat, just like after a race. It makes Max ache to spray him in champagne just to lick him clean. Makes a mental note to add a bottle or two to his grocery list. Next to the sunscreen and the first aid kit. He snaps a picture, Daniel’s skin flush from the sun, dirt on his knees and shorts. Sends it to GP, this time. Gets a thumbs up back.

He sends it to Lewis. Max is left on read, which he thinks is fair game. They’re not friends.

It's a vignette of something bigger I guess. Daniel's farm is about to see all the action. Just comfort. Implied retirement for Max and Daniel. ~500 words

“Ask you what? What you wanna do now? You got what, a couple of weeks before-”

“Ask me, Daniel.” Dan-iel — not da-niel. It makes the other man smile. A half turn of his lips. Max wants to kiss it. Maybe he can now, even. Maybe Daniel would let him.

“What’re you going to do next year, Maxy?”

It’s a lie. Max will have hours of meetings to go through. Will need to call his mother, Victoria — GP. They'll of course understand. It is Daniel. And it is Max. Maybe he’ll change his phone number. Maybe Daniel’s farm doesn’t have a signal deep into the sparse land. Maybe he can get him to talk to Christian and Helmut so Max doesn’t have to. Max will ask GP first.

Max doesn’t even own a boat. Yet. Would Daniel laugh when he shows up with a tinny? Thoughts he left half formed spill into his mind as he waits. Like time slows and Max lets Daniel catch up to him again. It's fine, Max has been doing this since he was seventeen. Since he was young but not, and Daniel was free - but not.

“Yeah? Heard Melbourne isn’t bad in March, Maxy.” Daniel half laughs, but Max knows better. Remembers the strained laugh and the tears and the way Daniel hesitates, always. “There’s something big happening over there this Spring.” “No.” again, drawn out. A shared smile. Max steps into Daniel’s personal space.The stop sound of Daniel’s name fits in his mouth “You asked me to stay, Daniel. And it is autumn Daniel.” Max doesn’t have to be conscious of repeating names now.

He presses in, kisses dark hair on a jaw, bumps his nose against Daniel’s. Kisses him. Finally.

Daniel lets him. He doesn't call Max a cunt when he knocks the pitcher off the countertop. It doesn’t break, but Max’s socks are wet. Daniel's foot nudges his. Kisses Max back, a peck between sounds. Laughs against his lips and Max can feel the laughter sleep into his own bones. Vibrates against the hand he lodges beneath Daniel’s ribs. He digs into the too tight skin there, feels the bumps of Daniel’s rib cage. Feels the flutter of too quick heartbeat and Max tastes Daniel’s tongue, shares a breath with him, drinks how Daniel sighs a half aborted nasal sound that speaks Max's name. He'll stay.

#maxiel #fic rec #my writing #for u oomfie adimouze

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