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hotmessmaxpress · 9 days ago

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because nobody prompted me with the august prompts (which is totally fine btw!!!), I prompted myself:

around 2,5k words, 25) a warm red bull + maxiel:

Daniel walks into the apartment. It’s mostly clean (a small miracle) but dimly lit, curtains drawn, and weirdly quiet.

Then he spots him: Max, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fridge, shirtless, bathrobe hanging off one shoulder like a fallen Roman emperor, holding a single can of Red Bull like its sacred.

Daniel pauses in the doorway of the kitchen. “You meditate now?”

Max looks up. “I am just sitting.”

Daniel raises an eyebrow. “In front of a fridge?”

“It is warm,” Max says, lifting the can. “The Red Bull.”

Daniel steps inside, drops his duffel on the counter. “You’re still doing that? Heating them up like soup?”

“I don’t heat them. I leave them. It is different.”

“You’re such a freak,” Daniel says, grinning.

Max shrugs, unbothered. “You drank one before.”

“Once. That doesn’t make it normal. I also licked battery acid once on a dare.”

“You did that twice.”

“Fine. Twice. I was young and bored and you—” Daniel points at him. “—did that as well.”

Max takes a sip and doesn’t respond.

The room goes quiet in the way things go quiet when neither of them wants to be the first one to say what they’re actually thinking.

Daniel looks around, like something might’ve changed in the furniture since last time. “Smells the same in here. Like, weirdly clean and weirdly fast.”

“I had laundry done,” Max says. “And you are late.”

Daniel flops onto the stool. “Plane got delayed. Also I stopped for a pretzel.”

Max nods like that’s acceptable. “You texted me a picture of a moose.”

Daniel grins. “Felt thematic. You know…Alaska.”

“I did not know what to say back.”

“You said ‘ok.’”

Max shrugs. “That is what I had.”

Daniel stretches out on the kitchen stool like he’s been here every night for the last five years. “Still emotionally expressive as ever.”

Max drinks. “You came.”

“Yeah, well,” Daniel says, turning his head toward him. “You sent three texts and a Google Maps pin. That’s basically flowers in your language.”

Max glances at him sideways. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Daniel lifts one shoulder. “Figured you’d be unbearable if I didn’t.”

“I am unbearable anyway,” Max says, almost proud.

Daniel laughs, and for a second, it feels like something old and familiar, the sound of them, the rhythm of it.

Then Max says, “You still look the same. Just more beard.”

Daniel raises an eyebrow. “That’s either a compliment or a medical concern.”

“I meant it nice,” Max says. “Same face.”

“Well, you know. Botox and clean living.”

“You have always had this face,” Max continues. “Like…elastic. Like you are always about to laugh or kiss someone.”

Daniel pauses, blinks. “Okay. That’s…weirdly poetic.”

Max looks at him, calm and unreadable. “You’re the one who said I should express things more.”

“Right, but I didn’t mean become emotional Yoda.”

Max shrugs again, then tilts his head. “You are deflecting.”

“Of course I am. That’s my job.”

“No. Your job is driving bikes and tractors.”

Daniel grins. “You saw on Insta.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly. “I see a lot.”

The silence hangs. Not uncomfortable. Just loaded.

Daniel pushes himself down onto the kitchen floor next to Max. “So, what? I show up, you make me drink a war-crime-temperature Red Bull, and then we do…what? Reminisce?”

Max shifts a little, knee brushing Daniel’s leg. “I didn’t ask you here to reminisce.”

“Oh?”

“I just wanted to see you.”

Daniel pauses. “You’ve seen me. Am I glowing?”

“You are,” Max says. “And you make the room feel different.”

Daniel snorts. “Still can’t tell if that’s a compliment.”

“It is,” Max says simply.

Daniel swallows. “Alright.”

Max sips again, then offers him the can.

Daniel takes it without thinking. Their fingers brush.

The drink is as horrible as ever.

“Still tastes like regret and battery fluid,” Daniel says. “Glad to know you’re consistent.”

Max looks at him for a beat. “We haven’t done this in a while.”

Daniel doesn’t answer at first.

Then, “What, the Red Bull ritual? Or the part where you look at me like I’m a medium-rare steak and you’re two drinks in?”

Max says nothing.

Daniel licks his lips. “Yeah. I know.”

Max leans in a little. Not enough to touch. Just enough to hover.

“You left,” Max says. Not accusing. Just…stating it.

Daniel exhales. “I didn’t leave you. I left F1.”

“I know,” Max says. “But it was the same.”

Daniel holds his gaze. “You think I wanted this? You think I ran away?”

“I think we never talked about it.”

Daniel looks away. “Maybe we weren’t supposed to.”

Max hums. “You think too much.”

“You think not enough.”

Then Max says, voice low, almost amused, “You are very close to me right now.”

Daniel grins. “Your fault. You started with the face compliments.”

Max tilts his head. “You still want this?”

Daniel raises an eyebrow. “What is ‘this,’ Max?”

Max doesn’t flinch. “You. In my room. Touching me. Laughing at me. Fucking me.”

Daniel studies him, like he’s trying to find the catch. Like this is a test he didn’t study for.

Then he shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe I do.”

Max’s shoulders relax, only a little. “Okay.”

Daniel smirks. “You want me to touch your neck again, don’t you?”

Max shrugs like it’s a perfectly normal request. “Yes. You were very good at that.”

Daniel laughs, warm and open. “Jesus. You really have been sitting here getting weird.”

“You like it,” Max says.

Daniel doesn’t deny it.

Instead, he turns, nudges Max’s knee with his.

“One night,” Daniel says, just like old times. “And I’m not staying for breakfast.”

“You say that every time,” Max murmurs, already leaning closer.

Daniel sighs, dramatic. “Yeah, well. You keep warming up the Red Bull.”

Max lifts the can in a toast. “It’s tradition.”

Daniel takes it from him, sips, and grimaces. “Still disgusting.”

Max’s voice is low and satisfied. “Still warm.”

Daniel’s still holding the Red Bull when Max leans in and kisses him.

It’s not a surprise, exactly. Just a shift, a quiet, certain motion that lands solid and soft against Daniel’s mouth. Max has always moved like he’s already seen the outcome. Like he’s ahead on instinct.

Max’s mouth is slow but firm, no hesitation in it. No rush either. Just control. Like he knows he doesn’t have to ask twice.

Daniel lets the can slip from his hand, onto the tiles with a dull clink.

He kisses back, because of course he does, because it’s Max, and he’s here, and it’s been too long. And because something about it is different now. Not frantic. Not experimental.

Intentional.

Max pulls back half a breath. “Okay?”

Daniel blinks. “What kind of question is that after a kiss like that?”

Max just looks at him. “You used to get weird.”

“You used to kiss like you were apologizing to your own mouth.”

Max shrugs. “That was years ago.”

Daniel doesn’t say it out loud, but he’s definitely noticing. It’s not just the kissing. It’s the way Max is sitting: relaxed, confident, arms loose at his sides, thighs spread just slightly. He looks at ease in his own body now. He knows what it’s for.

Daniel makes a noise in his throat and says, “So what’s the goal here? See how far you can go before I crack?”

Max leans in again, slower. “I already cracked. I am just waiting for you.”

This time, Max doesn’t stop at the mouth.

He kisses Daniel again, deeper now, and his hand lands on Daniel’s thigh light, but not tentative. Just resting there. Just claiming space. Daniel feels the weight of it through thin fabric and exhales through his nose. They haven’t done this in a long time.

“Alright,” he mutters against Max’s lips. “So it’s like that, huh?”

Max hums. “Like what?”

“You’re getting handsy.”

“You’re letting me.”

That hand moves, just slightly. A slow brush up toward the hem of Daniel’s t-shirt, fingers dragging warmth.

Daniel smiles, eyes fluttering half-shut. “You always get so cocky when I stop talking.”

Max pulls back a little, just enough to look at him. “That’s the only way to win.”

Daniel snorts, but it comes out rougher now. “This isn’t a race.”

Max’s voice dips. “It is not casual either.”

That lands. Daniel doesn’t reply, but his breath stutters. Max is close enough to feel it. How Daniel’s chest rises quicker now, how his mouth stays parted.

Max leans in again, slower this time, and kisses along his jaw, mouth grazing over stubble, then lower, to his neck.

That gets him.

Daniel shifts, barely, just enough to tilt his head back and let Max go there…to invite it. And Max takes his time, warm lips at the curve of Daniel’s throat, hand creeping under the fabric of his shirt now.

Max kisses just below Daniel’s ear and says, “You still taste the same.”

Daniel’s breath catches. “You remember?”

Max nods, lips brushing his skin. “Of course.”

His hand moves up Daniel’s side, fingers spreading, palm flat and Daniel exhales a shaky laugh.

“You really don’t rush anymore, huh?”

“I know what I want.”

Daniel laughs again, but it sounds closer to a moan now. “God, you’re scary.”

“You are hard,” Max says, voice flat, just stating a fact.

Daniel looks at him, dazed but still cocky. “Maybe I missed you.”

Max’s mouth curls against his neck. “I know you did.”

Daniel grabs the front of Max’s shirt and pulls him in again, this time not a kiss, but a mouth-on-mouth exhale, all heat and friction. Their teeth click. Tongues slide. Max’s hand presses firmer on his hip, and Daniel pushes back against it.

It’s not desperate. Not frantic.

But it’s building.

A hum between them, low and rising.

Daniel murmurs, “What, you been sitting around thinking about this since I left?”

Max nods against his mouth. “Yes.”

Daniel groans, quiet. “Shit.”

Max pulls back only to look at him, eyes steady, lips red. “You should’ve come back sooner.”

Daniel looks back, pulse in his throat. “Didn’t know you were gonna be like this.”

Max licks his lower lip. “Like what?”

Daniel just stares.

Then he grabs Max’s jaw, pulls him in, and says, “Shut up,” before kissing him again, rougher now, messier.

And Max lets him. Lets him take the lead, lets him bite a little at the corner of his mouth, lets him push him back onto the floor with a laugh and a low, muttered “Finally.”

Daniel’s straddling him before either of them really says another word, shirt half-off, hands bracing on Max’s chest, breath hot between them.

There’s still time to stop. Still space to pretend they’re joking.

But neither of them does.

Max’s hands slide up Daniel’s thighs. His grip tightens.

Still warm like always.

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hotmessmaxpress · 22 days ago

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The paradoxes of being Lucia Marini: the long hair paradox | 1998 words, fem!Luca

“I want to cut my hair.”

From the lounger where he’s been cooking in the sun like a lizard for the past thirty minutes, Valentino lifts his head up, sunglasses pushed back in his hair, and squints before chuckling mischievously, lips drawn in a huge grin.

“You know we’ll never hear the end of it, right?”

Lucia looks away, beach towel wrapped around her spindly legs, cheeks going ablaze as if Valentino has scolded her. But he hasn’t, not really. He said we. Like they’re both on board with it. As if they’re teaming up to do shady things behind their parents’ backs, like they could have done if Vale wasn’t eighteen years her senior.

“Yeah. But I can’t –” she trails off, knowing well enough that Valentino, for how loving and understanding, would never fully comprehend the struggles Lucia faces daily as a girl in a traditionally male only sport. Not only that: a girl in a traditionally male only sport who insists on looking girly – long, blonde hair she can’t tolerate anymore and keeps taking care of only because mom is super vocal about it, super proud of what little femininity she’s managed to instill in her daughter, a daughter that should have never been the way she is; tall, lanky and ungraceful, all knocking limbs and braces she’ll have to keep for another couple of years if she doesn't want her mouth to fold in on itself. A daughter that looks grotesque in a dress, but stunning and at ease in an elegant shirt and slacks combo – she’s been told she looks a little like Marlene Dietrich in Casablanca, and she had taken so much pride in it, while her mom had gone for a plastic smile that didn’t really reach her eyes.

The tallest girl in her school, possibly in the whole town. Pretty, but with a cutting edge to it – no tits, no ass, and a way too sharp face.

She closes her eyes when Valentino walks up to her lounger, flopping down on it ungracefully, and his long fingers thread through her hair, drying fast and frizzy in the stifling july heat. She leans into the touch, a sigh on her parted, slightly sunburned lips. Vale is the only person that can make her feel like a little child and get away with it.

“Hard to keep this head tidy, I know. Are you going to show me some references?”

Lucia nods eagerly, heart pounding in her fingertips as she unlocks her phone and goes through the downloaded pictures folder. Between one movie quote pasted on an aesthetic wallpaper and a still from a gig she couldn’t attend because it was race day, she finds what she needs, and shows it to Valentino while trying to swallow the lump in her throat.

“Like…this,” she says, voice down to a self-conscious whisper.

Valentino stares at the picture for a beat too long not to make her feel like she’s about to give their mom a premature aneurysm. But then, Valentino smiles, scratching at her scalp like he used to when she was little and curled up against him to watch cartoons in the living room, and it doesn’t feel like he’s judging her, on the contrary.

“It’s a bit radical, but I think it would suit you. Do you need me to be there?”

Lucia can’t really help letting out an ugly, wrecked sound, not unlike that of a squished rat. It is, in fact, a very radical change of hairstyle. Her hair is now growing past her waist, blonde and straight like spaghetti. In her saved picture, instead, there’s a guy with a high undercut and hair that can’t be longer than ten, twelve centimeters, with pointy side bangs falling over his eye – old school shit, but she’s never been one for following the diktats of fashion.

“Would you…really…?”

Her question hangs. Valentino scrunches his face, shakes his head, and leans in to kiss her temple, loud and playful.

“Of course. So that mom will yell at me when I take you home with all your hair in a sealed bag!”

The image is morbid enough to make her chuckle. She doesn’t tell Valentino mom would never yell at him, though, that she could never scold her golden child for catering to the wishes of an ungrateful little brat.

She never called Lucia out like that, but sometimes she sees it in her eyes, that dark cloud passing over Stefania’s all too blue stare – she wanted a daughter invested in astrology and crystals and tarots, just like her, not a tomboy who dreams to make it to MotoGP and sometimes must be reminded she won’t drop off school, nu-uh, because Stefania still harbors the secret hope she’ll outgrow it and becomes a lawyer instead. Or an engineer, like her late stepdad. Or perhaps a psychologist. Everything, but not another child who wants to follow in her first husband’s footsteps.

“Do you think,” she finds the courage to ask only after a long while, “I’ll look pretty? Mom says I wouldn’t, with my hair cropped short. She says I’d look too much like a boy.”

Valentino’s hand is big around her nape, calloused fingers squeezing just so before letting go. His eyes, though, are unsettingly serious, and Lucia is sure she’s said something wrong – said too much, like she always does with Vale. He asks about how things are going at home, she tells him the honest truth, and the next day Stefania is giving her the cold shoulder.

“You know, mom says a lot of things. It doesn’t make what she says automatically right, though.”

Lucia sighs, biting her lower lip. It stings, but she’ll probably forget about putting chapstick on later. At fifteen, her skincare only consists of slightly corrosive products that will keep her skin from breaking out, expensive pharmacy shit that smells like concrete because a dermatologist has told Stefania her skin is prone to acne and nobody wants a child with craters on her face, Lucia thinks. Another thing her mom hasn’t told her directly, but of course is pretty blatant if someone’s as observant as Lucia is.

“Are you free tomorrow?”

Valentino doesn’t even check his calendar, he just nods, taking up space on the lounger, feet dangling from the edge, knocking into hers. For the first time since she’s decided to go on with her suicidal mission, Lucia feels like breathing comes a little easier.

She pulls her awkward knees to her flat chest and stares out towards the horizon, Valentino’s body a steady, warm presence next to her. Her hair feels a little itchy on her back. Good thing it will all be gone, tomorrow.

***

Stefania tells Valentino not to bring Lucia back too late, that her advanced english summer course is starting tomorrow, and something about the stars and the planets that Lucia doesn’t really want to hear. Instead of fading out of the conversation like she usually does, she sprints towards Vale’s car, gets comfortable in the passenger seat, and pretends she doesn’t notice the faint trace of smoke etched in the upholstery.

Valentino’s driving style is relaxed when he’s not racing, even if he’s often speeding, and Lucia likes when he’s driving her around, content with listening to him talk, or to the music blasting from the speakers. They’re driving to Pesaro, she’s found a cool hairstylist there, one who doesn’t fry your hair if you want to go purple - it happened to one of her classmates and it was…so fucking ugly - and, most importantly, who won’t call her mom as soon as Lucia will be seated at the shampoo bowl, determined to have most of her hair gone by the end of the service. She keeps thinking: I won’t look so pretty when I’m done, but Valentino’s enthusiastic reassurances are starting to grow on her, making her feel a little more confident about the whole ordeal. He tells her it’s just hair. That it’ll grow back soon if she doesn’t like her new haircut. That he’s done it a million times and rocked it even when he thought he looked hideous. Lucia nods, trying to look brave. It’s weird to think she never had short hair, now that she’s going to chop everything off. She doesn’t remember kindergarten, but from the photos Stefania keeps in her albums she’s learned she already had shoulder-length hair, and that Stefania used to braid it every morning. What she remembers with almost painful clarity, though, is the first time Vale let her sit on his Honda, in the brightly lit, colorful garage, way past her bedtime. She was three. And, apparently, she wore her hair shoulder-length, which feels unimportant compared to the feeling of the NSR 500 under her, the handles giant in her tiny fists.

Her dad would definitely say something wise about it, something about the complexity of growing up around boys and the feelings of inadequacy for failing to meet both her mother’s and her big brother’s standards. He would probably be right. It’s not easy being fifteen and Lucia Marini.

The traffic’s brutal today. It’s hot and stuffy, but Valentino has turned the A/C on and he’s singing along to an old song Lucia has heard a million times, comically off-tune, encouraging her to do the same. All in all, she’s having a great time. She’ll have to remember it when she’ll be home and her mom will give her hell for having butchered her hair. Until then, she can close her eyes and sing atop of her lungs. With Valentino by her side, Lucia feels invincible.

***

“You do, indeed, look pretty as fuck,” Valentino says, thinking about carding his fingers through her hair but stopping right on time, probably because he remembered how much hairspray the hairstylist used to give the cut some volume. Lucia has left the salon with a bag of new products to take care of it: round brushes, volumizing shampoo and conditioner, volumizing spray, volumizing everything. She said Lucia’s hair is kinda flat, because it’s too straight. Lucia hasn’t taken offense in that.

She flashes Valentino a big, toothy smile. In the windows of his car, she sees someone pretty, despite the lack of curves or makeup.

“Mom is going to get so mad,” she says, but it’s a lighthearted remark, nothing to do with the heavy boulder she’d been carrying for the past few days, the yawning pit opening in her stomach, making her sick. It’s okay if Stefania gets mad. It’s okay if her father is going to lecture her about the importance of sharing some thoughts before taking such a drastic decision. It’s okay, because Vale is smiling and telling her she’s pretty, and Vale never lies to her.

Only to her.

“Yeah. I think I do look pretty now,” she replies, ramming into him, shoulder knocking against shoulder.

Valentino shakes his head, tapping a beat on her back, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“You should stop growing now, though. Seriously. A few centimetres more, and you’ll tower over me!”

Lucia laughs. She won’t tell him that, unlike boys, girls reach their peak height early, because it’s linked to puberty and things Valentino doesn’t know shit about. She just keeps laughing, even when she climbs into Vale’s car and directions all the air vents towards herself.

Maybe, someday, she will tower over him, somehow. The first girl ever to make it to the premier class. How would that be for a legend?

“Hey, that’s not something I can control,” she playfully objects. “It’s not, say, hair!”

Valentino huffs dramatically.

“Let’s go home,” he tells her, faking contrition. “Let’s go get yelled at by our mom.”

Lucia smiles, her hand, much smaller than Valentino’s and less ruined, wrapping briefly around his bony wrist, squeezing fondly. She will thank him, later. For now, though, she just wants to enjoy the feeling of freedom this new haircut is giving her – she does definitely deserve it.

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