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macfrog · 9 months

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rack 'em

the girlies watched triple frontier last week and it was the single most inspiring thing i have ever seen so here’s a lil frankie fic to cleanse my mind. dedicated to my babies @gracieispunk (who put this concept in my head for the wee laddies), @hellishjoel & @strang3lov3 🤍

pairing: bbf!frankie morales x f!reader

summary: when your parents ask you to housesit for them, you take the opportunity to spend some quality time back in your hometown, hanging with your older brother and...getting reacquainted with his best friend

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) reader is santiago's younger sister, she and frankie do not get along, teasing & touching, dubcon (reader is a little drunk, frankie is not), oral sex (f receiving), alcohol consumption, quick mention of dr*gs, cursing, frankie's a bit of a dick but reader gives as good as she gets

word count: 6.1k (cause apparently i don’t know how to write short fics 🤪)

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When you were four, a new family moved in across the street. Nobody knew them – your mom spent two straight days trying to scoop for information. Who they were, where they’d moved from, what was with the banged-up Ford pickup they drove. Nobody knew a thing.

You didn’t take much interest, being four years old – two months shy of your fifth birthday, by the way – and too invested in whatever politics a woman of your age finds herself wrapped up in, but you noticed one key thing about them.

The mom had tattoos.

Two full sleeves. Colorful ones, too. A bright red heart on her shoulder, a green snake wrapped around her forearm – among others. It was fucking cool, alright? No matter how much your mom whispered to Ms. Teller over the fence about them.

One night, when you were supposed to be in bed, you snuck out of your room and crossed the landing to your brother’s. Santiago and his friends were all staying at Tom’s, and you knew that in his desk he had permanent markers. You clicked the door open, as quiet as you could, and crept over his matted carpet to the drawer. You took one Sharpie, and spent the night adding snakes and hearts and whatever else came to mind to your Barbies’ arms, legs, faces, necks.

They looked fucking awesome. Just like that mom across the street.

But somehow or other – and I’m not blaming anyone – the next morning, a drawing appeared on the bathroom wall. In Sharpie. Your mom hit the roof.

As soon as Santi got home, she dragged him by the ear into the bathroom and pointed a trembling finger at the drawing. You forget what it was – it’s been years, and you were never much of an artist.

His plea of innocence helped him none; she knew he owned Sharpies, knew he sucked just as bad as you did at drawing, and he was grounded for three whole weeks. No soccer practice, no TV, no PlayStation. Which, at thirteen, is basically a stint in Rikers.

Your brother, though…he was always better than your mom at reading your mind. He saw the guilt on your face plain as the black marker behind the toilet tank. He cornered you in your bedroom as soon as she went back downstairs, and established three key rules going forward.

One: do not enter his room ever again.

Two: no touching his stuff.

And three: anytime he took the fall for you, you owed him. Big time.

You’ve followed the rules ever since. You barely knew what the inside of his room looked like, growing up. But it worked, ‘cause ever since the Sharpie incident of ’99, you two remained closer than most siblings with an eight-year age gap.

So, now, two days into a two-week stay back in your hometown to housesit while your parents head off on a cruise to celebrate their anniversary, you’re in the car with him. Listening to music, bitching about your mom, arguing over the best Cola flavor.

It’s like old times.

“She said, How’s my baby girl?” you yell over Stevie Nicks’s voice, reading from your phone.“And when I said I’m fine, she said, No, I meant the dog. Is she fucking serious?”

Santiago’s head tilts back with laughter, dark curls nudging against the headrest. He’s driving you to Lucky’s, a local sports bar he and his buddies frequent. He promised when he picked you up at the airport he’d take you out, get you drunk, and he was holding to it.

You pull your legs down off the dash as he turns into the parking lot, pulling in right under the white fluorescent sign, four-leaf clover flashing under it.

“She’s looking forward to seeing you when they get back,” he tells you, switching the engine off.

“Oh, yeah? That why she didn’t even hang around to see me before they left?”

He hands you a smug grin, shrugging his shoulders. “Can’t have it all, big shot. You move a thousand miles away, you forfeit your chance of being the favorite.”

You swing your door open and hop out, chasing him around the car to follow him inside. “You say that like I was ever in the fucking running.”

He snorts, pushing the door open, and a loud cheer roars through the bar. You blush as you follow your brother across the room to two tables full of familiar faces.

“Hey, baby.” Your best friend’s arms pull you in, her gold hoop earrings cold against your cheek. She smells like rose and cedarwood.

“Mal,” you hum, smiling as she pulls away.

“My mom said your parents only just made it on board,” she says, detaching strands of her long, black hair from the cuff of your jacket. “Said they had a flat tire and had to race to get to the boat.”

Your head jerks back. “She never told me any of that. Just asked how Ange was.”

Mal snorts.

“Hey, lil Santi!”

You glance over your shoulder to watch as Benny Miller stalks over, almost shoving some old guy off his feet, arms wide open, wide grin spread across his lips. His brother, Will, follows behind, and gives your shoulder a loving slap when Benny pulls you in for a hug.

“How’s Boston treatin’ ya?”

“Good,” you reply. “How’s…MMA treating you?”

“Good!” he echoes, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline.

It’s kinda part of the deal that your older brother’s friends become brothers in their own right to you, especially when you’re as young and easily-influenced as you were. They used to use you in their elaborate plans – send you in as a distraction while they filled their pockets with food at parties, or use your smaller stature to their advantage when attempting to break into places they shouldn’t.

By the time you were old enough to follow their orders, they were well into their teens. Which is basically grown-up, as far as six-year-old you was concerned. They were always allowed to do things you’re still not sure your mom would permit you to do at twenty-eight, like disappear all day without checking in, or come home black and blue after an organized street brawl with the boys from the other side of the neighborhood.

But there was no denying they cared about you. Will, Benny, and Tom, at least. They showed their affection by ruffling your hair as they passed, or sneaking you candy under the table even after your mom had told you you’d had enough. They’d christened you ‘lil Santi’, a name that – despite the embarrassment it always casts over you anytime you hear it – still sticks to this day.

Your brother’s friends were family to him, and, by extension, family to you.

Well. All but one.

Frankie Morales – nickname Catfish: long-time best buddy of your big brother, and long-time fucking asshole. There isn’t one thing on Earth that you two see eye to eye on, except for that very fact: he hates you almost as much as you hate him.

Always have, always will.

He’s in trouble almost regularly for drug-related stuff you don’t bother asking Santiago about. You don’t need to hear details to know he’s a pain in the ass. He’s been antagonizing you for as long as you’ve known him – where the others ruffled your hair, he’d shove into your shoulder as he passed, sending you – and whatever you were holding – flying. Any attempt you made at conversation with any one of them resulted in an argument between you and Frankie.

You hated him. Fucking hated him.

And tonight, you almost think yourself lucky. Almost go over to thank Santi for not inviting him, when you notice the silhouette of his baseball cap and that denim button up hunched over in a bar stool, and your eyes narrow.

You can’t help yourself. It’s been a years-long feud. And you’re old enough to take him on now. So, you stride over.

“You here to poison my drink?”

“What?” he asks, shaking his head. Already exasperated just by the sight of you.

“I bet you cheered the loudest when I walked in.”

He shrugs. “Cheered when your brother gave me fifty bucks to show face.”

Your upper lip curls. When the bartender notices you standing, elbows propped on the bar, he leans over.

“Beer, please.” Your smile twists into a grimace when you catch Frankie watching you. “What are you doing here? You have to be the person least excited to see me home.”

“I told you,” he says, lifting the bottle to his lips, “I’m bein’ paid.”

“Alright, so what do I gotta pay you to make you leave?”

Frankie scoffs, opens his mouth to answer what you’re sure is a comment laced with just as much venom, when Will’s strong arms slap down on each of your shoulders.

“We buyin’ our favorite veterinary nurse a drink, Francisco?”

You take your beer from Nick’s outstretched hand, sliding him the cash in return, and hold it up to Will in reply. “I’m good, thanks. Wouldn’t wanna eat into that fifty bucks, Catfish,” you mutter, turning to wander off.

You weave in and out of bodies, making your way to the opposite side of the bar where the pool tables sit. Doused in the warm strip light over the green felt, Santi chalks his cue ready to play against Mal, who’s already lining up her shot.

You hop up on a stool right next to the table, glancing back over to the bar where Frankie sits, now turned to face your direction. His elbow sits on the wooden surface, head turns from the football game showing behind the bar, over to you. And when he sees you looking, turns back to the TV screen, cool expression never changing.

“You done?” Mal asks Santiago, feeding the cue through her ring-decorated fingers.

He nods, tossing the chalk back over to you. “Better get your purse out, Bennett. Lotta sober people in here, all gonna want a free drink once you lose.”

“As if,” she breathes, and breaks the rack.

Somewhere throughout the game – a grueling and controversial one, by all accounts – Frankie makes his way over, following Will. You’re thankful when he plants himself on the other side of the table, one hand in his jeans pocket, the other around a bottle of beer. Though the light only comes up to his chest, right where the last button is done up, you notice him looking. Every fucking glance.

It pisses you off. Not the glancing. The way it makes you feel having him watch you. Wherever it comes from, you swallow it down with one big gulp of alcohol.

The game ends in a questionable loss. This side of the table swears the white skimmed off of Mal’s final solid when Santi hit it, right before it potted the black. The other side objected, claimed it was a clean shot ‘n you all know it. A winner wasn’t officially announced, but, being that Mallory Bennett is a force of nature where her competitive nature is concerned, Santiago was forced to buy the loser’s round.

She saunters up to you with her free whiskey in her hand, silver jewelry clinking off of the cold glass.

“Proud of yourself?” you ask, smirking.

She hands you your third beer of the night, sweeping her silky hair out of her face. “It hit it, alright? I saw it move.”

“Was that before or after you nudged the table?”

Mal holds a finger to her lips. You swat her hand away and the pair of you giggle, leaning into each other like schoolgirls whispering secrets in the playground.

“You know something,” Santiago materializes over Mal’s shoulder, shaking his head, “if you gotta cheat to beat me, I’ll give you the win.”

“Oh, get out,” you throw back. “Don’t blame her for your bad aim. Ms. Teller could’ve hit that shot and she’s got cataracts in both eyes.”

Your brother nods at you, tongue in his cheek. “Alright, smartass. Grab a cue.”

You scoff. Look around the room, shaking your head. The crowd has dispersed a little, folks have turned back to the TV screens, shifted focus back to the alcohol in their glasses. And then you look back to Santiago, holding his arms out.

“Alright. Fuck it.”

You hop down and snatch the second cue, wandering around the table while he racks the balls. He lifts the triangle, rolls the white over to you, and tells you to break.

The multicolored balls scatter in a fleet, two stripes tumble into pockets, and you stand back to survey your options. There’s a third stripe close to a pocket on the right, so you wander around to your left and turn.

“’scuse me,” you mutter, nudging Frankie’s stomach with the bottom of your cue.

He shoots you a dead-eyed stare, and takes one step back. And then his eyes drop, and you feel like you could slap him.

But you’re three – almost four – beers deep, and there are heads turning to watch how this plays out, and you can feel the bassline of the music rippling up from the soles of your feet all through your body, and you can feel the heat of his stare on the backs of your thighs, right where the hem of your dress sits.

Suddenly, slapping isn’t what you want to do to him.

Your head turns back to the pool table and you bend over, drawing the cue back between almost shaking fingers, and slam it into the white. It fires into the red striped ball, which hits the corner of the cushion, millimeters away from falling into the pocket.

You sigh, straightening up and waiting for your brother to begin his taunting, but it never comes. Instead, he fishes into his pocket for his phone, tapping the screen and holding it to his ear.

“Yep?” There’s a pause, Santiago’s face sours, and then he glances around the bar. “Right now? Really? No, it’s just…” He sighs. “Alright. I’ll be there. Just…I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He hangs up the phone and curses under his breath, then turns back to you, answering the question on your expression with: “One of our informants just got himself killed. I gotta go.”

“You haven’t even taken a shot yet,” you huff, taking his cue when he holds it out.

“I’ll make it up to you, hermana, promise. How are you gonna get home?”

You shrug. Mumble an, “I dunno.”

His eyes scan the room, passing over Will – already worse for wear, leaning shakily against a nearby table slurring to a group of strangers, then to Benny – stumbling out of the bar door with some girl on his arm, and finally land on the figure behind you, sliding a bowl of peanuts across the table to himself.

“Morales,” Santiago calls, and you throw the cues down on the felt.

“No, no way,” but your brother is already pushing past you to get to his friend. “Pope, no fucking w–”

Frankie turns, handful of nuts, cheek full and chewing.

“I gotta go, trouble at work. Can you do me a favor, man, ‘n make sure she gets home alright?”

“No,” you repeat. “He is not taking me home.”

“Baby,” Santi pleads, “just go with him, please?”

“I’ll walk. It’s, like, a twenty-minute walk.”

“No way. Mom would kill me.”

“Well, then, we just don’t tell her. Pope, please.”

He ignores you. “You are not walking home after dark. No.”

“Probably be safer than in the truck with him.”

Frankie’s head stops flitting between the two of you and his glare settles on yours. “Fuck you,” he spits, shaking his head.

“Right back at you,” you reply, insincere smile on your lips.

Santiago puts his palms together and holds them out to you. “Look, just – please. Just this once. I’ll owe you one.”

He doesn’t owe you one often. Makes a point of deliberately trying not to owe you one. This is an interesting offer. You sigh, and roll your eyes.

“Fine. You better fucking pay me back, though!”

“You got it,” he says, patting your shoulder. “Thanks, man,” he whispers to Frankie as he passes, slipping through the crowd toward the exit.

You and Frankie are left, two feet apart, filled with silence and resentment.

“You looking for someone else to hand your ass to you, lil Santi?” he asks, tossing another handful of peanuts into his mouth.

“You’re funny.” You hand him a smile, which drops the second he looks at it.

But when you turn back to the table and lift the cues, you hand one to him. Push it into his chest, shoot him a narrow-eyed glance.

“One game. And only ‘cause I need a sub.”

He dusts his hands together, shrugs. “Shouldn’t take me too long.”

You stalk back over to Mal, who’s giggling into her glass. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Don’t.” You hold your hand up, taking another swig of beer as Frankie lines up.

On his first shot, he pots that same red you were trying to hit before. His eyes lift only for a second, but you catch the cocky look he throws you and screw your face up.

“Fucking…ass,” you whisper.

Frankie’s shoulders jump, his teeth take his bottom lip. He’s laughing to himself when he takes his next shot, and pots another stripe. And then he stands up straight, holds his hands out.

“Just tell me when.”

“When what?”

“To start going easy on you.”

Fuck off. Fuck off, fuck you, fuck this. Fuck!

One more ball potted and finally, fucking finally, he misses a shot. It’s an impossible shot, anyway, there’s no way in hell he was gonna make it, but that’s not what matters. What matters is the way you twirl your cue in your fingers, then lift it and wander around the table, squeezing between Frankie and the wooden edge to get to your shot.

Your ass brushes past his jeans, and when you turn your head to whisper a sarcastic Sorry, he fucking growls. Low, almost inaudible. But just enough for you to notice, and enough for you to keep pissing him off.

The buzz you’re getting from antagonizing him this much must awaken some sort of billiards skillset you never knew you fucking had, because you pocket four balls in quick succession. Red, then green, then blue, and purple. There’s one ball between you when Frankie rounds the table, eyes scanning the felt for the next best shot he can take.

“Hurry the fuck up,” you mutter as he passes by you, on his third lap of the table.

He tsks. “Impatient,” he replies, shoulder brushing yours heavily. You feel the rough denim of his jeans graze your thighs, the weight of him against your backside for the second time. You push back, leaning into him as he moves past, then leans over, slinks his cue between his fingers, and takes his shot.

The yellow sails into the nearest pocket like there’s a magnet pulling it. The purple does the exact same – he barely has to tap it with the tip of the cue and it’s dropping in atop its predecessor.

Frankie turns, shimmying a little up the table, hip nudging yours out of the way. “Move,” he mumbles, shutting one eye to aim for the black. “Come on…” he breathes, and then shoots.

It bounces off of the opposite side of the table, thudding off of the cushion before it’s rolling toward the pocket and dropping in with a plunk.

He stands, fixing his baseball cap, and leans the cue against the table. “Good game, loser,” he says, ruffling your hair as he passes you.

“What age are you?” you sneer as he wanders back off to his beer, waiting for him on the table next to his bowl of peanuts.

Will wraps an unsteady arm around your shoulder as Frankie tips his bottle against his lips. He’s swaying, dragging you left and right with him as if you’re on a boat.

“He’s…he’s always been the best outta us all,” Will slurs, using his bottle to point at Frankie. “’s why he’s such a good pilot. Good aim.”

You sigh, pushing his heavy arm off yourself and slip back over to Mal, who hands you a sad smile and fixes your hair.

“It was a good attempt,” she says.

“Oh, shut up,” you reply, tossing your bottle up and draining the last of it onto your tongue. “I need another drink.”

You cross the room, suddenly less blurry and tilted, more boring and flat, and lean over the bar. “Nick,” you call, and he twists around, “grab me another–”

“It’s alright, Nick,” a voice yells over your shoulder, “I think she’s good.”

You spin around and it’s that stupid fucking baseball cap and the stupid denim button up again.

“What, I’m not allowed to drink now?”

Frankie’s head cocks. “You don’t think you’ve had enough?”

“I’ve had three. Three beers. The fuck is your problem?”

He tuts, glances left and right, and then back to you. “I think I should get you home.”

“I think you should mind your business.”

“Are you this fucking difficult with everyone when you’re drunk?”

“Nope,” you beam at him, “just you.”

He lets go of the grip he has on your arm and starts backing away. “I’m leaving, baby,” he tells you, nodding goodbye to Nick. “You’re either coming, or Pope’s gonna hear all about it.”

You ball your fists, watching the door swing closed behind him. Your feet stay rooted to the ground, eyes flitting from the parking lot over to Mal, who lifts her arms in a question. You shake your head in response, and her shoulders drop.

Sorry, you mouth, beginning to walk off in Frankie’s footsteps.

Mal blows you a kiss, winks once, and then salutes you goodbye. You shoulder out of the bar.

The ride back to your parents’ place is silent, except for the dull drone of whatever fucking music Frankie has choking out of his radio. You watch your hometown pass by, never taking your eyes off of the blurry streetlights or passing mailboxes, refusing to turn your head further than the middle of the windscreen at him.

He’s humming along to the song, jaw swinging as he chews on gum, arm hanging out of his open window. Everything he does is so fucking irritating, like a constant buzzing in your ear, an eyelash stuck in your eye, the feeling of stepping on a wet floor in socks.

So why, every time you do sneak a glance of him out of your peripheral, does the sight of those focused brown eyes, the strands of gray in his beard, the way his curls flick under the brim of his cap – why does it all stir something inside of you?

Frankie pulls up across the street from your house, white wood a milky blue in the moonlight. You unbuckle your seatbelt and let the strap whip off of your body, rattling against the interior of the truck. The most you’re willing to offer him is a nod of the head in thanks, which he returns, and your fingers hook around the door latch.

“Hey, mind if I come in ‘n use your bathroom?” he asks.

You pause. “Uh, yeah. I mind. No.”

“Come on, baby, I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

You scoff, ignoring him and slip down out of the truck. The door slams closed and you wander over to your parents’ drive, hearing a second slam as you cross the street.

“Uh, where do you think you’re going?”

“If your mom knew you weren’t letting me use her bathroom, she’d kill you, ‘n you know it.”

“My mom doesn’t know you like I know you, asshole,” you retort, but he’s still following you to the front door. “Just – alright. Do me a favor and disinfect it once you’re done. I don’t need them coming home to piss all over the floor.”

“You think my aim’s that bad? Just schooled you in a game of pool.”

You sigh, refusing to rise, and open the door. There’s the gentle scuffing of claws on the wooden flooring, trotting nearer and nearer in the dark hallway, and then the weight of your childhood dog shoves into your body.

“Hi, Angie. Hi, girl,” you whisper, scratching the dog’s white fur, her front paws against your tummy.

She jumps down when Frankie slips in behind you, wandering over with her tail swinging back and forth. He crouches down and holds his hand out, cooing, “Hi, baby,” as she nuzzles against his palm.

“She likes most folks who come by,” you utter, hanging your coat over the banister. “Don’t think you’re special.”

“She always loved me most,” he says, still fussing over the pup, “didn’t you, girl? Yeah, yeah you did.”

You roll your eyes and wander upstairs, leaving Frankie to find the bathroom, use it, and fuck off on his own.

It’s been almost eight years since you last lived here, but your room still looks oddly similar. Same bedframe, different sheets. Same wallpaper, only not covered in posters of your favorite bands. Same shelves, too, just that they hold stuff like vases and seashells and other random ornaments your mom’s picked up, rather than a collection of your favorite movies or framed photos of you and your friends.

You pull your dress over your shoulders and kick your boots off, grabbing a tee from your bag to sleep in. The Nirvana logo lies loose across your chest, the hem dancing along the line of your panties.

As you kneel on the mattress, tossing the million and one fucking pillows your mom has stacked down to the foot of the bed, you hear the door creak open.

“Damn,” Frankie mutters, glancing around the room, “haven’t been in here since I was, what, seventeen?”

“Weren’t welcome then, still not welcome now.”

“You still got that Black Eyed Peas poster rolled up somewhere?” He’s walking in, boots scuffing along the wooden floor.

“Are you lost?”

He looks over to you, stood by the bed, t-shirt barely reaching your thighs. “You know something, you ‘n your brother are so fucking different, it amazes me you’re related.”

“I imagine there’s a lot that amazes you, dumbass.”

He scoffs. There’s a hint of genuine humor in it. Like he’s impressed. And then his eyes scan down your body, lingering on the bare skin of your legs, shifting up to the pink cotton of your panties. They shoot back up when you speak again.

“Seriously, dude. What are you still doing here?”

Frankie turns to the dresser by the window, adorned with framed pictures of you and Santi as kids. “Making sure you get home alright, like Pope told me to.”

“Well,” you shrug, “I’m home, ‘n I’m alright. So…”

He picks up a silver frame; inside, faded by the sun and years that have passed, lives a photograph of you and your brother. He’s on his BMX bike, wide, toothless grin, and you’re behind him, standing on the pegs and gripping onto his t-shirt sleeves as you battle not to fall off.

Frankie laughs a little, turning the frame to show you. “You were always so fuckin’ annoying, you know that?” And then, with a shake of his head as he sets the frame back down, “Still are.”

You cock your head, throwing your hands up with an infuriated sigh. “If I’m so annoying, then why are you still here?”

The look he gives when he turns back around answers that question for you, in a way that his words never could. Never would, to be honest. He’d never admit the thoughts running through his head right now, same as you won’t admit that, likewise, they’re running through yours.

It’d be fucking weird. It’d be wrong, hooking up with his best friend’s little sister. Santi only asked him to get you home safe, not follow you inside, walk straight into your bedroom, look at you the way he’s looking at you right now, silhouetted by the streetlight shining through your still-open shades.

So then, why can’t he walk away?

You make to step forward, and Frankie’s already moving. He meets you halfway, stood on some fancy-looking rug your mom probably spent too much money on, his arms instantly finding your waist underneath your short tee.

“You fuckin’ piss me off, you know that?”

“I know,” you breathe, bottom lip brushing against his, “I know.”

He pushes you backward, sends you stumbling across the floor on your toes until the back of your calves hit the mattress and you fall, dragging him down on top of you. You knock the baseball cap from his head and run your hands through his brown curls, pulling him nearer as his hands begin to move north under the worn cotton of your shirt.

His rough hands cup your breasts, kneading and pinching your nipples as his lips fall to your neck, sucking a bruise into your soft skin.

“Frankie,” you breathe, “what the fuck are we–?”

“Shut up,” he whispers back, teeth grazing over your collarbone. He’s moving down, kissing over your tee as he goes, until he’s kneeling on the floor, your legs dangling off the bed either side of his body.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, watching him as he presses fleeting kisses to the insides of your thighs, making his way closer and closer to your center, covering ground painfully slow.

“Would you – just – fucking – get there?” you ask, head tilting back with a groan.

“Always so fucking impatient,” he mutters, pulling your legs further apart. “Makes sense, though,” he whispers, finger hooking around your underwear, “already so wet.”

“Dick,” you hiss, laying back flat on the bed.

Frankie holds the lace off of your core and then dips his jaw, lips lightly ghosting across your folds. You hum with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance, ready to buck your hips up to him if it’ll just make him move faster.

But you don’t have to wait a second longer. He licks one broad stripe up your center, pressing one chaste kiss to your clit before his tongue dips where you need him most. Your legs go to clamp shut, stopped by his shoulders.

“Fuck, Frankie,” you moan, hand coming down to knot your fingers in his hair.

He hums against your pussy, tongue lapping inside you, nose at the perfect angle for you to rut your clit against.

“Fuck…” you repeat, and he fucking laughs against you. “Quit it,” you hiss, and he lifts his head.

Your eyes shoot open, finding his. Alarmed meeting cool.

“Fine,” he says, smirking. “I’ll quit it.”

“Don’t you fucking– Frankie.”

“Your words, baby.” He shrugs, eyes flitting down to your cunt, soaked under his touch.

“I didn’t mean it,” you moan. “Why are you such a fucking asshole?”

He looks back up. The corners of his mouth pull his smirk into a grin. Some devilish grin, thick with arrogance.

“I’m an asshole,” he echoes, elastic of your panties shifting up to his knuckles.

He watches your cunt as he does it. Runs two fingers between your folds, coating them in your arousal, dipping them deeper until they’re at your entrance.

Your head hits the bed heavily, your body writhing over the white sheets as he pushes closer and closer. His free hand comes up and pushes down on your tummy, holding you steady to the mattress, then –

“I’m the asshole.”

He inserts his fingers, curled, thick, stretching you out over his hand as he pushes in deep. A gasp passes through your lips, exchanging itself for a throaty moan when Frankie begins fucking you on his hand, lowering his lips to your clit again.

His wrist pumps in and out, tongue swirling over the swollen bud, palm pushing harder into your stomach to keep you from upsetting his rhythm with how badly you want to move around.

Your fingers lock a vice grip around his hair, your hips the only part of your body he’ll let you move. You establish a pace of your own, fucking up to meet his fingers, grinding yourself on his wet tongue.

“I’m close,” you pant, Nirvana logo distorted in ruffles at the base of your neck. “So fucking close, Frankie.”

And he can feel it. Feel you tightening around his hand, feel the rhythm of your hips start to miss beats, move clockwise instead of up and down. He can hear as your mouth stops rounding the words, fading into slurs and breaths and moans instead of coherent language.

“F-Frankie,” you cry out, and it’s like music to his ears. “’m there, I’m–”

“On my mouth, baby,” he mutters, withdrawing his fingers and replacing them with his lips again, tongue pushing inside you as you fall apart all over him.

Your back lifts from the bed, fists ball around his hair, pushing his face even harder against your cunt as you ride out your high. You’re moaning his name over and over, echoing off the walls of your little room, escaping out the door and swirling around the hallway.

If you could hear yourself, or cared enough to try, you’d feel fucking embarrassed at what you’re doing – coming apart under Frankie’s touch. It’s Frankie.

The same Frankie you started an argument with one Fourth of July over which was better: ketchup or mustard; the two of you spitting insults over the striped tablecloth, obscene hand gestures being thrown up over plates of burgers.

The same Frankie who’d found out it was you who drew on the wall, and from that day on used it as leverage anytime you set a foot out of line. Used it to shut you up, anytime you so much as thought about talking back, or ratting on the boys.

You’re supposed to hate him. Ask anyone – Santi, Mal, your parents. They’ll all say the same. Like cat and dog.

And yet, here you are. Begging him not to stop, keep his hands and his mouth on you; gasping for breath when he eventually lifts away from you and you collapse back into the bed.

You glance down from under heavy lids, watching as he kisses your thighs again, slowly bringing you back to the room. His chin’s glistening, covered in your cum, beard soaked in you.

You slowly sit up, holding yourself steady with two palms pushed into the mattress. Frankie readjusts your underwear and sits back on his heels, running a hand down his chin and wiping himself clean.

“That was…” you pant, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

He just nods, breathing heavy himself. “Yeah.”

“I gotta…I gotta let…Ange out,” you say, words swaddled by your breath.

Frankie nods again. “I should go.”

You stand at the same time, straightening up face to face. His right side is lit warmly by your bedside lamp, the brown of his eye reflecting a tiny yellow orb back at you; the left side is darker, flecks of hair lit in the pale light from the street, face dark and unreadable. Like he’s two different people, split down the middle now, a before and after.

You’re staring at one another, mapping every inch of the other’s face. Learning it, like it’s new. Like you’ve never really seen each other until right now.

And then he’s turning, picking his hat up from the floor in one swooping motion, and walking out of your bedroom. A deep sigh passes your lips as he goes, relief mixed with satisfaction. And then you follow.

Angie circles him when his boots thud down from the bottom step. He bends to give her more attention, waiting for you to softly pad down alongside him. The dog trots off toward the kitchen, and he turns to you.

He’s back to his unphased self, jaw circling around the gum that he’s still fucking chewing. “Two drinks you owe me, now, lil Santi.”

You cock your head. “Hm?”

“One for showing your ass at pool, ‘n another for that.”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Morales.”

He snorts, wandering off down the hall. You spin on your heel and follow the sound of Ange scraping the back door, throwing a glance over your shoulder.

Frankie meets your eye, and like a reflex, the pair of you toss the finger to one another. He laughs, stepping out onto the porch.

“Anytime you feel like losing again, you know where I am, baby.”

----------

taglist: @serenaxpedro @bitchwitch1981 @brittmb115 @stormseyer @scarletthefierce @pattwtf @pascalpvnk @jediknightjana @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi @gracieispunk @hellishjoel

(lmk if i’ve missed you out & check my taglist info for how to be added!)

#frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales smut #francisco morales #bbf!frankie #bbf!frankie morales #pedro pascal #pedro pascal frankie morales #pedro pascal characters #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #enemies to lovers #frankie morales enemies to lovers

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bradshawssugarbaby · 3 months

Text

God, Your Mama and Me (Jake Seresin x Reader)

A/N: told y'all I listened to country music and it inspired me. Inspired by and quotes God, Your Mama and Me by Florida Georgia Line. I'm not religious but that song gets me all heart-eye emoji every time.

pairing: Jake Seresin x reader (I'm 99% sure I kept reader GN the whole time with no mentions of appearance)

content/warnings: reference to God via the song (the line is "no one's ever gonna love you more than God, your mama and me"), Jake being adorable and trying his best to be romantic but he's more awkward than he wants to be bc he doesn't do PDA, brief references to potential character death (I promise no one dies)

word count: 1.6k

Jake took you by the hand, running playfully through the sand. Coronado Beach was where he’d taken you for your first date. It was where you’d met, where you spent every free weekend, where you’d meet with his friends at The Hard Deck for drinks on Friday nights and where you’d sit and watch the planes taking off from North Island as you waited for him to come home, not knowing what each day would bring but hoping and praying he’d come home to you safe and sound every time.

For the last three years, Coronado was an integral part of your life. It was where you’d held Jake’s 35th birthday party, a spontaneous beach gathering complete with a cooler of chilled beers and a portable speaker belting out country tunes. Despite the groans from others, the music had a magical effect on the usually reserved Jake, prompting him to join in with spirited, off-key singing every time.

It was where you and Jake had shared your first kiss, where he’d first told you he loved you - a sentence he admitted he never thought he’d say to anyone, swearing up and down he’d lead the bachelor life until he either died or retired, whichever came first. He’d always claim it was because he just “wasn’t the settlin’ type”, but his friends always saw right through it.

“He’s just scared,” Bradley had assured you one day over a beer while Jake tossed darts effortless at the board a few feet out of earshot.

Reading the puzzled look on your face, Natasha hummed playfully as she sipped her drink before raising an eyebrow at you.

“He doesn’t want to settle down because he’s scared,” She and Bradley nodded in unison.

“Yeah, doesn’t wanna leave behind a war widow kinda thing,” Bradley shrugs, “You’d think it’d be me who feels that way considering my dad died when I was literally a toddler, but no, apparently it’s Blondie who’s got the commitment issues.”

The first time Jake referred to you as his girl, the usually chatty Bradley had been rendered speechless, mouth agape while Natasha had choked and sputtered on her beer as she looked wide eyed at Bradley and back at Jake. Jake shrugged it off as if it was nothing, but everyone, even you, knew it was uncharacteristic of him.

The following weekend after stunning his Navy buddies, he’d been called away to the first mission since you’d started dating. You weren’t expecting it, but you got a heartfelt, emotional goodbye from Jake, one that was genuine and raw, a side of him you’d never seen before. He’d hugged you tightly and kissed you slow and sweet, making it last, permanent on your mind in case he didn’t make it back. As he promised you he’d return, you could hear his normally velvety smooth Southern drawl crack as his voice caught in his throat.

When he came home a few weeks later, you’d greeted him with a warm embrace, and he held you tighter than he ever had before, his first true public display of affection towards you. Bradley and Natasha could be heard whispering, while Bob simply looked on smiling, knowing how in love Jake really was, watching as it mirrored Bob’s own relationship with his girlfriend.

“Jake, where are you taking me?”

You laughed as you snapped back to the present, raising an eyebrow at him as he continued to lead you across the sand. His cargo shorts were hugging his hips perfectly, golden-tanned skin from the California sun illuminated in the light of the setting sun. His green eyes were full of a child-like excitement, his signature grin plastered on his face, looking like it couldn’t be wiped off even if you tried.

“Just trust me, ok? You trust me, don’t ya, Sugar?”

“Alright, alright, I trust you.”

“Atta girl, c’mon, almost there.”

You shook your head and shot him a playful eyeroll as he continued to guide you along the shore. Your mind flashed back to when you and Jake had first slept together - instead of the playful arrogance, overwhelming confidence and cocky egotistical attitude he gave off around his friends, he was the opposite when it came to loving you. He was gentle, caring, passionate and considerate. He checked in with you, making sure you were comfortable and enjoying it. He was selfless in the way he loved you - making sure you were taken care of in all aspects before he was, and if for whatever reason, his climax came before yours, he made a point to bring you to yours by whatever means necessary.

When Jake asked you to move in with him, the look on your face was one of pure shock and disbelief, you were sure you were dreaming it. Your wide-eyed gaze and raised eyebrows were enough to make Jake laugh, shaking his head at you.

“Now that’s not how I thought you’d react, babe.”

“I’m sorry…I just…can you say it again?”

“Ask you again?”

“Yeah, please?”

“Ok, Sugar, you’re losin’ it, but sure, I want you to move in with me, that sound alright to ya? We both complain we don’t see each other enough, and well, I just feel like it’s time we do somethin’ ‘bout it, right?”

You nodded your head and simply threw your arms around him, letting Jake embrace you tightly as he kissed your cheek. He had his friends help you pack and by the end of that week, you were moved in with him, sharing the little house on base together. His Cowboys jersey hanging in the closet next to your Commanders one - your teams were bitter rivals, and Bradley, who had come from Virginia, your home state, was beyond shocked to see Jake allowing you to wear a Commanders jersey to their Sunday night football watch parties. Bradley, forced to wear a jersey for another team, pouted at Jake.

“How come when I wear my Commanders jersey, I get told to fuck off and stay outside?”

“You don’t look cute in Washington’s colours, Bradshaw,” Jake replied matter of factly as he kissed you on the cheek, leaving Bradley to pout once again.

Jake stopped in front of you, turning his body to face you, bringing you back to reality for another moment. His unwavering grin still on his face, smiling at you as if you were the only sight around him for miles. Your heart melted when he looked at you - it always did - the love he had for you was always evident on his face, his gaze full of admiration and affection for you.

Your eyes widened as Jake went down on one knee in front of you. The sounds of the waves crashing against the sandy coast echoing softly around you. The odd passerby gawking as they went for their stroll in the dusky glow of the beach as the sun began to set on Coronado. Jake beamed up at you from where he stood on bended knee, his eyes matching the seafoam that was pooling around you, inching closer and closer to where you stood.

“Darlin’, remember that date I took ya on, where you made me dance with ya on the beach, after I swore I never would? That song you made me dance to, the one by Florida Georgia Line?”

“I remember,” you said, gazing at him with tear soaked eyes.

“Sugar, you know I’m not good at this kinda stuff - it’s more Bradley’s thing, being all sentimental and shit, but I’m gonna try my damnest, ok? You know how that song goes, “Baby you know my love is never gonna run dry, never gonna come up empty, now until the day I die, unconditionally,”

Jake’s cheeks blushed a soft pink as he tried his best to carry the tune, serenading you by the oceanside, “then it’s like, “You know I’m always gonna be here for ya, no one’s ever gonna love you more than God, your mama and me”? Guess that’s what I’m tryin’ to say here, no one on this earth is gonna be able to love you, or anyone else more than I do. I’m sure of it. I didn’t even think it was possible for me to love you as much as I do, but Baby, do I ever love you.”

“Jake,” you started, feeling yourself becoming breathless with excitement as he spoke.

“Babygirl, will you do me the greatest honor ever, and become Mrs. Seresin? I never thought I’d ever marry anyone, but I’d be a fool to not marry you, darlin’.”

Speechless, you nodded your head quickly, unable to make any sound other than an excited squeal of delight as he slipped the ring onto your finger. As Jake stood upright, he wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a loving embrace, his lips crashing against yours as he kissed you passionately.

From behind you, you could hear familiar voices cheering - you broke the kiss and turned to see Reuben, Javy, Mickey, Bradley, Natasha and Bob standing there, all beaming at you. Bradley wiped a single tear from his eye in his usual dramatic fashion, while Bob gave a proud thumbs up to Jake. A congratulatory smile formed on Natasha’s features, while Javy, Mickey and Reuben all applauded you both. You were overcome with emotion as you shared this moment with Jake and your friends.

“You all knew?”

“Of course we knew, Jake can’t keep a secret to save his life,” Natasha grinned, shrugging her shoulders.

“I get to be best man, right?” Bradley grinned as he clapped his hand onto Jake’s shoulder in a congratulatory substitute for a hug.

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kalims · 11 months

Text

ㅤoh, face in the daylight.

— azul isn't sure if you're dating him, or his bed. also he's totally gonna deduct jade's pay.

your boyfriend's bed is comfy.

very, comfy. you're not sure if you're staying over for the nth' time for him or, the mere comfort his strange liquid-y bed brings you.

you asked once and honest grew more obsessed with it once he told you that it is actually made of water, of course sprinkled with a simple reinforcememt spell to make sure that it doesn't spill or split it half.

"it feels like where I used to sleep." he had answered shortly. "you just miss your pot, don't you?"

he explodes in an embarrassed hue of pink.

well to be fair he stopped sleeping around inside of it just because he wanted to sleep with you. (of course he didn't say it to your face but you're about 99% confident about it.)

azul sighs deeply. if he had ears and a tail to represent his feelings they'd have drooped to the ground. "my goodness... at this point I'll just have a room prepared here for you." but he smiles lightly at you, standing across the feet of the bed where you lay. you don't know if you're just being crazy but he puts of sleeping next to you whenever he can.

you swear! the last time you forcibly kidnapped him from his desk and dragged him in the bed he turned a vibrant hue of red, tense and unmoving.

you roll around his bed. "but I want to sleep with you."

azul makes this... kind of sound in his throat, a mix of a babble getting cut off and a gurgle of sorts. he immediately falls silent and looks down, he has to bite his wobbling lips lest he actually explodes. it might be easy for you to say so easily but just the notion that you feel the same sends a thousand of flutters in his stomach, everywhere to the point where he feels like he's floating.

the silence makes you concerned apparently because you raise your head from the myriad of fluffy covers and pillows to take a peek at him. "what?"

he coughs and assumes a smile too quick to be real. you've seen it a handful of times but you're not sure why his eyes and the edges of his mouth seem to be twitching. is he hot? because there's some kind of smoke coming out of his ears and fogging his glasses.

... for you it's quite freezing, maybe merman have different perception of temperature?

"by the way," you start. "do you have a spotify?"

you watch azul stumble in his steps as he makes his way to his desk, stopping to seemingly support himself before he falls down by gripping the table, and the top of his chair. he looks at you sort of... robotically. "why?" he queries quickly, looking away.

"I have one too, I wanna see what kind of music you're listening to." you say, fiddling with the sheet of a pillow and azul sighs. "no I do—"

you both turn to the door when it creaks open and jade steps in with a maniacally wide grin. which is almost never really that good, azul's face immediately grimaces at hardens at the admittedly unwelcome surprise visit.

or jade knows something—

"pardon my intrusion," he apologizes despite coming inside all the way. atleast he closed the door. he sees you on the bed and gives you a polite smile. "azul, your phone had shut off due to low battery so the music stopped." jade sighs. "could you open it so we can resume? the guests must be bored.."

you stare curiously. "oooo... where does azul listen?" jade slowly snaps his neck to look at you. (... he looks kind of pleased like everything he just said went to plan.) "where else? the ever popular spotify application."

azul directs a heap of fiery, sharp stare to jade that burns brighter everytime jade utters a word but the latter skillfully ignores it, he's probably received this kind of treatment already. jade knows the password to my phone even though he didnt ask, and my phone was charging while connected to the bluetooth. azul thinks.

this fool was definitely listening to your conversation.

"azul," you look at him. "give it to me."

he sighs deeply through his nose and gives jade a look that says 'get out'. jade grins at him, shrugging but ultimately going out when he's decided that he's caused enough chaos in azul's life for today. somehow he'll have to say no in the face of you despite the last time he did was... more than months ago...

to be fair you're hard to decline! he's totally not whipped or anything. whatever floyd described him, it's completely false.

he's gonna have to add more locks but knowing that tweel, if there's something to achieve inside he's getting in no matter what.

reluctantly he gives out his embarrassing user and you comment about his profile is you.

"did you make a playlist about me?" you quip curiously, idly scrolling around the list of songs in it and laughing to yourself. a contrast to your obvious amusement, azul looks mortified.

didn't he make those private?!

'if you see the unlocked icon it means it's only accessible for you.'

... that bastard jade ...

"awww.... you even put taylor swift in here! I knew I chose the right boyfriend!"

"what the—give me that!" he screeches, red.

what did you mean by that?! were there other options?! -> overthinking

#twstnexus #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #azul ashengrotto #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #x gn reader

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marlenesluv · 7 months

Text

۵pairing: fem!albonsibling!ballerina x platonic f1 grid. also, reader x lando norris

۵type: social media au and dialogue

۵authors note: i really love making these, so i’m excited to work on a part 3! also, i know alex has other siblings, i’m just not including them in these posts!

۵warnings: cussing, talk of blood (someone cut their finger, not bad or described much), talk of ballet darks: not eating as much, rude teachers, mean comments.

۵summary: after y/n albon lost her ballet partner, lando comes over to comfort her. but she of course still has a lot of practice before swan lake in two months.

۵this is part 3! please read part 1 and part 2 before this. (part 1 is mine, j on my main blog)

masterlist here -> masterlist link

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You were devastated to lose your partner, Ben, but all good things must come to an end, apparently. That’s what Lily had told you, at least.

Ben was an amazing dancer, he was, but your ballet instructor has wanted you to do solos for years now. Saying you had “too much potential to waste” and “you’re too talented to be focusing on another person when the show is about you.” Of course this was very nice, but Ben wasn’t only your ballet partner, but a friend.

The two of you went to the movies together, got coffee before practice, dinner after, it was nice. And you were happy that he had found a girl for him. You just didn’t expect for her to make him quit ballet.

That’s right, not a sport he had outgrown or gotten bored of. No no. Destiny was not a fan of the fact that he spent all of his time in the studio. Understandable, but dating a ballet dancer, that is a given. It was a shame that Ben had thrown all of his hard work away for a girl.

But here you were, unlocking your apartment door as Lando Norris walked in with a bag of Indian food and an extra hoodie on his shoulder.

“Hey! I got you some butter chicken and some paneer naan for us to share. Oh, and…” he pulled out two bottles of mango juice and handed them to you as you placed them on your island. “If I remembered correctly, you like mango juice?”

“Mhmm. Thank you, Lando.” you smiled up at him as he blushed a bit, clearing his throat as he sorted through the bag and you got out silverware.

“Wanna watch a show?” you asked, as you sat down beside him on your sofa, opening your juice.

“Yeah. How about ‘Brooklyn 99’?”

You nodded, opening Peacock and starting an episode as you both started eating and talking.

Talking with Lando was easy. When you ranted about how your ballet instructor stretched your arm too far backwards, he listened, only butting in to make sure you knew he was paying attention.

And when he ranted about how Checo pushed him off the track, and didn’t get penalized, you listened, you only butted in to gasp and ask the occasional question about how something worked.

You didn’t feel like he was judging you, and it was nice. Lando felt the same. You were someone that understood Formula 1 to a certain degree, since Alex talked about it, but you still asked questions, not just discounting what he was saying. Sure, Oscar wouldn’t mind listening to him blab on about shit, but Oscar wasn’t you.

And yes, you could talk to Lily, Kika, Kelly, Laila, or Carmen, but they weren’t Lando.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

yourinstagram

liked by landonorris, pierregasly, and 872,024 others

y/n.albon: i am so good at chess ♟️

view comments…

user3: lando and y/n??

alex_albon: you guys are hanging out alone now??

↳ y/n.albon: i guess, yeah

↳ alex_albon: wtf!?

↳ alex_albon: y/n answer my texts what are you doing????

user5: y/n just not answering alex LMAOO

user8: i live for this duo, they are so precious to me

lilymhe: the shoesss🥹

↳ y/n.albon: ikkk🥹🩷

user7: new ship, guys. ballerina and f1 driver 🫠

user2: she’s slaying without ben, fr

kellypiquet: adorable!

*liked by creator*

user4: okay. can they date?? orrrr

↳ user9: literallyyyy

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

landosinstagram

liked by y/n.albon, oscarpiastri, and 602,140 others

landonorris: 📷🩰💇‍♂️

view comments…

user1: BRO?

y/n.albon: gotta get those stretches in👯‍♀️

↳ landonorris: oh yeah🩰🙆‍♂️

user7: anyone notice how much y/n and lando have been hanging out….?

↳ user4: mhmmm. i ship

↳ user7: SAME

alex_albon: ahem, what is the second picture?

↳ y/n.user: me….alex, you’re my brother and you don’t know what i look like? shame shame

↳ alex_albon: that’s not what i meant, y/n

↳ alex_albon: why tf are you guys both on instagram and not messaging me back??

↳ alex_albon: fine. i’ll j come over, y/n

↳ y/n.albon: i’m taking my key back.

user9: little sibling fights in landos comments 😭

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Alex Albon always kept his word. So, naturally, at 8:30pm on a Thursday night, Alex unlocked his sisters apartment door with his spare key. So what if Y/N said to only use it “for emergencies” and “if i had fallen and could not get up” which she thought was hilarious, whilst he just clenched hi jaw at the thought of her falling and hurting herself.

He was definitely on the protective side, but for good reasons. All of her past boyfriends, there were two, had cheated on her. Yeah, he didn’t love how close his sister was to Lando Norris, but at least he liked Lando. Not enough to be okay with their hanging out though. But Alex trusted Lando enough to not freak out too much.

When Alex walked into his sisters apartment, he couldn’t find her anywhere. The kitchen was spotless. Marble countertops cleaned off, fridge stocked up, floor vacuumed. He should have known that was the case before he walked in.

Every Wednesday and Sunday, Y/N cleaned her apartment. It was something she had control over. She didn’t have control over what she ate, her ballet instructor did. She didn’t have control over her spare time, it was spent at the studio. Alex felt bad sometimes, she had dedicated her life since she was five to ballet.

Sure, Alex had dedicated his life to Formula 1 as well, but he knew ballet was more draining. He’d seen the breakdowns first hand. Y/N coming to his house after practice and crying in his arms because she didn’t get a part. Or when she had called Alex ten times and then Lily because she needed new ballet shoes and her instructor wanted them now.

And he would never forget the times that her instructor would tell her to not eat as much, and that she needed to slim down. She would come over for dinner with him and Lily, and drink her water and maybe some vegetables.

It always made Lily mad. She hated how Y/N was treated, they both did. They also both knew how much ballet meant to Y/N, so they never told her to quit.

“Alex?” Alex whipped his head around to see his sister in her ballet leggings, a sweater, and boots.

Y/N sat her ballet bag on the barstool and emptied her water bottle out as she looked at Alex. “Dude? What are you doing in my house?”

“Oh, u-um. I was checking on you. Forgot you had to go in today. Sorry.” He blinked, looking at her tight bun on her head. “Hey, shouldn’t you take that out before your head pops off?”

“So funny, ha-ha.” Y/N mocked, getting out some fruit. “Did you need something? Or did you wanna stay?”

“Sorry, right. Lily wants you to come over for dinner tomorrow.”

“Just Lily?” Y/N raised a brow as she plopped a strawberry into her mouth and chewed.

“No, dumbass. I want you to, too. Bring someone ever too, if you want.” Alex shrugged, accepting the strawberry his sister offered him.

“Mmk. Like who?….Lando?”

“I don’t care. If you want to.” he chewed the berry as she grabbed two waters from her fridge and handed one to Alex.

“Alright. Thanks. That it?” she asked, sighing.

Alex knew she wasn’t trying to be rude. She wanted to be alone, he understood. She had been at the studio since 8:00am, she was tired and wanted to sleep.

“Nope, that’s it. See you tomorrow?” Alex walked to the door, Y/N behind him.

“Yup. Love you, Alex. I’ll see ya.”

“Love you too. See ya tomorrow.” Alex shut the door behind him and walked to the elevator, pushing his thoughts away that maybe his sister was dating Lando.

He shook his head and sent a text to Lily to let him know that he was on his way home. Tomorrow night would be interesting.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

twitter:

F1 Updates @f1updatepage • 2hr

Our beloved Y/N Albon has been spotted on a boat with Lando Norris. The photo below was taken last week:

↳ Y/N my Icon! @y/n4lifeeee • 1hr

WHAT- i knew they were hanging out, butttt why am i shipping them so hard rn????

↳ Piasstri🍑 @oscandlan • 1hr

idk if i want to be y/n or if i want to be with y/n

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

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liked by landonorris, francisca.cgomes and 875,024 others

y/n.albon: pinky 🌸🩰🎀👛

view comments…

user9: SLAY PINK QUEEN

user4: fits always eat

lailahasanovic: cutieeeee

↳ y/n.albon: awe laila🩷

user6: no lando pics?? :(

↳ user2: im sure we will soon lol

danielricciardo: shes working💅🩰

↳ y/n.albon: yuh

f1wags: y/n’s life is sooo aesthetic fr

y/nballetstudio: our favvvv

*liked by creator*

user3: my literal inspo, ugh

landonorris: coffee coffee coffee

↳ y/n.user: thx for the coffee coffee coffee

↳ user1: hold up. he made her that coffee??????

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You were nervous for dinner with Lily and Alex on Friday night. Actually, the dinner that was currently 3 hours away.

And yes, you invited Lando. So what? You weren’t even sure if you guys were just friends, or maybe he wanted something more….

It was confusing. One day, you guys are hanging out, cuddling on your couch while talking, and the next, he doesn’t even text you.

But he happily accepted the invite. Which is why Lando was sitting on your bed, watching you apply your lipgloss at your mirror. The shiny gloss catching his eye as you smiled and asked him a question.

“Lando? You there?” you waved your hand, smiling and laughing a bit.

“What? Oh, mhmm. Yeah. I heard you.” he shook his head, hoping you would repeat what you had said.

“You do think that we should get sushi next week for lunch?” you questioned, tilting your head to the side and smirking.

“Y/N, no. Don’t joke like that. You don’t even like sushi!” Lando whined, making you laugh.

“I know, sorry. I asked if I looked okay?” you smoothed your black skirt down, pulling the sleeves of the white shirt down a bit.

Lando swallowed, clearing his throat. What was he supposed to say? You truly always looked breathtaking to him. He couldn’t say that though. “Yeah, you look great.” Lando smiled and got up from your bed.

“Ok, thanks. Let’s go?” you shook off the weird feeling you had, grabbing your purse and snapping a mirror picture while Lando got his phone off the charger.

………

Once you guys got to Alex and Lilys, everything went smoothly. Alex and Lando chatted about the cars while they prepared the salad, and you and Lily talked about her latest golf outing and your rehearsals.

That’s how it always went. Except usually Alex would rant about the cars to you and Lily at dinner. Occasionally getting a breadstick thrown at him because you found his complaining aggravating.

“I know! And get this, my engineer said-“ Alex was ranting as Lando kept glancing your way. The was you doubled over when Lily said something, or the way you bit your lip as you concentrated on the pasta. He shook his head and listened to Alex talk about his balance in the car.

“Y/N. You need to seriously open your eyes.” Lily said, looking at you with a hand on her hip.

“They are! The pasta is fine- what…why are you mom stancing me right now?” you questioned, lips parted and brows furrowed.

“Do you not see the way Lando looks at you? He’s going to chop off a finger if he keeps glancing over here and not at his carrots.” Lily sighed, and right on cue….

“Ow! Fuck!” Lando cursed, hissing in pain, holding his finger.

“Lando! What the fuck? You’re getting blood all over the cutting board.” Alex complained, earning a cup thrown at his head from you as you ran over to Lando.

“What did you do?!” you asked, running his finger under cold water. It wasn’t a deep cut, but he grazed his finger with the blade.

“Um…I don’t know. Just thinking about the cars, I guess.” he shrugged, thanking you for getting the bandaids from the drawer behind him and helping him wrap it.

“Alex, you’re so rude! When a guest cuts their finger, you help! Not complain about your $15 cutting board.” Lily scolded Alex, shaking her head.

Alex scoffed, “Lily, he’s fine.” The couple set the table as you guys took your seats. You and Lando on one side, and Lily and Alex across from you.

“Sorry for not helping, Lando.” Alex said, side eyeing Lily.

You giggled a bit as Lando started laughing, “mhm, it’s okay.”

Dinner went well, conversations flowed well and it was nice to talk to the people you enjoyed being around. Now id only you could figure your feelings for Lando out…

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

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.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

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