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cherry-leclerc · 2 months

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i hate you. i hate you? ☆ cs55

genre: humor, fluff, love confessions, childhood friends to enemies/rivals to lovers (damn, tongue twister), maybe a bit angsty (don't worry too much about it though, lol), flashbacks that add to a tiny slow-burn

word count: 3.5k

The dwindling friendship that comes crashing down when you get offered the opportunity of a lifetime. Leading to a bumpy road with your best friend.

req!... i swear that when i put angst ITS NOT BAD. anyways, enjoy, anons!

Me encantaría formar parte del equipo, you muse whimsically, pigtails flying against the winter breeze. Sería un sueño hecho realidad.

Despite being young, you knew you were different— came from a divergent background compared to those around you. Your family definitely didn’t have the resources to fulfill your dream to kart or race professionally. You partially blame your brothers for getting you into the sport.

Si. Lo sería, a particular Spaniard, agrees. You smile. Your parents share a pitiful glance before sitting you down. It wasn’t going to happen, not because they didn’t want to but simply because they couldn’t afford such an expensive hobby that would probably kick you in the butt.

That’s where your first guardian angel appeared. Carlos Sainz Sr. Better known as your best friend's father. Without a doubt, he offers to sponsor you, for he grew keen on having you around, enjoying time by the pool with his two girls and shy son.

Was there a way you could ever thank him? No, not really— nothing would ever cover all he’s ever done for you, but you’d make sure to try your best to find a way. Even if it took you a lifetime.

“You’ve known her for a lifetime! Probably five, for all we know!” Lando yelps, running a hand through his curls. “You can’t just call it quits on your friendship just like…” He snaps his fingers.

Carlos shrugs. He fills up a styrofoam cup of coffee, silently offering one to his moody friend. The Brit rolls his colorful eyes. You’re making a mistake, he presses. It’s the Spaniards turn to grow serious.

“Por favor—she should have thought about that before she stole my seat.”

That, you did. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. It could have never been, even if you had been warned. But suddenly you were getting an opportunity, the kind you only ever dreamt of. Carlos would be fine, he was a man who would eventually have a pile of teams interested in keeping him around. You, on the other hand, were surprised that anyone was even intrigued in having you form a part of their F1 team, much less— Ferrari.

This was it, and you had to grab at the opportunity. You just never imagined losing a friend along the way.

Why would you even consider accepting? You flinch and he’s looking as if he regrets it, so you give him the benefit of the doubt.

I know this isn’t what we were expecting, but think of it this way. I'd be coming in 2025 and you would already be too busy preparing to join Audi! It’ll work out. You’re still doing that, right? You knew he was, he had been so excited and told you as soon as he found out. Audi was in his blood.

He runs a large hand through his tangled hair, sighing. Still. You have to say no. You can’t do that to me. It’d be embarrassing.

Your shoulders drop an inch. Why? Because you’re being bought out or because a woman is keeping your seat? His silence is enough for your heart to break and for your mind to be made up.

I’m signing.

There is indignation, and then there is you.

“You are such a—argh!” Pounding your fists against the locked door, you reach out to briskly twist the knob, trying your best to get out of the cramped room. The world was spinning, and you could feel a migraine rolling in strongly, but you swore—swore—you would kill him as soon as you got your hands on him.

The morning had started off fairly simple. Show up, run a few tests on the stimulator, get to know a few of the mechanics you’d be working with, and finally, sign your contract. You had waited longer than intended, due to minor changes you had suggested, so you were extremely ready to get it done. This was supposed to be your day.

That is until the grumpy Spaniard pushed you, locked you in, and ran off before you had a chance to register what was going on. Fred had been adamant—show up on time. The next time he would be available would not be until three weeks, and that was ridiculously long if anyone were to ask. Carlos knew that.

Charles hums slowly, munching on a pack of M&M's when he hears the spine-chilling scream you let out, wood vibrating as you punch angrily. Hurrying over, he unlocks it from the outside, surprised by your appearance. Your hair is tussled, face is blotchy, vein throbbing. It’s definitely a sight to say the least. He mentions something about —he went that way— and —think about what you’re going to do— but you’re off before you settle with any of it.

The twists and turns make your head hurt, practically seeing red before you come to a halt. Smiling sophisticatedly, Carlos is sat, legs crossed, fingers pointing to his watch. No. “News for you, my dear friend; Fred just left.” The Spaniard winces playfully, already making his way out the door. “Guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Charles was right. You should have thought about what you would do. Jumping onto his large back, your flimsy hands dig into the forest he calls hair, and pull. He screeches, swaying from side to side as he hurriedly tries to disconnect your legs from around his waist. Let go, he groans harder when you pinch his arm.

“Why? Why did you do this—any of this?” At this point you’re kicking and screaming, panting, heaving. “Is it really that difficult to accept it? You lost. I’m in, you’re out.”

“At least we know she’s a fighter.”

Coming to a sudden stop, your eyes flicker to the familiar voice, instantly burning up. Fred taps his foot gingerly against the white tiles, an amused Monegasque standing right behind him. Jumping off of the sulky brunette, you begin to shake your head in disbelief, pointing towards the exit. “N-no…you’re supposed to be gone. He…” Then it hits you. This was a fucking set up.

“While I’m evenly impressed by your toughness, I will say, I think we should put a hold on signing.” Your stomach drops. The older man quickly waves his hands in dismissal, grinning apologetically. “We still want you! Nothing has changed, but I think it’s for the best that you fix things with Carlos before doing so. It’ll be good for you two.” With that, he bows his head, and strolls away, heading for the airport.

“I’m out too,” Charles whispered, slowly stepping back. “Fill me in on what happens, though!”

As soon as your breath evens out—and Carlos creates a safe distance between you two—you let out a deranged chuckle. He almost cringes at the cold sound, but keeps his chin up high. “You did this all on purpose?” It’s a question but comes out more like a confirmation, which in a way, it was. Shutting your eyes, you tilt your head with a ghostly smile. “You knew he hadn’t left and let me make a fool out of myself. Why would you do that?” you grit, orbs laser focused on him as if you could light him up into flames if you really set your mind to it.

“Why would I not?” he stubbornly spits back.

“You asshole, I’m just trying to make your dad proud.”

A pinch of guilt dives deep into his veins as he watches you stomp down the hallway, mindlessly tugging at his heart.

I say we let him burn, Ana pitches the idea, laying flat on her bed as you scoff with a knowing smile.

Does it make me a bad person if I don’t disagree with you?

She sits up, eyeing where you calmly paint down on a canvas. She squints her eyes. “What even is that?” Holding your art with pride, you shoot a sheepish smile. Nice, huh? The Spaniard’s youngest sister giggles, nose scrunching up at the dark sight. “I’m confused—is he supposed to look like that?”

You curl an analytical brow, shooting a quick snarl. “I think it’s pretty good. And yes. He’s supposed to be getting run over by my future car. What a sight.” You dramatically swoon.

Ana drops her stare, focusing instead with a teasing curl gripping the corner of her lips. “Remember when instead of plotting his death, you’d be fantasizing about a life with him? God, I could still remember all the hearts—the glitter.” She shudders, faintly recalling the mess in her room, which led to Reyes giving you both a good scolding, but not before winking at a red-faced you.

Looking away feverishly, you shake your head, picking up the flimsy paint brush once again, never once bothering to make eye contact with her. “I was young. Stupid as shit. I can’t even remember what I loved about him.”

“Liked,” she corrects you.

You cough. “Right. Liked.”

If the Spaniard took the time to sit down, roll through a philosophical journey, wonder where things might have changed for him—it would have saved him enduring a puddle of dreadfulness at this very moment.

Ana’s wedding. The first of his sisters who would get married. It was a bittersweet day, and not just because she was finally leaving the family nest. “Who is she…” he can hear himself ask. Almost demand. The brunette smirks, slightly pleased.

“My best friend. You’re nemesis,” she jokes.

Carlos growls slowly, lightly pinching her cheek as she yelps. “With. You know what I mean.”

“Lalo. She met him a few weeks ago. Very nice guy.” A beat. “Please don’t ruin my wedding.”

But he’s not even listening. Brown eyes follow to where you stand straight, arms crossed over your body like a shield. He always knew you’d been self-conscious, but never understood why. You were stunning. Lavender dress hugs your curves beautifully. A trace of honey fills any area you fall into. Your hair is nicely pinned up, allowing him to enjoy your silky skin.

And it seems like Lalo too.

Rubbing a large hand against his smooth jaw—which was only neat since Reyes had hounded him to fix his appearance for his sister’s big day—he smoothly made his way over. Rupert warns the Spanirad with his eyes, but Carlos scoffs. Did everyone think he had something up his sleeve?

“Enjoying yourselves?”

Mid-sip, your face freezes, doe-eyes flickering between Lalo, then Carlos. Then Carlos, then Lalo. God, when did the room begin to boil? Your voice gets caught in your throat, to make matters worse. Carlos’ personal trainer pity’s you for a split second, deciding to help out. “The drinks are stellar, mate. We’ve been hogging the bar for so long at this point.”

The brown eyed boy studies your so-called date, faking a cold smile. “You don’t say…Carlos, by the way,” he says, extending his arm out. “Remind me of your name again, sorry, she’s just never mentioned you before. At all, really. I apologize.”

“That’s okay, we only just met a few weeks ago. We’re taking it slow.” We’re. The word itself makes the 29 year old fear he might puke right then and there. “Eduardo, but you can call me Lalo. Huge fan.”

“Mines or hers?” Carlos bitterly questions, thick lips forming a straight line. Lalo awkwardly clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth, pulling away and leaning in to hold you close.

“Guess it’s my turn to apologize now. Hers. Always. But you’re pretty cool, too, I suppose.” His voice is light, unbothered. It makes Carlos tick furiously, though he doesn’t dare show it. You can’t pinpoint the moment tension rose up, snapping you out of your trance. Blinking hastily, you aim a sour snarl at the Spaniard.

“We were sort of having a good time, so…” You shoo him away with a jeweled hand. “I just don’t want to kill the vibes. You understand, right?” Barely giving him a chance to respond, you turn back to your conversation, leaving Lalo and Rupert to appear puzzled, but stupidly playing along.

With a raw click of the tongue, the 29 year old takes a step forward, leveling down to your ear. “Pretend all you want, but you’re still wearing my initials around that pretty wrist of yours.” And walks away.

It was true. Your parents had gifted you a lucky charm bracelet for your fourteenth birthday, and Carlos greedily beat everyone to it. A car, for your love for Formula One. A chili, a shy thank you for his nickname. An ice cream, well, because you just loved ice cream. And a cursive CS. For him.

Watching him walk away left you with a hole in your heart. You did not need a reminder like that on a day like this. Wearing it was purely out of habit, it had no meaning to it anymore. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself. The need to use the restroom was a complete lie as you wordlessly peek for the broad Spaniard. You spot his glossy shoes first, sticking out the photo booth.

“Scoot,” you say, gently cramming him in deeper. Once you get situated, you slide the silver charm off, handing it over to him. “Here.”

He furrows his dark brows. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t want anything tying me back to you anymore. It was kind—sweet—but that was past you. You’re cruel, mean, rude, a fucking jerk now. I don’t like that, so— here.”

“I don’t want it,” he retorts, curling your flat hand into a fist, forcing you to hold it tight.

“Well I don’t either, so what is there to do? You know what; I’ll just sell it. It’s not even that significant,” you mumble, already making your way out, but not before he hauls you back. Falling straight onto his thigh. You can feel your pulse quicken, your cheeks tingle, and your eyes suddenly burn. “Let me go,” you squeal, trying your best to weasel out of his grip. He groans, placing a large hand on either side of your hips, pushing you down.

“No. Just listen to me first.” Sighing, you nod. You should be climbing off; there’s room for two. He should be pushing you off; there’s room for two. But none of that happens as he clears his throat, rehearsing his words over and over before you raise a neat brow, waiting for him. “Perdón. Por todo.”

Not what you were expecting and he could tell when you let out a small gasp. Nervously, he licks his lips, admiring your plump ones that don’t lay too far off from his own. “I used to be so proud of you when we were just kids. When you first admitted you wanted to race too. It was adorable, the way your eyes lit up.” Your breath deepens, unknowing of what this was leading to. “But I’ve always been proud. That’s never changed.”

“You’re a terrific liar,” you timidly chuckle, patting his shoulder, making him back off a little. But he only ricochets forward, twice as close. Your insides churn.

“You don’t know how fucking happy I was when you got a seat. Over the moon. But I won’t lie; I was hurt and said some shitty things that have no excuse tied to them. I know I hurt you—I know that now. But that feeling vanished when worry came creeping in. I don’t want you to sign that contract.”

You flinch, reality crashing down on you once again as you examine the Ferrari driver. “Why apologize if you haven’t changed? My feelings aren’t a joke,” you whimper pathetically, tears sliding down your cheeks, soft brows drawn together.

He panics, gingerly brushing them away to the best of his ability and you don’t have the power to fight him off anymore. You’re too busy getting your heart broken once again by the same man.

She’s beautiful. Insanely—it’s insane. Her eyes are a shade of green I’d never thought I’d like.

I once wore a shade of green shorts last summer and you called them ugly. Said it looked like vomit.

Carlos sighs dreamily, dominantly shaking his head.

Well crap. I must’ve changed my mind.

Present him, was taking in your frantic sobs and he doesn’t know how else to calm you if it's not by rubbing your back gently. It takes a while, but you eventually ease up, occasionally letting out a shaky breath. “First of all, let me tell you why I did everything within me for you not to sign. It’s no good.”

You tilt your head in confusion, nose runny as he hands you his handkerchief. “I-I’m confused.”

Carlos chuckles. “What was the one thing I would always complain to you about when I was away racing?” Lack of privacy? “Okay, second thing I raved about…” When you don’t answer, he sheepishly wiggles his brows. “How tired I was with my team. It’s exhausting because like it or not—we’re not at our prime. I don’t think we will be for a couple of years. But for my benefit, I’ll be gone, and then it’s only going to fall on-”

“Me,” you finish, glossy eyes dancing through his painful expression.

He nods. “Listen, Charles will be fine. Mentally not, but he’ll do just okay. It’s you I’m worried about. Not only will you dive in, nose first into a world of ruthless men, but you’ll always be the entire blame. In their eyes, it'll be you. What did you do wrong? How could you fuck up? And sure, you might sometimes—it's inevitable— but other times you won’t. But you’re a girl, and that’s enough for the fingers to be pointed at you.”

Shaking your head profusely, you instantly reach up to catch your hair from falling from its tiring up-do. He helps you out, combing his fingers nicely, though this time it doesn’t get rid of the queasy feeling. He was right. God, why did he have to be right?

“I’m well aware of what I’m about to get myself into. But I think I can handle it. I can’t not do it—imagine how many girls it would help pave the way for? I’m sure as fuck it won’t be easy, and it might threaten my sanity, but I need to do this. And I’m sorry.”

An unfamiliar wave crashes against his warm eyes, a low breath being expanded into the air. You can feel it, taste it. Mint mojito. Your body told you, you liked it, with the way you wanted to lean in and kiss him—just to confirm. Pursing your lips, you continue. “You have your future decided and I have mine.”

With a hesitant bow, and a tide of curls flying forward, he clears his throat. “You’ve always been this way. Dedicated. And I could never decipher why. Until now.” He can’t help but brush his nose against yours. Your eyes flutter shut, allowing him to appreciate your pretty features. “If you’re sure, then I’m right behind you.”

You almost want to laugh, but are too scared to ruin the moment, so instead count his freckles. “I am…” A sharp inhale. “But what’s the second thing?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said ‘first of all’. I would assume there’s more…” You know there is, but you just want to hear him say it aloud. You’d seen the way he glared viciously at Lalo, chest firming. You’d seen the way things had shifted between you two, months prior, after his break up.

If this racing thing doesn’t work out, you would make a killer artist. He whistles.

Down boy, you joke. It’s just a swan. I resonate with them.

He sits up straighter. Then consider me a swan, too.

You laugh loudly, tossing your head back as he smiles. Why all of a sudden?

Just.

“It took me a while to get here, but I’m here.” He cradles your delicate face. “I think I love you. I-I mean I know I love you. Your stubbornness, your compliance. Your level-headedness, your intrusive actions. Your need to persevere and be better—even if others make it hard on you.” You giggle, poking his chest. “But above all, I love the way you made me work for it. I’m glad you did because how else could I have realized if you didn’t drag that dead-beat?”

“Hey! He’s nice!”

The 29 year old tsks. “Nice isn’t enough and you know it.” His pink lips graze over yours as you lean in too. “You’ve always been a smart girl…” He’s about to kiss you when you slide back, leaving him hanging. He clenches his jaw, seeming teased.

“I love swans because I know I can love as deep as one.”

“I can too.”

“And I know, you know, that I love you too.”

“I do know that.”

“And I lit you up on fire, but only on paper!”

His brows furrow. “Yeah, we can circle back to that. But I don’t care. I love all that about you. And I want you to know my father has always been proud of you.” He winks. “But never as much as me.”

“We’re doing this then?” you ask nervously. “Y-you’re still going to have to grovel. I don’t give up that easily. Especially after all you’ve put me through.”

Carlos gently nods, eyes adoring you. “I’ve waited more than a decade for this moment. What’s one more?”

And he kisses you.

taglist: @urfavnoirette @lpab @d3kstar @namgification @myownwritings

*feel free to let me know if you would like to be included in the general taglist!!

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n3llieelle · 11 months

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A Sloppy First With Carlos?

Pairings: Carlos Oliveira x Fem! Reader

Summary: You have been dating Carlos for quite some time and finally decide to let him claim you as his own, but it is more like some sloppy sex.

Cw. Smut (nsfw), p in v, praise, virgin reader gets their first time wit carlos, dom carlos?, some begging, needy/desperate reader, a bit body worship if you squint ur eyes just a bit, possessive & a bit of cocky carlos, relationship had already been established yet we skipping to the part of where he just gives u a sloppy first time just to enjoy every moment of him inside you! This man is gonna make you a milf after he’s done fr fr want u to be the momma to his kids. Some fluff at the end there is def aftercare but I got too lazy to write it….

A/N: I’ve never written for Carlos before, so this is my first time writing for him and feel free to give me feedback!

SMUT AHEAD!! MINORS DNI!

Carlos Oliveira is definitely a charming guy when it came to women, but that all changed when you came into his life. He became so tough and cocky around you and others that it made him the kind of guy who didn’t let himself be vulnerable in front of people. It also caused you to fall for him a little bit faster. That was exactly what you wanted. Someone strong, and not afraid of showing it. The only problem with your choice was that he wasn’t exactly someone to get along with very well and was even more of an asshole than he already was.

Not something you expected from a man like that. But if it meant you could feel secure in his arms, then so be it. You could live with any kind of attitude. If he just wanted to keep you safe then so be it. You wouldn’t mind at all, actually. You enjoyed being near him, even if it made your heart beat faster and butterflies flutter in your stomach. You thought his roughness was sexy, even if you were slightly scared of him sometimes. And as long as there wasn’t going to be too much violence in the future, maybe you would be able to handle things better. Just give him some time, yet It wasn’t like you couldn’t deal with the bad side of him.

I mean he could be a total dickhead at times, sure, but you could tolerate that, too. He still respected you, afterall, and that was what really mattered. As long as you were happy and satisfied in his arms. And you had been that all this time. All your years of dating with a guy like Carlos Olivera didn’t go wrong. He treated you right, despite your flaws and his ego.

His ego brings out the best in him wether it’s in bed or out of bed, so there is no doubt about what you saw with him in bed that night. He was absolutely gentle, but rough when he kisses you sloppily, his hands firm when they roamed your body, and he took his pleasure in making you squirm underneath him. His tongue is hot and insistent in licking every inch of your skin and his fingers are rough and warm when they caress your breasts through the thin cotton fabric of your tight dress. And his eyes. Oh, Carlos’ eyes looked as if they were dark pools filled with lust and possessiveness. Without hesitation he took off his pants dropping them to the floor, his erection already trying to poke out the side of his boxers. You tried to take his boxers off although he had prioritized in spreading your legs apart and placed his hard member between them, foremost, further apart.

Fingers had trailed straight under the waistband of your dress while his hands started ripping your dress off, and your bra followed. With quick movements he tore the straps and panties away leaving you bare beneath his gaze, completely naked from head to toe. His lips left yours. Carlos began to apply lube to his hardened and throbbing cock, before slowly inserting it inside you, setting a slow movement in and out of you in a way that was torturous in itself. You whimpered from the sensation, but his grip on your hips tightened making the pain go away momentarily. Sloppily beginning to thrust into you, his pace quickened until he hit a certain spot that made you scream with pleasure. “Oh, God...” you moaned breathlessly before closing your eyes.

You never felt that way with anyone else. This is not your first time to say the least, but definitely better than masturbation to say the least. It made you feel so incredibly sensitive that it left you weak, yet at the same time it made you feel powerful and desirable. “That’s my girl…” he growled in a deep voice, grabbing one of your wrists and positioning it over your head as he continued hitting your sweet spot with his thick shaft. You moaned again while tears filled your eyes from the intense pleasure he gave you.

Your breathing started becoming erratic as he kept slamming his heavy cock into you with such force. He held your face, placing soft kisses all over your exposed cheeks and neck, causing goosebumps to appear on your flesh. “You feel so good, baby...” he whispered against your ear. Soon following after with, “Fuck… I’m gonna cum if you keep this up...”

“Don’t stop...” you begged breathless, feeling a shiver go down your spine as Carlos continued pumping his stiffening cock inside you. He kept pressing harder, making you cry out and bite your lip hard to prevent yourself from begging for mercy. “Please don’t stop….” You could hear your own voice quiver slightly, almost like a sob. In a moment you lost your restraint, and threw your head back, arching your back as you screamed loudly. A loud moan escaped your mouth as waves of ecstasy washed over you, and your muscles started tingling from his relentless thrusts into you.

He was getting close, you could tell, and soon he won't hold himself anymore. “Carlos…” you murmured, unable to finish your sentence because your breath was short and labored, and your voice was hoarse from screaming out.

You needed him to get you to your climax and come, now, now, now, you thought.

“Please..please…” you whimpered, feeling your body shaking with both excitement and desperation. Suddenly, everything came rushing in.

The orgasm. Carlos.

Your surroundings. Carlos’ name coming out of your mouth, His scent surrounding your whole being. You felt as if you were being penetrated by a monstrous cock very sloppily, even though you were. His warm and hard cock rubbing against your inner walls in time with his frantic thrusts. “Almost there… ah- hold out a little longer, baby…” Carlos grunted out of breath, panting heavily, his entire body trembling. Your breathing was starting to come out ragged as well, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you climaxed once again. “That’s it, baby… Come for me…” The next few minutes passed by in a blur, each second passing with such intensity it was overwhelming you. Carlos finally stopped after a while, releasing his cum inside you.

Your throat was sore and raw from screaming and your muscles were tense and sore from all the stretching, while your back was arched which he forced you to do as your climax hit. Carlos laid beside you and pulled the sheets up around you as he kissed your temple. "Are you alright?" Your mind was fuzzy as you nodded and snuggled closer into his chest. "...Yeah," was your reply, barely above a whisper. Your eyelids were glued shut, as you struggled to stay awake.

Carlos chuckled softly. "Did I fuck you that hard?" You shook your head and mumbled in reply that you loved how wild he got. "Mmm...you're welcome." After a while you felt tired and sleep began creeping onto your consciousness. Carlos seemed to sense this and wrapped his arms tightly around you to keep you warm as he nuzzled his nose against your cheek. "Get some rest, baby," he said quietly. You hummed in response as you relaxed into his hold, letting yourself drift off to sleep.

You were so tired that you were able to ignore the sound of heavy breathing, but it eventually woke you up when the covers moved slightly. Opening your eyes, and noticing your boyfriend staring at you intently. "Hey...sorry did I wake you up? Go back to sleep..." he whispered kissing the top of your head as he ran his hands gently through your hair. You buried your face deeper into his chest, and let out a small sigh as you cuddled up to his chest. Carlos laughed again, running his hand through your hair one last time before turning off the light with his other hand and lying down behind you, holding you tightly.

"I love you so much..." he said softly, kissing the crown of your head gently.

"Goodnight..." you breathed out before finally closing your eyes and falling asleep, enjoying the soothing warmth of his embrace.

#carlos oliveria smut #carlos oliveria x reader #carlos oliveira #carlos oliveira resident evil #resident evil carlos #resident evil smut #resident evil #resident evil x reader #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil 3 #resident evil re3 #resident evil 3 remake #resident evil x reader smut #resident evil x you #resident evil x fem! reader #carlos oliveira x fem! reader #carlos oliveira x reader #carlos oliveira x you #resident evil 🚔

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silkythewriter · 3 months

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hii!! i found your Vox headcanons and i'm very intrigued! i loved the last two and loved them! i've got a request as well, could you maybe do Vox with a singer! reader? one who sings/hums under their breath whenever they get the chance, or even dance when they think they're alone!

Vox with a singer Reader!

( ˘ ɜ˘) ♬♪♫!!

Warnings!: Non!

Fandom!: Hazbin hotel

Author note!: AH HELLO!!! TYSM FOR THE REQUEST PLEASE ENJOY AND FEEL FREE TO REQUEST AGAIN SOON!

Summary!: Vox with a singer reader!

❤️Written by silkythewriter Do not steal or repost on any other platform please! <3.❤️

✰𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹✰

“So I come back to my first note

as I must come back to you

I will pour into that one note

all the love I feel for you”

︎✰𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹✰

!📺✨Vox✨📺!

Oh my how this man would be entranced by your small tunes

he’s always found comfort in your voice, even when you were just chattering. But now it’s different, the first time a soft melody escaped your lips, let me tell you, he was hooked ever since then.

He found comfort in your soft hum’s, it was such a calming thing, it was a big difference from the hustle and bustle of the over populated hell. A good one at that, it was an escape for him ♥(⸝⸝´꒳`⸝⸝)♥

He’ll always go silent when you’re humming, and you’ll never notice it!. He’ll listen to the soft hum with full attention. Of course he’ll always be careful so you don’t catch on!

he doesn't understand why, but he love’s being discreet when listening to you. Maybe it’s the wya you feel relaxed or let the notes flow more freely from you mouth. He’s not quite sure but he just knows he dose it quite often!

sooner or later though he’ll make it be known that he’s been listening to you. Most likely in a teasing way! Loves seeing you get flustered.

soon he may even join you in your little hums if he knows the melody of the song your humming! It’s always such a love filled moment. Although he maybe, a bit cocky and standoffish here on there he’s always so tender in moments like these. You get to see his soft side in rare and soft moments like these.

Although that doesn’t mean the teasing would stop! He loves teasingly calling you his singing bird, or his Canary. But he also means it in adoring way as well!

Your little songs and voice get stuck in his Tv head constantly, it’s always on loop. He doesn’t Hate it, not at all! But sometimes when you are apart it dose make him miss you.

Whenever he’s about to have a melt down/ lose his absolute shit (Aka he fought alastor once again ( ｰ`дｰ´ ) ) he’ll let his mind put your hums on loop its very much a coping method!, I would say it helps him a good chunk of the time but you might already know the shortness of his temper at times.

if you guys are possible in his living space and in private. he’s all over you, his love for you is watered down in public, but I’m privacy he’s be asking you too hum for him so he could relax! He’d love just to lay down for awhile and only hear you. Just you, no screaming and cussing from the other Two V’s, and no interruptions. As much as he loves building his power and fame, sometimes he needs this to recollect and can get back to working on whatever he was doing with a much more eased mind.(´∀｀)♡

Now! As for dancing and such, he loves watching you glide across the floor with such ease. Whatever dancing or way you move he’ll always find some elegance in it. And as much as he’s into new interventions, and the new “day and age”, he does love to indulge in this old slow dance’s. Look! Hear me out! He’s not old timey, more like appreciates the closeness, and how nice it is to just hold you and slowly dance around the living room, or his office once everyone is out of course!

even if you think no one’s watching he probably is, and as much as he loves to have a certain image of himself to show to the public at all times. He can’t help but put it away when he’s just focusing on you when you guys are alone. He’ll stare at you for how ever long just doting on you in his mind.

sometimes he spaces out cause all he can think of is just you, only you, and trust me the teasing he reserves form Val and Vel is outta this world.

they will never let him live down the time he buffered and glitched because his systems and inner fans were over heating just thinking about you.

if he is every away for business purposes, when he’s sure he’s completely alone, he’ll pull up his phone and dial you up so you can calm him down with your voice. This will NEVER be admitted form him, cause only the lord knows how Val and Vel would absolutely use this against him in a teasingly bullying way. Yea he’ll do everything just so they could shut up. (˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵)💧

I feel as though even if he’s proud to be with someone with such an amazing voice like you he’d hate to share it. He loves stomping and showing off to other people, but something like this he just wants to himself, he knows it’s selfish, But this is Vox were talking about, he wouldn’t care.

late nights always end up with him or you on one of each others chest as you hum him to sleep. He finds it comforting to have you near and to know you’re next to him!.

and here and there he’d let you sit on his lap or just next to him as he works. You don’t have to hum, but if you do lord knows it helps the man so much he just doesn’t understand, sometimes he thinks it’s genuinely some type of magic because of the way you make him feel so easily calm.

and yes he dose have a recording of your singing but you won’t see it reach the light of hell cause he keeps it for his own use. A bit creepy? Yes!, but somewhat endearing! Hehe..(｡•́‿•̀｡)💧

his love for you is very much unmatched, and as ironic as it is you always seem to make him lose his breath around you. He doesn’t see you as a weakness but in the same vain is terrified at the possibility of losing you, his only comfort. Sometimes he stresses himself out so bad at the thought of people using you against him or you leaving him, he has problems and most of those he’s not willing to admit he has. Even if you’re powerful, and can take care of yourself he still always finds a way to worry sometimes and at times like that you just have to remind him you’re there. Verbally or physically, but you can take a guess at the best way to sooth him

if your comfortable with it!, he’d wouldn’t even put music on when dancing just the two of you humming.

even if your not he still find you graceful call it heart shaped glasses but he’ll always find a way to complement you on the littlest of things.

he could be at a business deal with the nest biggest singer in hell and still he wouldn’t think they could top you in billions of years.

Again revisiting my point where I said he wouldn’t want to share your voice, he most definitely would snap if anyone just barged in his office (cough, Val cough, Velevet, cough!, sorry must be sick or something! ( ๑‾̀ ◡ ‾́)..) He’d kick them out immediately if it wasn’t something of importance (or what he seems to be important)

velvet always teases him by saying he’s up in the clouds ever since he’s met you which… yea you cant defend him there…

may the angels have mercy on your vocal cords cause as you can see you gonna be humming to him most of the time you are alone! ♫꒰ ･‿･๑꒱

Overall! please just hum softly with him and dance with this man! It’s his favorite bonding time. He’d give up everything to hear your voice for the rest of eternity. He doesn’t always show it cause of his status but trust me when I say he’s always and constantly thinking and loving you. And the more you dance softly together and spend nights humming together the more that grows! He loves you to no end. ˉ̞̭(′͈∨‵͈♡)˄̻ ̊…

✰𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹✰

THAT WAS SO FUN TO WRITE (♡ >ω< ♡) Vox is so fun to write for! SO THANK YOU TO EVERYONE AND YOU ANON FOR REQUESTING HIM \(^ヮ^)/ I really hope you enjoy! Please request again! :D.

512 notes · View notes

leclsrc · 1 year

Text

has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55

centre image by tony belobrajdic

genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension

word count: 12.5k

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

notes... internet translated spanish lol

auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write

You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.

At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.

The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you.

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder.

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich.

Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.

Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface.

Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

—

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.

He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.

Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.

Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—

“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft.

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?

Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.

—

Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.

You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead.

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.

But now it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.

A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.

The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.

Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.

Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast.

—

You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.

He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.

You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance.

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.

Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle.

His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.

You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time.

—

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.”

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.”

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.

You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.

Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.

The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.

You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.

In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink.

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why.

Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you.

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT

Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.

With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.

This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.

Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.

Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.

Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.

—

It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.

You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.

It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober?

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.

And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.

His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.

His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.

—

Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.

You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.

You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look.

Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?

You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.

Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking.

It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.

After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.

Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows.

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.

You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment.

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.

He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly.

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing.

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger.

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.

The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?

What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.

Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.

Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

“Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.

“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air.

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.

Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.

Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his. “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

“Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.

A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him.

You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.

Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.

He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness.

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

So he does.

He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily.

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.

Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.

He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.

What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.

So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.

He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.

You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.

A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn.

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.

The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.

Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.

Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it.

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz fanfic #f1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader

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disneyprincemuke · 6 months

Text

one of your girls * cs55

you’re just another name in black ink in his long list of girls, and you should know better. so why are you at his apartment in the middle of the night after weeks of radio silence?

pairings: carlos sainz x fem!reader

warnings: implied age gap, suggestive

notes: damn, i be writing anything that relates to all my love life mishaps when i was like 20,,,, daaaaaamn

(f1 masterlist)

you know better than anyone how you shouldn’t be here. you shouldn’t be at the door to his apartment with an overnight bag over your shoulder. you shouldn’t have even picked up the phone when he called you three hours ago.

you think of turning around and making a run for the elevator that’s waiting for a new passenger to transport. but in the empty hallway of carlos’s condo, you try to calm your nerves as you wait.

you wait in clothing that you don't frequent, just to catch his attention. just to keep his attention while you're here with him.

he had bought you a small portion of your wardrobe, something to match what he likes in his typical girls. you're even lucky you'd caught carlos's attention in the first place.

you're not a conventional model, which seems to be his type more often than not. and you simply don't dress the way they do. even showing up here in this has managed to make you feel slightly uncomfortable.

you looked in the mirror before you left your dorm, and you didn't look like yourself. from the mini skirt, down to the way you did your makeup, and the darker shade of lipstick you've put on.

the door finally creaks open, carlos’s head peeking through the gap. one eye is closed, the other barely open from the contrast difference of lighting from inside his apartment to the hallway’s. his hair is a mess, bits and pieces of hair sticking in different directions.

“sorry i took a while,” you drop your head, your hair falling to the sides of your face, “i had to stop to refuel my car. i hope i didn’t make you wait too long.”

he smiles at you, pulling the door open wider to let you in. “it’s okay. i’ve barely been home; i just arrived like… 20 minutes ago.”

“oh,” you slip your shoes off, “i hope you’ve had enough time to settle down then. have you had your dinner?”

this is the cycle every. single. time.

you come over, make some small talk on the couch, before he eventually pounces on you for a long night ahead. and then you wake up in the morning in his arms, his lips peppering light kisses onto your shoulder before he gets up to make you breakfast.

and then you leave. the second you exit that god forsaken condo unit, every sweet nothings exchanged in the heat of the moment is long forgotten.

he will text you once — to bid you safe on your journey home. you will answer him once — to tell him you’ve gotten home safe. that will be the last you hear from him until he goes through all of his races and flies back for his short breaks.

if you’re lucky, he will text you randomly one evening to rant, and maybe even ask you how you are. he will keep the conversation adorable and lighthearted for 5 minutes before he’s reeling you in, just enough to have you craving for his touch for days before he's on his way back.

then he touches down, and texts you to come over.

and he tells you that he likes you, and wants to take it slow, but will never tie you down with a label to make it official. jealousy laces every word when he texts you, following pictures of you flooding your stories with men he's never heard of, but will never be brave enough to say it to your face that it bothers him.

maybe that’s why you keep doing it. maybe that’s why you never call him out on it.

it could be the superiority he knows he has over you: he’s got enough experience to drag you around for months at a time and knows how to keep you wanting more without calling him out.

he shakes his head with a small smile, keeping his distance and standing by the door leading to his kitchen. “i just ordered some food right before you came. 20 minutes,” he tells you, “would you like some water?”

“iced, please,” you reply softly, putting your bag right by the couch as you take a seat.

“of course.”

he disappears into the kitchen, giving you the time to scan his apartment and how much it’s changed in the month you haven’t been in it. not much, really. just that his luggage is now in the corner with a backpack opened, clothes spilling out of it.

maybe it’s also your inability to know when to stop. is it because carlos makes you feels so good? is it the pride of knowing older men are into you that makes you want to stay?

but you feel like a kid, waiting by the door for him to welcome you with open arms. otherwise, he shuns you away until he remembers your existence.

“here you go.” his hand ruffles your hair slightly, putting the cup of water into your hands. “how was the drive here?”

only then you notice that he’s not wearing a shirt. but you also notice the fading spot of purple right by his collarbone and you feel your arms go cold, your grip tightening around the cup.

any more and you’re sure it would shatter.

you’re not the only one; of course, how could you have ever thought that? you’re just one of his girls when he decides.

when he needs someone to talk to, you’re one of his platonic friends — his homies, as some refer to it. he will never be as attached to you as you are to him.

you’re just another name in black ink in his long list of girls.

you lift the cup to your lips, quickly chugging half of the cup down. your eyes never leave the dark spot on his skin, a reminder to yourself with every second that you’re no different to the next girl he will be calling in the next city he’ll be prancing to after this.

you lick your lips. “it was okay. not many cars on the road.”

he finally notices your stare, his hand quickly coming up to cover the spot. your eyes trail up to meet his as he shrugs. “the team and i went to play paintball a while ago. i’ve got crazy bruises that haven’t healed yet.”

he lifts his arm to reveal another spot, slightly darker this time, on the side of his stomach. you hadn’t noticed it earlier from his arm covering it.

his excuse surprisingly makes you feel lighter, the nauseating thought of carlos with another girl in bed suddenly seeming like an absurd accusation. but you mustn’t forget the facts of the matter: you’re just another girl to him.

and he does not care about you. at least, not like that. he only puts up a front to get what he wants before he tosses you aside for another something of weeks.

"you look amazing, babe," carlos mutters, his eyes trailing down to the skirt that's hiked up your thighs. the garter on your thigh peeks out ever so slightly, prompting a shakey sigh to pass his lips as he meets your eyes again. "love the skirt."

"thank you," you answer in a small voice, looking down at his fingers tracing shapes over your exposed chest. your breath staggers as he goes down further towards your cleavage.

he glances at your lips, slowly leaning in. he wraps his hand over yours to take the cup into his hands. he slowly puts it down on the floor, a couple of steps away from either of you.

"you look so so hot," he mutters under his breath. his hand snakes up your inner thigh, leaning in towards your neck. there's a ringing in your ear as he comes closer.

his lips hover above yours, "i can't wait to have you."

~✨🏎✨~

you lay on your back and stare up at the ceiling, your hand resting above the other on your stomach. next to you is carlos, the duvet draped over his waist loosely with his phone in his hands.

you glance at him, acknowledging the soft hands that massage the top of your head. you've just finished eating together and you feel the aftereffects of the amount of food you gobbled down together.

the entire conversation you had, talking about his race weekends and your days in school was lighthearted

"i should go," you sigh, pushing yourself up off the bed. you reach for your bag, sitting under his nightstand to fish for a new shirt.

"what?" you hear shuffling behind you and the only source of light in the room goes out. "you're going? but you usually stay the night."

you can almost notice the disappointment that laces his words. if you didn't know any better, you might have folded and crawled back into that bed with him.

you nod, eyes focusing on passing through the darkness to fathom which article of clothing you're taking out of your bag. "yeah, but i've got class early tomorrow. i really can't afford to be late."

"i can send you early if you want. sleep in the car - i'll drive you," he offers.

you give him a small smile, briefly looking at him before returning your focus to getting dressed to leave. "it's alright, really. i'm carpooling with josh."

your heart starts to race in your chest, feeling heavy as you hear carlos move about some more behind you. "does this josh guy like you or something?" he asks. "why is it that every time i ask you about school, he always comes up?"

you're lying, of course. you don't have to be on campus until the end of the week but you just cannot spend another moment in this suffocating apartment where you play the part of a naive pawn in his games. but he doesn't have to know that.

because you should know better.

your frustration grows, a mix of the darkness limiting your vision and simply having this conversation. you just wanted to find the shirt you packed and be out of here.

"i saw your pictures when you went out the other night. you guys looked awfully snuggly with one another," he adds. "you're telling me that he's not interested in you like that?"

"why's that matter?" you ask, turning your head to give him a stare.

it's only then you notice that carlos, amidst all that conversation, has crawled out of bed. he's now half-dressed with his shorts pulled up his legs, tied together with the string to hold it up. you can barely make out his figure in the dark, the only light coming from the streets.

"exactly. it shouldn't," you mutter, turning away from him once more.

you grunt and finally pull out something from your bag, which seems to be a pair of shorts. that's not what you wanted. you slam it into the ground and continue to dig for a shirt.

"not to you, at least," you add in a whisper, eyebrows furrowing as you furiously search through all the contents of your bag. which surprisingly is a lot more than you remembered packing.

"come on, don't be like that," he sighs. you hear footsteps approaching you, making you turn to hold a hand up to keep him away.

you almost feel guilty, his words weighing your chest down.

he stops just a couple of steps from you and throws his hands up in the air. "it shouldn't matter to you what i'm doing during the days that i don't exist to you," you huff.

you scramble to your feet, walking past him to switch on the lights, overwhelming you both with the change. when you pass him once more to finish your mission of getting your shirt, he plants a firm grip on your elbow and yanks you back into him.

"why are you being like this?" he asks gently, eyebrows met in the middle as concern washes his face. concern or jealousy? or the realisation that you're finally coming to your senses? "what's wrong?"

"that's," you pause to take your arm out from his grip, "really none of your business."

you roll your eyes as you see your shirt on the floor next to your bag. it must have fallen out when you moved it into the bedroom after the food arrived. you pick it up swiftly and pull it down your head.

"seriously. don't pretend to care," you chuckle dryly, now turning to him with furrowed eyebrows. "it won't do you any good. i'm so tired of you doing this to me, carlos!"

you whirl around and get your shorts off the floor, pulling them up your legs.

he sighs, "it's complicated right now, babe. just stay and let's talk about it."

"there is nothing to talk about," you say calmly, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. when you open them, his brown eyes are staring directly into yours. if you hadn't come to your rude awakening during your drive here, it's easy to get lost in his eyes. they shine differently from others, wide and welcoming, and- no.

"(y/n)..."

"i'm too young for this, you know? wasting my youth on somebody who only wants me in the middle of the night every couple of weeks?" you pick up your bag and sling it over your shoulder. "plenty of men are in line for me and i'm just letting you throw me around like a piece of meat? just who the hell do you think you are?"

he runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots. you almost recognise the way he's trying to claw his brain for a lie to tell you. but you just roll your eyes.

"dude, i don't know what's going on with you," you sigh tiredly, looking down at his carpeted floor, "but i don't want to play whatever game it is you're making me play."

"there's no game," he mutters, eyes trailing down to stare at the ground. "please, just give me time to figure it out. it's messy right now."

"i've given you time to figure it out," you take a step forward, "i don't have forever and a day to wait around for you."

he doesn't answer, just drops his hands to his side as he stares at you. you push yourself past him, shaking your head. who were you to think that finally speaking up about this would change the course of things?

this is how it's meant to be: he's just simply too different for you to end up together. he's got the glitz and glamour with girls tripping over their own feet to get his attention. but you just want a quiet life, and to live out your years without regret.

continuing whatever arrangement you've got with him will not be the answer to what it is you want.

he sighs. "i'll call you."

"no, you won't."

#carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you #f1 x reader #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz fanfiction #f1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 x you #disneyprincemuke #disneyprincemuke imagine #disneyprincemuke imagines #disneyprincemuke f1

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theemporium · 4 months

Text

and here we have my favourite wee softies, carlos and butterfly🥹enjow some marriage bliss!

series masterlist

You had seen Carlos in a variety of situations over the years you had known him, various of them being in medical situations.

You had seen him go under intense medical checks before and after each of the races.

You had seen him after particularly bad crashes that left him winded and disoriented and a little worse for wear.

You had seen him when he was sick with the flu, bedridden and whiny and desperate to just be held by you.

You thought that after so many years of marriage and even more spent together as a couple, that you had truly seen it all with Carlos Sainz. You didn’t think there would be any more new levels to your husband that you would ever come to learn—as naive as it sounded. You thought you had seen him in every version of himself.

And then, he had to get his wisdom teeth removed.

Your husband was stupidly stubborn in the most bizarre and unsuspecting situations, and it turned out this was just another one of those. Despite the pain in his gums, Carlos was adamant that he was fine. He was adamant that he was being very normal, that he totally wasn’t wincing every time he kissed you and had definitely not been favouring colder foods over the last few days.

It had taken a week to convince him to go to the dentist. It had taken an hour of both you and the dentist convincing your husband that the procedure was necessary and the best option if he wanted to stop being in pain and not risk anything worse happening. It had taken a grumbling amount of apologies on the ride home and a homemade meal from Carlos for you to finally stop giving him the cold shoulder for his stubbornness.

Everything had seemed normal when you drove him to the dentist practice (as hard as it was for him to accept he was in too much pain to drive) and kissed him softly before he headed in for the procedure. You honestly assumed it would be no different to the few times he had been given strong painkillers after a crash, you thought you were prepared.

You were most certainly not.

“MI ALMA!”

You tried to bite back your grin, shaking your head as you continued to rush around the kitchen.

“MI AMOR!”

You snorted, grabbing the tray with both hands before you began making your way towards the living room where Carlos had been settled since he arrived home.

“Mi mariposa!” Carlos grinned, his blinks a little slow and his cheeks puffed out with the gauze inside, but he was still the prettiest boy you had ever seen. “I’ve missed you.”

“I told you I’d be five minutes,” you said with a soft smile as you placed the tray down on the coffee table, a bowl of soup and a spoon lying on it. “You need to eat.”

“I don’t want to,” he huffed out as he opened his arms for you, only to pout when you didn’t instantly climb into his arms.

“You have to eat before you have your next dose,” you reminded him as you nodded towards the soup. “C’mon, I’ll help you.”

“Mi amor, the only thing I need is your hugs,” Carlos stated like his words were matter-of-fact and weren’t slightly slurred. He sounded exasperated, like your refusal to hug him was the biggest inconvenience in the world—despite the fact you had been cuddling the boy since you two got back from the dentist. “Not soup.”

“It’s your favourite,” you bargained. “Tell you what. If you eat the whole bowl, you can have me for the rest of the night.”

His glossy puppy dog eyes looked up at you. “Promise?”

“Promise,” you nodded.

You laughed as Carlos scrambled to sit up, already reaching for the bowl as you let out a laugh—one that made him smile a bit wider. You slapped his hands away, reminding him to take the gauze out before you grabbed the bowl and the spoon, already gathering a spoonful to feed your husband.

#carlos sainz #formula one #f1 #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz fic #carlos sainz one shot #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #formula one fic #formula one one shot #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 one shot

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lewisvinga · 8 months

Text

skyfall | max verstappen x reader!

summary; when once again abu dhabi was the decider for the world championship, but this time it was between ex lovers.

warning; angst 😝

word count; 1.3k

note; skyfall by adele is so good , but there might be typos idk

masterlist !

Abu Dhabi 2023. A race Y/n has been looking forward to since the start of the season. Although her season had a bit of a rough start, the McLaren driver shocked the world. After ending below P10 in the first few races, Y/n pushed through and started winning races, quickly catching up points wise to a certain Red Bull river.

Max Verstappen.

What once was the perfect depiction of young love quickly turned into an intense rivalry. They were young and in love, but they were too focused on their career. With Max’s anger issues, and Y/n’s stubbornness, their relationship ended horribly.

It ended to horribly that the other drivers had to make sure they weren’t together. During media duties and post and pre race interviews, they had to make sure that Y/n and Max weren’t near each other. And if they ever were near each other, it was living hell for everyone on the grid.

It didn’t help the fact that they were currently tied in points for the World Championship. For Max, it’d be his 3rd, but for y/n? She’d do anything to become the first female Formula One driver to be the champion of the world.

The weekend started off tense in the McLaren and Red Bull garages. It was so tense that Lando and Sergio had come up with multiple plans to try to avoid the garages.

Next came qualifying, which went exceptional for Max as usual. For the McLaren driver, it didn’t turn out so well. Ending up at P8. y/n felt sick to her stomach. Not the type of sick from being so nervous, but the type of sick where she was so angry and struggled to contain it.

It just seemed like luck wasn’t on her side as she finished at P8. However, she knew she’d do anything to make it out on top on Sunday.

Lando avoided her like the plague on Sunday. As much as he loved his teammate and enjoyed being around her, he knew that it was no time to joke around. The other McLaren workers copied his strategy. They knew one wrong thing could set Y/n off and they did not want to risk her losing.

The young Brit told her good luck and gave her a quick hug which she didn’t want to admit that she needed. As y/n makes her way to her car, she sees Max stood by his car and glancing at her. They both swore a sudden bitter taste filled their mouth as they made eye contact. They knew this race will ruin anything they ever had and anything they could ever try to have.

Y/n takes a deep slow breath once she was finally at her spot of P8, waiting for the green light to go. It felt like time was moving insanely slow as she sees the red lights slowly go off before it finally turned green.

The start of the race was tame with Max keeping his place of P1 in the first few laps. Y/n managed to take over Charles and Lando, giving her the place of P6 in the beginning. She wasn’t satisfied with it. Of course, she couldn’t be. There were still 5 more drivers she needed to overtake in order to be first.

Y/n soon catches up to George and she easily overtakes him and Carlos soon after. Lewis was a bit of a challenge. He’s a 7x champion of the world and an experienced driver. Nonetheless, Y/n drove past him, placing herself in P3.

She was behind the two Red Bull drivers. Sergio was at least close to her but Max already had a bit of time ahead of his teammate. She was so close when suddenly heard a voice.

“Y/n, we’re gonna need you to box.”

“What?” She loudly exclaims, “No, I’m so close to taking him over. Why?” She continues, starting to get frustrated.

“Now, y/n. We don’t want to risk anything by doing it later.”

Y/n felt furious but she listened. She knew she had to push herself in order to pass Max. By the time she made it back on track, she was at P5. Luckily for her, she was a fantastic driver and in no time she made it back to P2.

Max was still 15 seconds ahead of her. He felt satisfied knowing that he was ahead of her. He ignored the strange feeling in the back of his mind that he started to feel. He used to be madly in love with her. She used to be the one who could make him smile and laugh with a simple joke. She was the one who he could go to after getting into an argument with his father.

Sometimes it shocked him how badly their seemingly perfect relationship ended.

It shocked him enough to be distracted until he realized that y/n was right behind him. He was getting yelled at through his radio to focus and get farther ahead so he can box.

He managed to gain speed and lengthen the time between them. But he could only keep it up for so long until his tires had to be changed. Despite Red Bull being quick at changing the tires, Y/n immediately took P1.

Once Max was back on track, it was like a war between the two. A minute later, he’d be in first, the next minute, y/n would take his place. The gap between the two of them and the rest of the drivers was large. They didn’t have to worry about someone else potentially taking their place.

The last lap was like a war. Everyone watched intensely they drove pretty much side by side. It was difficult to figure out who was ahead and who wasn’t.

Y/n glances at Max, only to see him looking back at her. Filled with hurt and anger from their past relationship, she pushed through on the last turn. She could see the checkered flag in the distance. The same flag she had been dreaming about throughout the week. She accelerated, gaining a second ahead of Max.

Time passed by slowly as she finally passes the waving checkered flag.

“Y/n L/n, you are champion of the world.”

Shock and disbelief filled Y/n’s body. Months of sacrifice and spending the last hour fighting for her spot was all worth it. It felt like she was on cloud nine as she parks the car in her designated spot and quickly gets out to celebrate with her teammate and her team.

Joy and ecstasy was all she felt as she made her into the cooldown room. Sergio, who placed third, gave her a tight hug to congratulate her.

“Felicidades, chiquita.” [congratulations, little one] Sergio says in a soft tone, pulling her into a tight hug. Despite being Max’s teammate, he always cared deeply for her.

Y/n lets out a chuckle as she wraps her arms around him. “Gracias, Checo.” [thank you, checo] she responds as they both pull away and take sit down at their designated seats.

The air in the cooldown became thick as a certain Dutch player made his way inside. Sergio awkwardly coughs as he turns away, wanting nothing more than to leave the room. Max and Y/n knew that there were camera’s recording which meant if they didn’t want to give their PR team a headache, they had to be civil.

Y/n gets a flashback of their relationship. Oh, how younger her would’ve loved to scream and run into his arms. Younger him would’ve kissed her from the joy and pride he would’ve been feeling.

They would’ve been celebrating on the podium together, proud of their journey. They would’ve been partying together to celebrate the end of a fantastic season. They would’ve gone home together and spend the rest of their week relaxing. They would’ve been the perfect couple.

But one argument let the sky fall and made their once seemingly perfect love, crumble.

#formula one imagine #formula one x reader #formula one scenarios #formula one imagines #f1 x reader #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #f1 imagine #f1 scenario #formula 1 x reader

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thisistinirussell · 6 months

Note

hi babeeee, can I ask you a smut with Lando with Leclerc!reader and they meet at the club and have a one night stand after the race in Vegas?

I‘m so sorry!

I know it took me ages to response, but work kept me pretty busy the last days! Hope you understand! Xx🫶🏼

————————————————————————

„What happens in Vegas..“

pairings: lando norris x leclerc!reader

warnings: SMUT! (18+ content), alcohol consume, language!, one night stand, NOT PROOF READEN (not my native language🫶🏼)

Where Vegas and your brothers friend keep your deepest secret..

The first Grand Prix in Vegas..

It was one of the weekends you were free and decided to cheer for your brother Charles at his first race there. His season until now, wasn‘t the greatest, so you thought he would be happy if his little sister would be here and support him. But what you didn‘t know, was that this trip to Vegas wouldn‘t stay as harmless as you thought.

Max was celebrating his win once again and invited your brother, his teammate and you to his party. First, Charles wasn‘t really in the mood, because the race didn‘t go very well for him. But after a lot of talking in on him, he said yes. So you were getting ready, putting on a short black satin dress, some highheels and normal straight hair. You looked hot and you absolutely knew that.

„So? Are you ready?“ your brother asked, already dressed and styled. „Yes! I can‘t wait! I wasn‘t on a night out for ages!“ you said completely excited. He laughed a bit. „You sound like a teenager..“ Charles said, getting into the car with you. On the way to the Party you picked up Carlos. Then you drove to a Club, where Max invited everybody.

Already at the entry, everything smelled like beer and cigarettes. After the bouncer asked for your ID, you got in the club, with Charles and Carlos following you. You knew everyone on the grid. But you knew George, Lando, Alex and Carlos the best, because they were close friends with your brother. You were glad that, George and Alex were so tall, so you could see them already in the crowd of people. You made your way over to them.

Some hours later, most of them were already pretty drunk. So were you. Only Lando stayed sober, to drive his friends home after the night out. Your brother went home early, because he still had some stuff to do, so his friend Lando agreed to bring you home, when he leaves.. little did you know..

It was nearly 4am.. Lando and you were already talking for some time about things you would never talk about sober. First of all you talked about your ex. And Lando listened very well.. „So.. ever since i didn‘t have sex.. and i miss it..“ you finished your sentence before you took another shot.

Lando started to grin a bit. „You tell me you didn‘t have sex for about two years??“ he asked. Lando seemed pretty shocked. You just shook your head. The brit was quiet for a little moment.. „I think we should change that..“ he said after some time of thinking. Your eyes went wide. „Wait.. what?..“ you asked him. „Why not? You seem needy.. i want to change that..“ he said and pulled you closer. You just nodded. You never would have imagined yourself being this close to your brothers friend. But Charles wasn‘t here.. so you thought why not.. or maybe your just weren‘t thinking and lost all your inhibitions to say no.

Lando took your hand and got out of the club with you, to his car, it wasn’t a bed and not that comfortable, but for a quick fuck it would be good enough.

„Get in.“ he commanded and opened the door to get on the Backseat. You did what he wanted and got in the car. Lando followed you in and locked the doors.

There was not very much space but enough for him to get rid of your panties, which was easy because of the short dress you wore. He pushed you down on the seat and got on top of you. „Let this be our Secret.. no one needs to know about this..“ he whispered while kissing and biting your neck a bit. „Yes..“ you just whispered while pulling on his trousers impatiently. „Want me to put it off?“ he asked provocative. You bit your lip softly and just nodded. „Beg for it.“ he commanded and tried to sit up, while he got his shirt off.

„Please… please Lando.. i need you so much..“ you nearly whimpered. It was a bit weird for you to beg your brothers friend to fuck you. But he was good looking and you could have bet that he was good in bed. And you were absolutely right.

Out of nowhere he pushed two of his fingers inside you. You moaned a little when he started to move them gently in and out. „More.. please! More!“ you said and grabbed his other hand. „Hmm.. you like that.. but if you already like this.. how about that?..“ he said and started to suck and lick on your wet and sensitive clit while still moving his fingers. Out of pleasure your hand got into his hair and pulled it a bit. „Fuck yes! if I knew you would be that good I would have done that earlier!“ you whispered. Lando smirked a bit while licking you out. You felt how he got you so close to the edge. He was not doing this for the first time, you were sure.

You were pressing your hip against his head and leaned your head back. right before you were about to orgasm he pulled off and smirked. You whined.

„Why did you stoppp?“ you asked Lando frustrated. „You think i would let you finish this early? I didn‘t even fuck you right!“ he said and laughed a bit. You sighed. He smirked a bit and pushed his length into your drenching hole. You put your head back and needed some time to get used to the pain you were feeling when he started moving. It was just way too long ago.

He closed his eyes of pleasure. Feeling you tighten around his cock.

His hand placed on your hips to pull you towards his hard dick, gliding in and out and picking up pace. Your moans got louder and his name found it’s way somewhere in between the moaning and the swearing of you both. „Mhh.. you take it so well baby…“ he whispered completely turned on and his grip got tighter.

After a while you pushed him on the seat and got on top of him, riding him. „Come on baby.. faster..“ he whispered and pulled your hair roughly. „I know how much you love, to feel my dick inside your wet dripping pussy..“ he said murmured in your ear. „yes! I do!“ you said getting a bit faster pressing his head against your chest.

„How about I‘ll fill you up? I bet you look good with my cum, all over your cunt.“ he searched his way down your body to your clit. Carefully he started to rub it und got faster with every circle his fingers made. „God Lando, I‘m gonna cum!“ you moaned and pulled his hair a bit. „Not yet babygirl. You will cum when I tell you to!“ he shouted and grabbed your ass to help you pick up the pace a little bit more. „Please! I can‘t hold it.. i need to..“ you begged. You really wanted to wait for his permission, but you were so close.. your legs already shaking and your grip in his hair got tighter. Exactly this moment he felt, how close he were. „Now you can cum baby.“ He whispered. Lando didn‘t need to tell you twice. So you tightened around his dick a little more and felt how releasing it were when you felt how he also came into you and filled you perfectly.

Your breath was a heavy. Also was his. „Fuck.. that was great..“ he whispered leaning his head back. You nodded a bit, coming down. „I needed that so bad..“ you said looking down on you two before getting off your brothers friend. He followed you with his look while you searched for your panties somewhere underneath the driver‘s seat. So he cleaned himself with a tissue and got in his Boxers and Jeans, not taking his eyes off you. He just couldn‘t believe himself, that he just had the sister of his friend in a kind of different way, than he expected at the beginning of the night.

„Hey.. can you do me a favor?..“ you asked him, while he put his shirt on. „Sure, what is it?“ he asked. „Could you please take me home?“ you asked him. He smiled a bit. „For sure.. that‘s why I‘m here.“ he said and got out to sit in the driver‘s seat. You also got out then and got into the passenger seat.

„Oh by the way.. let‘s agree on, never telling anyone..“ you said a bit shy, like he didn‘t just fuck you in his car. He grinned a bit and puts one hand on your thigh. „Sure.. what happens in Vegas..“ he started. „Stays in Vegas..“ you finished his sentence when he started to drive you home.

#formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula1smut #lando norris #lando norris smut #lando norris 4 #ln4 #ln4 x reader #ln4 imagine #ln4 smut #leclerc!reader #ln x leclerc!reader

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lcriedlastnight · 25 days

Text

lando knew he was in love with you from the moment he met you. but if you ever got together and anyone was to ask he would say it was the first time he noticed that he looked for your reaction anytime he made a joke. he knew that you loved making people happy, so to be able to do that for you made him feel worthy of feeling so in love with you.

you stand with lando as he talks to carlos and charles. after all three boys were on the podium in australia they decided to have a post match debrief of sorts, over dinner. obviously you were there. there wasn’t many places lando went without you.

the two ferrari boys greet you happily, not looking one bit annoyed at you crashing their dinner. you give them a happy wave and go to sit down before charles pulls you into a friendly hug, and even gives your cheek a friendly kiss. this didn’t make lando happy, but he decided to leave it be. for now. he would talk to charles about it later.

carlos does the same, wrapping you into a tight hug and whispering into your ear about how lando has attachment issues to you. this makes you laugh as you finally (it took you a little too long, lando thinks) take your seat, next to him.

lando’s smile was beaming the whole night as you crack jokes and tell funny stories. the topic of the race did come up so it technically was the dinner they planned.

lando was in the middle of telling a funny story about a fan at the paddock in australia. as soon as he hears the laughs coming from the other drivers he finds his head whips around to you. his eyes darting around your face in joy as he sees you laugh along to his story.

it wasn’t anything special, you laughing. it’s something he had seen many times, with him always trying to make you smile. but this time. this time it felt different. this time it felt like he was watching you in slow motion. seeing the way your eyes crinkled at the sides as you giggle almost made his heart burst. how did you not know how beautiful you were?

charles asks him a question and lando vaguely recalls hearing it, too busy staring at you like this was his first time (it was not). instead of calling him out on it though, charles and carlos look on with a look of fondness. carlos with a little bit of frustration, as all he wanted was for his friend to finally get what he had been pining after for so long.

as you all recover from the story lando can’t take his eyes off you. he knows he won’t be able to keep this up much longer. but for a little while he just wants to admire you from afar. just while he builds up his confidence to tell you how he feels.

#lando norris #lando norris fluff #lando norris imagine #formula one imagine #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fluff

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mysticworks · 29 days

Text

Love you like I do ~ CS55 x Reader

Carlos comforts reader in a vulnerable moment of self - doubt.

Preview: He brought his voice low, knowing that now you’d calmed down, it was the right time to address your worries. “You’ll always be enough.”

Your breaths were intermingling now, the heat from the summer day filling the car.

“Enough for me to love you with all my soul.”

Word Count: 1k

Genre: Pure Fluff

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

You peered into the mirror of the car, rechecking your lip gloss was applied with precision for the umpteenth time that day; using your finger to trace the outline of your lips - smudges today were an absolute no no.

Carlos sneaked a glance your way, before flashing his eyes back on the road, smile curling at your actions, “Any more gloss and you are going to look like a freshly glazed doughnut.”

It was just a joke. Harmless and innocent.

You could hear the humour in his voice, the slight edge of a laugh as he took a left turn into your destination street. Yet something set off inside of you.

Maybe it was the nerves, the anxiety you’d been feeling since morning.

You were meeting Carlos’ family for the first time today, being invited over to dinner a year after you’d started dating. He’d promised you they were eager to meet you, that he’d told them all about you; stories, funny anecdotes, your likes and dislikes and they’d grown an eagerness to you before having met you.

Yet there was still something pinching your chest, a worry tugging at you, the question haunting you as you asked yourself, but what if they don’t like me? What if I’m not enough?

You pursued your lips as Carlos pulled into the driveway of his family home, staring out the window intently, eager not to meet his eye. He seemed to sense the shift in your mood, turning his head towards you in concern as the engine whirred to a slow silence.

“You okay?”

You felt a hand come to rest on your knee, Carlos gently rubbing his thumb in a slow, comforting motion.

Sucking in a breath, you nodded, raising your shoulders in a nonchalant shrug and attempting to give a small smile of reassurance to Carlos. “Yeah. Just nervous I think.”

Carlos reached for your jaw, taking it delicately in his hand and turning your head to meet his eyes. His stare was intent, hard to break away from, and you found yourself peering straight into them - the focused gaze too compelling to break away from.

“There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

You raised a brow at him, sighing slightly, “I don’t know Carlos…what if…what if I’m not what they expect?”

You felt Carlos begin to lean over the handbrake, closing the gap between the two of you; the small space between you making your face fill with his hot breath. “Then we break up and never meet again.”

You raised your eyebrows high, shooting him an exasperated look - He only flashed you a cheeky grin in reply and you had to admit, the blatant sarcasm dripping from his words cracked a smile on your face too.

“You really don’t have to worry, you know. Just be yourself.” Carlos brought his finger up to your hair, catching the forever untamed strand and tangling it between his fingers, “be your funny, smart and lovable self.”

“Will that be enough?” Your voice was quieter now, and you bit your lip in unease. “What if- ” Carlos cut you off with his eyes, letting his gaze dance all across your face before coming to a rest at your lips.

He brought his thumb to where you were biting your lip, gently caressing the area and leaving a quick peck; “Yes…definitely a glazed doughnut.”

He was mumbling to himself, purposely avoiding your questions to bring some sort of ease into you. And somehow, it worked - like he knew you too well - how to soothe you and calm down irrational fear.

He continued his trail of small pecks, fingers still playing with your hair and you felt yourself full of tingles - heat rising in your chest. The worry seemed to be ebbing away, a giddy feeling consuming you instead.

Carlos sensed this, letting his lips fall away from your face and giving your nose a quick ‘boop’ with the tip of his.

Gosh he was so intelligent with sensing emotions.

He brought his voice low, knowing that now you’d calmed down, it was the right time to address your worries. “You’ll always be enough.”

Your breaths were intermingling now, the heat from the summer day filling the car.

“Enough for me to love you with all my soul.”

Carlos’ voice was deep, full of emotion - he was somehow always so poetic when emotive - so expressive and sincere.

“And they’ll love you too. Just like I do.”

He reached out for your left hand, his fingers playing with yours. They lingered every so slightly, on your ring finger longer than the others, toying with it and the prospect of forever filled you with an emotion so deep you thought you’d burst into flowers.

Not saying another word, Carlos left you in inquisition, turning to leave the car from his side.

He cocked his head, signalling it was time to head inside before sprinting to your side of the car, feigning exaggerated gestures as he opened the door wide for you to step out, bowing his head; arms flailing wildly in a mocked butler curtsy.

You found yourself giggling as you stepped out, and Carlos pressed a tender peck on your forehead, mirroring the smile, his hand coming to find the small of your back as you walked through the front gate.

As you walked through the concrete pathway leading to the front door, it dawned upon you just how huge the exterior of this home was; the front lawn a beautiful meadow of fresh, emerald grass.

The pathway you walked on winded down in asymmetric slabs of concrete, cherry blossom trees scattered amongst antique lamp posts that gave a retro feel to the scene.

The door frame itself was decorated with baskets of flowers - tiger lilies and tulips, the fragrance of nature filling your lungs with every breath you took.

Carlos reached down towards one of the flowering buds, delicately picking out a vividly coral tiger lily - it was full in blossom, bright and bloomed.

With a gentle hand, Carlos placed the flower into your hair, tucking its stem securely behind your ear. You turned to face him, sharing a smile before stepping into his home, ready to be welcomed.

#f1 #f1 imagines #carlos sainz #cs55 #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x female reader #f1fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #cs55 x reader #cs55 fluff #cs55 imagine #formula 1 #charles leclerc

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charlessainzz · 1 month

Note

A request for Lily bringing you to a race to cheer her up after a bad breakup and playing a little Cupid with Charles or Carlos ??

Stupid Cupid

thank you for requesting this! hopefully I did it justice :)

“Lily, I don't want to go to the race! He’s going to be there and think I’m stalking him”, you groaned. It had been two weeks since your boyfriend, well ex-boyfriend Matt, dumped you. He was a mechanic for Williams who had been introduced to you by your best friend Lily.

“Oh y/n don’t be so dramatic! You’re going to put on your hottest outfit and show him what he’s missing, okay!” she said as she threw you the best form fitting jeans money could buy. Unknown to you she had an ulterior motive. Lily felt bad that she and Alex had introduced you to Matt and they needed to make up for it. Alex had heard through the grapevine that the Charles Leclerc had seen you at a party and mentioned to Alex he thought you were cute. So what better person to match you up with. The plan was to somehow get you two alone but how… that would be difficult.

You and Lily walked into the paddock, your eyes darting back and forth looking out for your ex. “Lily I feel nauseous, I don’t want to run into him!” you cried grabbing her hand.

“Y/n don’t worry! We’re not hanging out in the Williams garage today, I’ve got passes to the Ferrari garage”, she sing-songed. A huge smile appeared on your face. How lucky to be in the presence of Carlos Sainz and Charles Leclerc.

“Someone likes that idea..” Lily joked seeing your big smile. She texted Alex that the plan was a go. It was time to get Charles in place.

You both entered the Ferrari building and noticed Alex was randomly in the building. “What’s he doing here?” you questioned.

“Uh not sure, let’s go find out!” Lily said as she dragged you towards him. That’s when you noticed he was talking to Charles. You felt your face go hot. As you both walked up to them, Alex started to introduce you but then like a ghost Charles disappeared.

“What the-” Alex said shocked, turning every which way looking for Charles. Then he spotted him, he got snatched by his PR person for an interview. “Sorry y/n” Alex said defeated.

“Haha no worries, I’m not important enough for him to talk to”, you joked. You linked your arm with Lily and walked to your standing area. Lily turned and gave Alex a mad look. Plan A failed, time for Plan B.

You watched as they went through FP1. You felt like you and Charles kept making eye contact but maybe your head was playing tricks on you. If you hadn't known better you could’ve sworn he kept smiling at you too.

“Come on y/n, let’s go find a table to have lunch. Alex said he’d join us later with some friends”, Lily explained. You both settle into a table waiting for your guests.

“Hey man!” Alex said as he patted Charles on the back. “Thanks for joining our lunch!”. Your eyes nearly pop out of your head as you see who the special friend was. “You know Lily, and this right here is our dear friend y/n”.

Charles smiles and reaches for your hand. “Nice to meet you y/n”, he grins. You shake his hand grimmacing at how sweaty your palm was.

“N-Nice to meet you too. You did great out there!”, you stammered a bit. The conversation started slow but the more you all talked the better it got. Almost as if Lily and Alex weren’t there and they got the hint. Lily texted Alex that it was time to dip.

“Oh well me and Lily have to uh- we have to leave!” Alex stupidly explained. You and Charles looked at them with confusion and you so more with panic. They couldn’t leave you alone, not with him! Lily gave you a thumbs up and mouthed ‘You got this!’ as they both ran away.

Now without the presence of your friends it started to get… awkward and silent. Funnily, Alex and Lily had actually hid behind some bushes watching.

“Alex, we left too early, it looks bad now!” Lily cried.

“Don’t you worry, I’ve got something to break the ice” Alex slyly says as grabs a tennis ball from his pocket.

“What the hell is that for?”, she sternly says.

“Well I don’t have a bow and arrow, so I have to improvise” he giggles. They watch as you and Charles sit there both trying to find something to say. When all of a sudden a tennis ball goes flying and hits your drink glass shattering it to the floor.

You both jump out of your seats and look around for where it came from. You look at him and fall over laughing. “I think the universe is trying to tell us something” you wheeze.

“I think the universe is telling us to get out of here” Charles smiles. You give him a confused look. “Let me take you out to lunch in town, somewhere better”, he says confidently.

“Oh!” you grin feeling your cheeks blush. “I would love that”. He grabs your hand and starts to lead you to the parking lot.

Lily and Alex jump from behind the bush and silently cheer. “You are the stupidest cupid Alex Albon”, Lily laughs at her boyfriend.

“Hey! It worked though, look at them… a perfect pair”, he giggles.

You and Charles walked hand in hand down the paddock towards his car. Just then the one person you had avoided all day walks past you. Matt does a double take as his mouth falls open. Turning to meet his gaze you give him a wink and snuggle more into Charles’s side.

Hopefully this match made by cupid turns out better!

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #f1 fanfic #f1 requests open #writtenbycharlessainzz #charles leclerc fluff

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vamossainz55 · 9 months

Text

always - carlos sainz jr

summary (5.5k words): inspired by always by daniel caesar and requested by one of my favorite people @scuderiasundays. or the one where you and carlos find your way back to each other. warnings: mentions and hints of s*x (no explicit writing), hints towards cheating. a lot of longing, tension, and a disgusting amount of use of the word always. sorry it had to be done.

“feliz año nuevo!”

carlos smiles when his mother comes close, stamping a kiss to his cheek. he wraps his arm around her, hugging her close as the sound of fireworks erupt through the city.

he can hear the cheers from the other houses and the sound of the tv still playing. la puerta de sol is on the screen, a new number he needs to remember for the year splashed on top of it with a nicely written font.

“terminaste todas las uvas?” did you finish all of your grapes? reyes asks, ruffling her son’s hair fondly. carlos scrunches his face slightly but leans into her touch anyways. only two people in the world were allowed to touch his hair, his mother’s just lucky she’s one of them.

“si las terminé,” as he moves to pull his phone can feel the slight rumble in his stomach as proof, along with the ache of his jaw from chewing so quickly.

“y pediste un deseo?” carlos blinks, mind flashing to mere seconds ago after he had chewed down the twelve grapes. he smiles.

“claro mamá” he says before his attention is taken up by his father, who pulls him into a hug. hugging his father turns into hugging blanca, and hugging blanca turns into hugging caco, and that turns into hugging the rest of the group.

soon hugs turned into cheering with champagne. then shotting tequila. and then one or two bottles of beer.

in between all the drinks and laughs his mind frequently goes back to the wish he had made as the clock rang 12.

he really wonders if his wish would come true, the reminder prompting him to take out his phone.

it’s only when he’s looking at the lit up screen that he feels it. the quick movement of his eyes but the slow motion of his vision. the alcohol was surely taking effect and he was definitely starting to feel the consequences.

he unlocks his phone anyways, goes to open whatsapp with one name in his mind. as he clicks on the logo he sees the notification come in. your name sits nicely at the top of the list of conversations.

‘happy new years! i know this will be your year, go get em x’

he smiles, and against his better judgement types in ‘what if its our year?’ it’s cheesy, but in the moment it seems great to him. his thumb hovers over the send button as he tries his best not to think too much about it.

is this too much? he hesitates pressing send, thinking. god. i can still taste the tequila in my mouth. his lips purse and he smacks his lips against each other. why is my mouth so dry? i should go get water. he gives his train of thoughts an approval, nodding to himself before pocketing his phone.

don’t get distracted carlos. he tries his best to make it to the kitchen, but his resolve breaks when another shot glass is being handed to him. he smells it. vodka hm, at least it isnt tequila. he thinks before downing the contents of the glass.

he figures water can wait for later.

its later that night (or maybe he should say morning?) that he climbs up the stairs, more blurry eyed than before with a bottle of water in his hand. he almost misses a few steps, letting out a winded breath when he reaches the top. he finds piñon laying by the railing, head tucked on his legs.

his eyes look up at carlos, clearly having expected him to come sooner. “sorry piñon, tenemos que festejar un poco no?” we need to party a little bit no? carlos asks, crouching down to pet the top of his head.

he watches the way piñon leans into his touch, puppy dog eyes as big as ever and in that moment he remembers his wish. “no te muevas, que estas muy mono,” don’t move, you look adorable he says before fishing his phone out of his pocket.

the battery widget flashes red, a notification announcing he has less than 10% left making an appearance. he dismisses it quickly, swiping to open up his camera app instead.

click.

he smiles at the photo on his screen. he can barely hold himself up though so he gets up on his feet, legs wobbling a bit in the process. he pockets his phone again, he figures he can send the photo later, his bed already calling out his name. he stumbles into it face first, bottle still in his hand.

he dreams of his wish and the text he’ll receive when he wakes up.

but when he opens his phone the next morning to realise his text is still half written without being sent, he’s too embarrassed to even look at it. he deletes the whole text, and doesn’t send you anything altogether.

it’s a quiet day, different to the bustling life he’s used to. it’s something he barely imagined himself appreciating, a contrast to what he used to crave: busy schedules, back to back flights, speeding through tracks, or even streets, the thrill of it all.

madrid always helped him wind down, allow his two feet to settle back on the ground. it’s a nice reminder that there’s a life outside of it all: outside of hotels, outside of planes, outside of cars.

which is why, neatly packed between meetings, trainings, catch-ups with friends, he always slots in quiet morning walks in the city.

he soaks it all in, eyes tracing every window, every door, every crack in each tile he steps on. he’s in the city he calls home, where nothing really changes, but where nothing really stays the same.

small droplets of rain pellet on his skin as he walks, going past the all too familiar park he practically grew up in. the see-saw looks the same, along with the black handles he used to grip whenever his friends would get off from the other side without warning.

he smiles at the memory. his own high pitched voice rings in his ears, letting out expletives that kids his age would more than get in trouble for.

it’s the next step he takes that brings him back to reality. an unhinged tile that’s peaking unexpectedly high.

he trips, shoulders raising slightly as he catches himself with his other foot. distracted, he doesn’t notice the person in front of him, not until he lets out a small but embarrassed breath of relief whilst looking up.

“carlos?” his name rolling off your tongue sends goosebumps to his skin and his eyes grow slightly. “i didn’t know you were going to be home,” you come closer this time, hand going over his shoulder to grab behind his neck. your touch sends a shiver down his back.

despite the buffer of his brain he moves naturally around you, body responding faster than his thoughts. his hands go to your waist just as your cheeks touch. right cheek first, left cheek second. he takes the moment to take it all in. he feels your fingertips at the nape of his neck, your hair gently brushing over his shoulder your perfume still smells the same, the flowery and sweet aroma invading his senses.

he realises he misses it.

he realises he misses you.

“yeah, I just landed yesterday.” his thoughts are slowly prickling in again, and he remembers where he is, what he’s doing. “and you know me,”

you smile, because you do. “always squeezing a walk in?”

he nods, eyes going over you. you don’t have much on you, your phone in one hand and your bag slung over your shoulder.

“always,” he answers.

there’s a moment of silence as you scan over him this time. you notice he doesn’t have anything on him either, just a phone peeking out of his pocket.

“are you-” you start.

“where-“ he laughs when he realises he interrupted you, sheepishly scratching the back of his head.

“you go,“ its said simultaneously between the two of you, and this time you’re both laughing, rosy cheeked and crinkly eyed.

“okay,” he raises his hand so you can’t cut him off this time. “ladies first,” his tongue is resting gently between his teeth as he patiently waits for you to go ahead.

“i was asking if you are going anywhere,” he shakes his head to answer. there’s a second question on the tip of your tongue, but you go for a third one instead. “what were you going to ask?”

“where you are going,” he doesn’t say it like a question, because in that little moment he knows you’re both on the same page. “but, i’m changing it to- if you want to grab coffee with me?”

one black coffee and one latte macchiato sit between you both. the smell of ground coffee floats in the air, mixed with the smell of freshly baked bread.

it’s like the place misses you more than you miss it, the walls feel closer, warmer, asking you both to stay as long as possible. in reality though, you both don’t know how long this encounter would last.

even maria, the older lady that owned the cafe, had welcomed you both with wide smiles and open arms, sneaking past the counter to hug you both. she still remembered your order by heart, shooing you both to sit down before any of you even ordered anything.

it’s been a while since you’ve both sat together like this, scooted into the small table of the cafe, tucked into your corner. the table is as small as ever, and peaking right from under carlos’ drink you spot the little doodle on the wooden table from years ago. carlos spots it too.

you remember the panicked voice carlos had that day. you had been coming back from the restroom just to find him leaning over the table with a far from innocent look. “i messed up,” he had whispered. at first he didn’t want to show you, and his dramatization of it all made you expect the worst.

you were only met with a slight chip on the table, barely noticeable to the naked eye (or to whoever wasn’t looking for it). despite carlos’ demeanor you only laughed, grabbing a marker from your bag. you had made sure maria wasn’t looking before covering it in black.

“it isn’t enough,” carlos murmurs, hunching over again to grab the pen to add more ink.

you remember the gentle sound of the marker going back and forth. you give him a second, and then two, and then three, and by the fourth you nudge his foot. “carlos, i think we’re good.” but of course he shakes his head, an argument about needing the colors to blend. “it’s a marker on wood carlos, it isn’t going to blend,” but alas he doesn’t stop, not for a bit at least.

you go for your phone, sighing softly with a shake of your head. you take a photo of him, writing the caption ‘this is literally your son right now’ and sending it to reyes when you notice the silence coming from the other side of the table.

you glance back at carlos, finding him silently staring at the blob of black he had created. you can tell the moment he realises what he’s done, “... it’s way worse now isn’t it?” he asks, almost comically.

“you’re really something else,” you bite your bottom lip, rolling your eyes as you hold back a laugh. “give,” you say, thanking him when he hands over the marker to you. “now go own up to maria, and i’ll at least try and make it cute.”

he murmurs a sorry, cheeks going red as he lets you fix the problem he somehow made worse. he thanks you with several pecks though, whispering “you’re the best” into your ear.

you end up covering the blob with a heart, and maria finds the whole thing too endearing to even get mad (she had apparently spotted carlos panicking even before you had come back from the restroom).

you’d never admit it out loud, but you were grateful that a memory of you both was sealed somewhere.

as always, your thumb taps at the glass of your coffee cup. you’re quiet, eyes scanning over the foam that’s collected at the top of your drink now. carlos watches you, the way you bring your cup to your lips before taking a sip of coffee. your tongue peaks out for a split second after to swipe at the cloudy texture left behind on your lips and he has to deny the urge to reach out with his thumb to wipe it away for you instead.

“thought you didn’t go anywhere without your red ferrari shirt,” you joke, the warmth of the drink calming your words. carlos only laughs, mirroring your actions to take a sip of his own cup. he places the cup next to the doodle this time, letting his hand rest on the table. his fingers tap over the fading ink, gently tracing the shape.

“so you’re keeping up with my life hm?” carlos teases before sitting back into his chair, hands back at cupping his mug.

“of course i do,” you answer, gently knocking your foot against his. he smiles at the revelation, as if you didn’t still like his photos, or left one-off replies to his stories. infact, you had wished him new years first. despite both of you deciding it was better to part ways, you both continued to put your best efforts in somehow remaining connected.

carlos still wished you happy birthday every year, sent you a photo of piñon whenever he went home, and dropped a comment whenever he was on his instagram (he was glad you had your account on private).

it’s not the same as it used to be though. you’re not really there, but it's enough for now.

“you never texted me back.” carlos looks at you, raising his brow slightly to feign confusion. he knows what you mean though because unfortunately, alcohol induced memory loss only existed prior to going to sleep.

“i… forgot,” he lies, frowning small to himself because it's a bad excuse, a bit mean even.

“mhm,” you give him a proper look before sighing. it was clear that you were frustrated, frustrated that you cared so much about it.

“you know i didn’t mean to,” carlos murmurs, and it isn’t an apology. as much as he wanted to, he knew he didn't owe you one, and frankly, even though you wanted one you’d never accept it.

“i know,” you murmur before taking a deep breath. carlos fights the urge to hold your hands, to tell you that it's fine. so instead, he pulls out his phone.

“i do have a photo for you though, albeit a bit late” he says, unlocking his screen to open his gallery. you perk up at the mention of a picture and you sit up a bit, this time scooting closer.

your knees touch just as carlos turns his phone to show you his screen.

“he’s so cute,” you coo at the sight of piñon staring at you through the phone. slowly reaching to move the phone closer, your fingers go over his and carlos expects you to take his phone, but instead you let your touch linger.

there’s a moment of silence before your eyes shift from the phone to carlos. there’s so much you want to say, but you know it isn’t fair to any of you.

“i miss him,” carlos looks at you. the words feel heavier than they should. they hold more meaning and you both know it. he puts his hand down, fingers tracing over the doodle once more.

“i know, he misses you too.”

some nights carlos stays up late, staring at the ceiling of whatever room he’s staying in for the night. he likes to draw images on the ceiling, imagine something he can’t have but ultimately wants.

he sometimes imagines crossing the finish line first, lifting the trophy, sitting on the top step of the podium. not only once but multiple times. sometimes he imagines lifting the wdc trophy, imagines his name carved into the list of legends in the sport.

as much as he loves the sport, it’s exhausting most times. both physically and mentally. the traveling, although fun, taxes him mentally.

the changing hotel rooms, living out of a suitcase almost every other week gets old pretty quickly when you’ve been doing it for years. friends and family are good company, but sometimes he craves more. a constant, a person to call his.

so inbetween images of the top step of the podium, glimpses of you always seem to appear through his mind.

he let his ritual slip once when talking to lando. lando calls it manifesting, something he’d caught when scrolling through tiktok. and carlos isn’t one to believe in the energy of the universe, but for this he’ll make an exception. some things are meant to be wished for.

and honestly carlos needs to thank lando, even give him a gift, because tonight is one of those nights, and one thing he didn’t expect is to be behind the wheel of his car after being tucked in bed almost two hours prior.

the moment your name flashed across the screen he was already up on his feet.

so he parks in your driveway, just to see you sitting on the stairs of your doorstep. he takes off his seatbelt, lets the engine run for a second as he tries not to think about it too much.

you only look up when he opens the car door, slowly getting up as he comes closer to you. that’s when he notices it, your wet cheeks and swollen eyes. “hey,” you murmur, voice shaky. he doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around you before pulling you close to his chest.

and this is exactly why you both didn’t see eachother often. why distance was best for you both. because here he is, on your doorstep with your face tucked into his chest.

he knows why you called, knows showing up isn’t making it easier for any of you, but he’s selfish, and you are too. it might not be the first time you’ve called, but every time it happens carlos is scared it’ll be the last.

it feels like a ritual, carlos climbing into your bed in his boxers and a shirt you had chucked at him from his previous late night visit. no matter how long ago you always kept it with you.

the room is cold, your insistence of not turning on the heater during winter still prominent after all these years. he never minds though, not when your body presses against his under the sheets, not when his arms wrap around you to pull you close.

his lips press against your forehead, soft and careful. he feels you let out a small breath, feels the tip of your nose poking at the center of his chest. he moves to look down at you to find your eyes already on him. “you feel better?” he asks, carefully tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. he lets his fingers graze over your cheek, thumb slowly going under your chin.

“i do, thank you for coming,” you murmur, eyes dropping to his lips. you both know you shouldn’t.

you continue to lay in eachother’s company, letting the familiarity sink in. it’s the perfect moment to forget about it all, about why moments like these were worth the distance and the stress. it’s the perfect moment to think about the what if’s.

and the nights always start like this, with strong composure and innocent touches. but every single time the night fails to end how it starts.

your breath feels warm against his neck and his grip is strong on your waist. your lips always manage to press closer and his hands always manage to go lower.

“carlos,” you murmur. it’s always soft and always so needy.

and carlos should know better, does know better, but his hands are slipping under your shirt, and your fingers are already dipping into the waistband of his boxers.

his teeth graze against the sweet spot on your neck and the sounds you let out spur him on further.

he wants this moment with you.

you always awaken to an empty bed after, with no evidence of his presence apart from the marks on your skin. it never upsets you to wake up by yourself, as it was an easy way for you to run away from the reality of the previous night.

sometimes though you like to imagine what it would be like if he stayed one of the mornings. whether you both would finally talk about everything, instead of tip-toeing around it all, but you never do.

at the ene of the day the risk always seemed to outweigh the rewards.

despite waking up with a certain sense of satisfaction, the feeling was always mixed with guilt, and often times regret. not for the choices made during the night but regret for letting things end in the first place.

the risk of not being on the same page was definitely not worth the conversation. you were just as selfish as carlos. if turning your head towards another direction was all you needed to do then that is exactly what you’d choose.

so life peruses normally, the seasons continue to change. the snow from winter melts as the spring flowers take their time to flourish. but every night when you close your eyes it’s like there’s something missing.

you never seem to shake it off, the only option is to dull it out, seeking comfort in others that don’t just quite make you feel the same way. carlos is no better though.

you see the headlines on ‘hola’ magazine. the photos of carlos going home with a pretty brunette or blonde not far ahead. the girls change every other week and you can’t even bother to keep up, especially not when you have your own little distraction.

this time it’s javi. a friend of a friend who funnily enough works in motorsport too. unlike carlos, he isn’t a driver, mainly arranging the different events that go through spain.

you try to not mention carlos at all, especially when the formula 1 spanish gp gets brought up to the table one month into seeing each other. you just hoped your friend knew better, but unfortunately she doesn’t and you’re the only one to blame for it.

“her ex is a ferrari driver now!” it’s innocent, your friend blissfully unaware of the way you tensed at the mention of carlos. in everyone else’s eyes you were both fine, some would even say great, the picture perfect image of healthy exes.

“oh?” he asks. he senses the tension growing in your demeanor, the way you shift in your seat. your friend notices the questioning look he gives you.

she laughs, genuine, and innocent. “it’s not like that, they’re on good terms. no funny business anywhere.” and it sounds so true that you almost believe it yourself.

the topic washes over the conversation, but your mind stays right there.

her words ring in your head. on good terms. no more funny business. you’d be lying if you said you no longer remember the way carlos’ lips traced your skin, or the way his hand wrapped around your neck.

“so you’d be down to come with me to barcelona?” you snap out of your thoughts at the question, gaze coming up from the table.

“sure, it’d be nice.” you answer, not finding the courage to even make an excuse. your fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt during this. should you give carlos a heads up?

you smile when you get a peck at your lips, nodding when being asked if you were excited. “very,” you say, wondering at the same time when you had gotten so good at lying when it came to carlos.

the sun is shining brightly over the city, no cloud in sight. you can’t complain about the heat though, not when you’re tucked inside the paddock’s hospitality area. your paddock pass hangs around your neck, special guest written in small fine print along with your name.

you’re by yourself at your table, fingers fiddling with your phone’s strap as you wait for javi to get back to you. he had left over an hour ago for a catch up with the board of the track, and although you didn’t mind spending some time by yourself, the wait is becoming longer than you had initially expected.

you’re not short on entertainment, deciding to walk to the balcony as the sound of the engines reverberate through the building.

you watch the flurry of f2 cars pass, each car being pushed to its limit as the drivers attempt to qualify with the best lap possible. the crowd cheers as they watch a new name place itself in p1.

your mind wanders as you watch, thinking about the red badge you had tucked away in one of the zippers of your purse.

you had received it in your mailbox a week after telling carlos you were going to be at the race.

he knew you were coming with javi, the only catch though was that you only received one pass.

you entertain the idea, a quick drop-by wouldn’t hurt any of you. it’s carlos’ home race and it felt wrong to not wish him good luck.

so when javi’s apology appears on your phone saying it would take him a few hours, you find yourself turning away from the track and slipping the tag off your neck as you make your way out.

you shoot out a text, dropping by to say hi.

you get your answer before you even get to ferrari’s building, the red pass now hanging around your neck instead and you find carlos standing idle by the entrance.

the moment he spots you he eyes you over, gaze following down the black and red lanyard to see your tag. as childish as it is he finds himself smirking, well aware of who’s name you were carrying around with the badge.

you’re let in easily, carlos pressing the button to open the doors from the inside. he gives you a hug, finding comfort in the way you tucked your chin over his shoulder.

your badge is between his fingers when you pull away. he flips the badge over, reads over the text before letting it go. he does nothing more of it, simply asking you how you were before taking you upstairs to his room in search of more privacy.

the room is bright red, a contrast to the white walls you were used to during his time at toro rosso. you make no issue of making yourself comfortable though, sitting on one of the chairs that’s pressed against his table.

“the whole country is rooting for you,” it’s merely an observation of your time so far, countless of 55 merch dispersed all around the crowd. “you nervous?” it’s supposed to be teasing, but carlos knows you enough to notice the place of concern in your question.

“a bit, shitting myself actually.” the confession comes out more serious than not and he simply tries to brush it off with a laugh. “but hey- can’t be worse than last year hm?” the joke falls flat between you both and there’s a silence that is almost suffocating. despite carlos’ good nature and strong spirit, you knew him well enough to know he was still letting past performances follow him.

the seconds feel like hours before you speak up, trying to determine what is best for you to say. you know carlos was one of the last people to want something sugar coated for him. “last year was.. something. but if anything- from what i saw today the crowd believes in you.”

carlos lets out a lighthearted laugh, and you know what he thinks of your answer. “don’t just say that to make me feel better.”

his eyes bore into you as you say the next words, and you let your eyes meet then. “you know, i say that because i believe in you too.”

throughout all the years you’ve known him, one thing never failed to be true: you had always believed him from the beginning, and at the end of the day you’d always be rooting for him.

“thought i’d get to meet your boyfriend today,” carlos says, resting on the edge of his table as he crosses his arms across his chest. you can’t tell if the remark is meant to be a jab, or whether it was something carlos wanted to do. “it’s serious?”

he doesn’t look jealous, simply leaning his head to the side as he waits for you to answer. you could lie, say that it was serious and you wanted it to go somewhere, but you’d both know you wouldn’t be telling the truth.

the choice you end up with is to not answer altogether, letting out a sigh instead. that’s all that carlos needs to know so he nods, taps his fingers over his arm. “how much time do you have?”

you watch him walk over to the door, and you pinch the end of your dress as your eyes trace his back. “i think i need company for the nerves.” he explains, “is it okay?”

it isn’t okay, but javi wouldn’t be back for at least two hours. “i have as much time as you need me,”

you expect carlos to lock the door, for both of you to ignore the elephant in the room and just continue the cycle but the lock never clicks.

instead he turns back around, a nervous expression on his face. you feel the energy of the room shift, and you watch carlos come closer. “actually… is it okay if we just talk?” he doesn’t mean just talking, the fiddling of his fingers giving it away.

“about?”

“you know about what,” carlos murmurs, “i just- i need to know where we’re both at. well, where you’re at.”

you chew your bottom lip, take a deep breath as you tuck your hands under you. “but, what if,” you’re unsure on what to say next. what if you’re not on the same page? what if you realise it’s best to end things? “what if things change?”

carlos smiles small, shakes his head before he speaks. “i’ll always be here, you know that right? even if we’re not on the same page right now.“

“i know.” you murmur as he sits down next to you.

it’s later that night that you break it off with javi with an apology and carlos’ hotel room card in your back pocket.

you stay the night, the morning, and the night after that.

“feliz año nuevo!”

carlos smiles when his mother comes close, stamping a kiss to his cheek. he wraps his arm around her, hugging her close as the sound of fireworks slowly dwindle down.

the cheers have already died down, and the tv is on silent, music playing through the stereo instead.

“terminaste todas las uvas?” did you finish all of your grapes? reyes asks, gently reaching over to fix carlos’ hair. carlos rolls his eyes playfully, they weren’t even ten minutes into new years and two people had already touched his hair.

“no, no las terminé,” he looks away from reyes, unable to stop the smile that was forming on his lips and the warmth he felt spread through his chest.

reyes smiles, follows carlos’ gaze. she doesn’t need to ask but does so anyways “y no pediste un deseo?” and you didn’t make a wish? carlos shakes his head.

“el mio ya se cumplió,” mine already came true.

it takes you a moment to catch carlos staring, and he holds back a laugh when your eyes go wide the moment you realise reyes is there with him. you’re quick to walk over, “reyes, happy new years.” you’re smiling ear to ear, blanca who had stolen you from carlos mere minutes ago trailing behind.

as soon as you’re done hugging reyes he wraps his arms around you from behind, presses a kiss to your cheek before shifting to peck at your lips.

“quit snogging. you didn’t even try finishing your grapes before.” blanca comments which gets her a pinch on her side from carlos but he backs off nonetheless as soon as he notices you getting flustered.

it’s only later that morning, when he stumbles into the bed with you that he finds your lips again. you laugh between kisses, both of you tired and heavy limbed as you sneak under the blankets.

it’s once you’re both settled that carlos speaks up. “happy new year,” he murmurs against your lips, smiles when you murmur it back before kissing him again. he savors the moment, can still taste the hint of mint from your mouthwash. once you pull away he smiles, looking you in the eyes. he can’t help himself, the words being at the tip of his tongue during the whole evening. “this year’s our year hm?” he finally asks.

you smile softly and nod, coming closer before answering with a whisper of promise. “this one and the next.”

#carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz x y/n #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you #f1 fiction #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula one x you #formula one x reader #formula one imagine #carlos sainz imagine #cs55

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alittlebitofsainz · 21 days

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a place in this world - ch1

a dream come true. you, a race engineer in formula one, having built your way up through the ranks. sure, the 2020 season hadn’t exactly gone the way that everyone had expected, but this was your chance, your moment to prove to the world of racing what you and your driver, carlos, were made of. but carlos isn’t staying at mclaren forever, and eventually, you’ll have a decision to make…

pairing: carlos sainz x f! reader. slow burn colleagues to friends to lovers (please, from my own experience, don’t follow this pipeline)

info: reader lives in the uk due to working at mclaren, and is somewhat implied to be british. it is also implied that they listen to bbc radio 2 and support leicester city football club. this may or may not be because these things are true of me and I wasn’t planning on publishing this, sorry!

warnings: cursing, a lil’ bit of angst, very infrequent use of y/n, one (1) google translated spanish sentence, a dry british writing style xoxo a/n: hello! welcome to a little passion project I never thought I’d share with the internet. this will eventually become a sort of ‘choose your own adventure’ type series, where you can make decisions about your career that can eventually lead you to different teams and drivers. will be posting a masterlist soon with more info so bare with me! any feedback / comments are always welcome

Masterlist | chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

Chapter One: … Ready for It?

it had started out like any other wednesday. except it hadn’t, not really. the nature of your job meant that there was no ‘any other wednesday’. most wednesdays meant that you were jetting off to some new country, your wide eyed face in the window seat, reflecting back off the pane of glass separating you from the dancing lights of some exciting new city, 5,000 feet below. race engineer to mclaren-renault formula one driver number 55, carlos sainz, wasn’t exactly what you had listed as what you wanted to be when you grew up, but you were far from disappointed that that’s what your linkedin profile now read, a metaphorical middle finger to everyone who’d said you’d never amount to anything in motorsports.

but by all accounts it had been a relatively uneventful wednesday in your life, in fact even more so than usual compared to the early morning check ins at Stansted airport that you’d grown accustomed to. this week was silverstone, your home race, if race engineers could call it that, and that meant no early mornings, no check ins, no flights, no decanting your liquids into tiny bottles and zipping them into a plastic bag to take through security. this wednesday was a stop at sainsburys to fill up the tank of your vw polo with petrol, and an 80 mile drive west towards silverstone circuit. the most exciting part of your morning was getting stuck in half an hour of traffic on the m25; you didn’t even need the dulcet tones of Richie Anderson on radio 2 to tell you there’d be traffic at Potters Bar. as a native southerner, you could just feel it in your bones.

still, only fifteen minutes late to track wasn’t too bad, considering your lengthy journey, and you were by far the last member of the team to arrive. you would’ve been even less late, but for the fact that you’d sat for the best part of five minutes in your car, engine off, staring at the notification on your phone. there were so many questions running around in your head, first and foremost of which was why on earth did dan from engineering have your number? but the second question, which was possibly the more important one, was why did carlos ask him for it? he said that it ‘might be useful to contact each other.’ if the current expression on your face could be summed up in a noise, it would be a very confused and very emphatic ‘huh?’.

sure, you and carlos interacted a lot during race weekends, that much was a given. you were forever catching up to discuss data, strategies, the car setup, the sandwich options at the hospitality, why the leicester city football team would beat real madrid in a fist fight. so okay, your conversations weren’t allstrictly work related, and you could’t deny that the two of you got on well and seemed to really understand each other, but that was all part of being a driver and race engineer duo; you had to be on the same wavelength. it was non-negotiable. but swapping phone numbers? you couldn’t imagine why the two of you would need to text or call each outside of work hours, and you had work phones for that. which led you to your third and fourth questions: number three, why did you suddenly feel so nervous and giddy with excitement when you re-read his message for the seventh time? (question three point five was why did you re-read his message seven times?) and number four, what the hell were you supposed to message back in reply?

you typed in a thumbs up emoji and then immediately deleted it. how fucking old were you, 65? what next, start talking to him about the cold war? no, you had to keep it fun and casual, not too overfamiliar but not too weirdly distant and cold. god, why was this so difficult? you felt like a schoolgirl with a teenage crush, constantly typing various replies and deleting them again, letter by letter. eventually you settled on a cool, calm and collected response, typing it out and shoving your phone into your pocket before you had time to overanalyse what you’d just sent. quickly gathering up your stuff from the boot of your car, you spammed the lock button on your car keys, just in case the first five times didn’t stick, and trotted off towards the entrance to the paddock.

as it was approaching the hour mark since he’d sent his text, carlos had been starting to worry that he’d overstepped an unwritten boundary. why had he even asked dan from engineering for her number in the first place? it just felt like something that he should have. lando had will’s number, he’d already asked him that. but once he’d sent the message he realised that he couldn’t really come up with an excuse as to why he’d needed it, why he couldn’t have waited until he’d seen her this weekend and ask for her number from herself. like a normal person. deep down he knew why, though he was in some sort of state of denial about it, and it was the same reason that he hadn’t asked for her number two weeks ago in Hungary, or at the previous race in Austria, or when he’d first met her at the start of the season.

he breathed a sigh of relief when her reply came through, 57 minutes after he’d sent his message. well, the first one that is. the second message came two minutes after the first; god, he couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to forget to include who he was at the end of the text the first time around.

but it didn’t matter now, because she’d replied, and her words on the screen made him smile to himself, her voice in his head as he read them through three, now four times over. his fingers hovered over the keypad, contemplating a reply. he checked the time - it wouldn’t be long until she arrived at track anyway and they could chat in person, so he closed the messages app on his phone and tucked it away in his pocket, deciding against committing any words to the everlasting aether which was the iPhone messages app.

it was nearing the end of a lengthy strategy department meeting when your phone went off, a few pair of eyes glancing your way as you apologised profusely, eyes scanning over the text before sheepishly putting your phone on do not disturb and placing it back on the table face down. shit, this meeting wouldn’t be finished for another ten minutes at least, and by that time all the bacon and brie toasties would be gone (everyone knew they were the best lunch option). worse still, you hated the fact that you had to leave carlos hanging; pausing the strategy meeting to send off a quick text was equivalent to a cardinal sin, even if it was to carlos sainz. your eyes were flicking increasingly often down to the time on your laptop, the seconds crawling by as the time approached one o’clock. it felt like whichever godlike entity governed the laws of time was toying with you; surely it wasn’t possible for time to move this slowly? the head of strategy wrapped the meeting at 13:04, and you were out of your seat like a rocket.

amy, one of the strategists, fell into step beside you as you paced it down the corridor.

“you’ve heard about the brie and bacon being back on?” she asked; you only had to reply with a grin to give her the answer that she needed. she eyed you up, as much as anyone power walking down a busy corridor could whilst still maintaining maximum straight line speed.

“everyone from strategy and engineering has been in meetings. so who’s your source?” came her second question. you picked up your pace, under the guise of trying to get to the canteen quicker.

she had a habit of taking just enough time to respond to carlos’ messages to keep him guessing whether she actually would respond at all. it wasn’t entirely her fault, carlos realised; she’d apologised for earlier, explaining that she was busy driving. of course she was, how could he be such an idiot? maybe a part of him was hoping that she’d been acting coy, teasing him by waiting, purposefully trying to keep him on the edge of his seat.

carlos saw her enter the canteen, watched with a small, self satisfied smirk as her face fell, the rattan shelf where the brie and bacon toasties had been, now depressingly empty. he left it just long enough so that she was forced to consider which disappointing option to go for instead, before finally calling her over.

“Y/N!” carlos called, watching as her head whipped round, and he had to stifle a laugh at her confusion. he waved her over.

“sorry, I was stuck in a meeting.” she sighed, her voice slightly breathless. had she ran here? he fought back the urge to tease her about it, shaking his head slightly.

“don’t worry about it.” he replied, gesturing to the seat beside him as he spoke. her eyes lit up when her gaze fell on the plate on the table, in just the way he’d pictured in his head. god, he’d never get over the way the simple things pleased her, and he didn’t mean that in a bad way. over the past couple of months that he’d known her, carlos had learned that the little things really mattered, in a way that was almost rare in this environment. she looked upon a brie and bacon sandwich like it was the sun that shined, and if she’d have looked up at carlos in that moment, she’d have seen that he was looking at her in the exact same way.

“is that for me?”

“no.” carlos replied, deadpan. she shot him a look, her face screwed up in a pout that he’d grown more accustomed to the more he teased her like this. eventually he let out a soft chuckle, as a way to say I’m only joking, of course it’s for you, and she sat down in the seat next to him with a playful scowl, which only caused him to laugh more.

“thanks, carlos. you’re the best.” she told him through a mouthful of brie, bacon and toasted bread.

“I know.” he replied, a cheeky grin dancing across his face. “it was the last one as well.”

“amy’s gonna be pissed.” she giggled, glancing over her shoulder to watch as her colleague was forced to settle for regular ham and cheese.

a podium finish to p13. was it worse to fail because of your own shortcomings or because of something that was out of your control? if you’d asked carlos sainz right now, he would think about it for a moment, and then tell you to vete a la mierda.*

his phone screen lighting up in the darkness was the only thing that brought his attention to how dark it had become in his hotel room. christ, how long had he been sat there, staring at the wall, trying to process how frustrated and angry and upset he was? he’d put his phone on silent, tired of all the commiseratory messages that had been coming through, but apparently his bedtime reminder didn’t obey the laws of do not disturb. sighing, he unlocked the device, and quickly scanned down the many notifications he had been ignoring for the past few hours. one stood out above all the rest, because of course it did. he felt guilt clutch him as he noticed the message from well over an hour ago. from her.not only guilty at the fact that he’d not seen her message, but for some reason guilty for perceiving that he’d let her down at her home race. it was stupid, he knew, to feel that way - it wasn’t his fault that his tyre had blown out with just a few laps to go, but he knew how excited she’d been for her first ever british gp, and it had all ended in disappointment. his fingers hovered over the keyboard at the bottom of his phone for a moment, a million different emotions whizzing round in his head, bouncing off the sides like a demented pinball machine. no wonder he had a headache. he drew in a sharp breath before typing out his reply.

*I’m hoping this means somewhat akin to ‘fuck off’

you’d almost forgotten that you’d sent carlos sainz a message of commiseration, which was shocking considering how long you’d been deliberating over it only a mere hour ago. you were back in your own bed in your hometown, seeing no need to stick around seeing as there would be no celebrations this weekend, and carlos had disappeared as soon as the team debrief had ended, making it very clear that he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. which made it all the more surprising when you leaned over to your bedside table, bleary eyes blinking back sleep as your vision adjusted to the pitch black of your room, to pick up the phone which had woken you from your sleep.

your eyes blinked again against the harsh light of the phone, taking a moment to focus on the big bold numbers on your lockscreen. 01:03? who was texting you at this time? eyebrows knitted together in an increasingly deep frown, you scanned carlos’ message. as was becoming customary, you read it several times over, this time to check whether you’d read it right. why would he want to ring you, at this time of night as well? your mind started to reach for wild possibilities - was he in trouble? hurt? worse?

before he changed his mind, carlos hit the telephone symbol next to her contact details.

“Carlos, are you okay?” her voice came through almost immediately, sounding equal parts panicked yet somehow sleepy. shit, not only had he caused her to worry, he’d probably just woken her up in the middle of the night as well. what kind of dickhead rings a colleague that he’s only known for a few months at 1am? he cleared his throat.

“fuck, sorry, I woke you up.”

“don’t worry about it, I was awake.” she replied. a blatant lie, but carlos appreciated the attempt to make him feel better.

“can I help you with something?” she continued, still sounding concerned. he shook his head even though she couldn’t see.

“yes, no. fuck, I don’t know.” he growled at himself for being so confused, so confusing, for not even really knowing why he’d called her. was he going insane, or did he just hear a soft sigh on the other end of the line? he squeezed his eyes shut, collecting himself to try again, but she beat him to it.

“I’m sorry about today, carlos, it must be tough to deal with.”

sometimes it felt like she knew him better than he knew himself. he dragged a hand down his face.

“yeah, I’m- it’s not great.” he stumbled over his words slightly, his voice catching in his throat. usually he’d be reluctant to show this vulnerability, embarrassed even, but something about the late hour combined with how oh-so-soft her voice was… it made him forget his pride for just that moment.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” he admitted, feeling a ramble coming on but equally feeling powerless to stop it. “I know that it was a problem with the tyre, I know that it wasn’t my fault, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating. and then there’s always a part of me that wonders whether there was anything that I could’ve done. like, maybe if I’d driven less aggressively or something, or changed the way I braked around a certain corner. I still feel like I’ve let myself down, let the team down, let you dow-“

“you didn’t let me down, carlos.” her abrupt reply broke him from his monologue, stopping him in his tracks and allowing him to fill his lungs with air, not realising how out of breath he was becoming with his run-on sentences.

“what?” came his soft reply. he’d heard perfectly clearly what she’d said the first time. but a part of him needed to hear it again.

“you didn’t let me down, carlos.” she repeated, with the same clarity, the same sincerity, the same low tone that he’d never heard from her before that made her sound so wise beyond her years.

“you didn’t let anyone down. this wasn’t your fault. I know it doesn’t make it any less frustrating or easier to deal with - there’s nothing I can say that will change that. but please, please don’t blame yourself for any part of it.”

there was silence on both ends for a moment, before carlos let out a long sigh.

“I- yeah, I guess you’re right.” there was something still on his mind, something that one am carlosknew that one pm carlos would never want to talk about, least of all burden his race engineer with it. but that was all the more reason to say it now.

“I just feel so much pressure to perform, now that I have the ferrari contract.” his voice dropped even lower as he spoke, as if whispering it quietly enough could make it not be true. “I feel like I have to earn my place there, you know?”

“carlos, you were P-fucking-3.”

something about the way she stressed the syllables made carlos chuckle despite himself, and from the way she let out a small giggle on the other end of the phone, he guessed that that had been her intention all along.

“anyone can see that you’ve earned that seat at ferrari. you’ve proved that time and time again already. this isn’t about anyone else, this is about you, and what you believe you deserve. the only person you need to convince is yourself.”

carlos chuckled again, feeling some sort of playful nature already coming back to him. maybe he’d finally figured out why he wanted to call her in the middle of the night, maybe it was even the reason he wanted her number in the first place. maybe it was because he knew that no matter how crappy he was feeling, talking to her always seemed to turn the day around. she always seemed to make him smile.

“very inspirational.” he replied, his tone almost teasing over her ‘believing in yourself’ speech. the corners of his lips curved upwards as he could practically hear her rolling her eyes on the other end.

“this is what I get for trying to be nice.” she muttered, but her tone was light, reciprocating the teasing. carlos smiled, his first genuine smile in several hours. probably since the last time he’d seen her.

“thank you, really. talking to you it… it always puts me in a better mood.” carlos confessed, glad that this was a phone call so she couldn’t see the way his cheeks lit up a soft shade of pink.

“anytime, carlos.”

when they eventually hung up the call, carlos felt lighter than he had in weeks, like she’d melted all his problems away with her soft voice and warm heart. he slept easy that night. meanwhile, she was now wide awake.

you groaned when the sound of your phone pinging dragged you from your admittedly tumultuous sleep. it had been difficult to drift off again after that call with carlos, a million thoughts buzzing around your brain like a swarm of bees on cocaine. you felt bad for carlos, sure, but that wasn’t enough to keep you awake on its own. there was another feeling there; if you were to flip through an oxford english dictionary until you found a word that summed it up you might settle for ‘intrigued’.

you were intrigued that carlos that had decided to ring you of all people last night; surely he had family, or at the very least close friends, that he would rather turn to? but you were also intrigued by your own reaction - why were you feeling so warm and fuzzy that carlos had chosen you, the knowledge that when he was feeling low you were the one he wanted to hear on the other end of the line creating some sort of feeling in your heart, like someone was squeezing it not-quite-too tightly?

it was these questions, and an incessant amount of bin lorries driving past at 5am, that kept you from falling back asleep, and were the reason that you were grumbling now, as you reached over to pick up your phone. the grumbling ceased the moment you read the message and saw who it was from, replaced by a softly murmured ‘oh’, and that strange feeling in your chest again.

as always feedback and comments are welcomed with massive appreciation and open arms! a second part is written and will be out soonish! much love, Katie x

#f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 x female reader #carlos sainz #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz x you #carlos sainz x y/n #f1 fic #f1 imagine

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