(almost) one year with you — c.sainz
pairing. carlos sainz x strategist!norris!fem!reader
summary. your boyfriend is usually so intelligent. when he makes one of the stupidest decisions of his life to break up with you, his best friend (and your idiot brother) decides to take matters into his own hands. 4.3k, 18+
warnings. breakups = makeup sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, reader is kind of a bitch but carlos is into it
masterlist.
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"I'm going to kick the door open."
"Please, do not do that," Carlos says from behind you.
"You think I can't?"
Smartly, Carlos chooses not to voice any further opinions.
You kick the door, more out of frustration than an actual attempt to break it open.
"I'm going to murder you when I get out of here, Lando!" you shout against the door, not really caring if your idiot brother has hung around to hear the very real threat.
You may not actually kill him (you're still debating it) but you will definitely hit him. At least five times. Maybe more. And he's not getting any of your late-night stress-baked cookies for several months. Asshole.
You kick the door again, harder. The wood bends near the bottom from the impact, rattling in the doorframe but otherwise unmoving. Your groan turns into a yell of frustration, punctuated by you hitting the still closed door with both hands. You seriously cannot believe Lando would do this.
"Are you finished?"
Carlos sounds almost amused.
If he hadn't been literally thrown into the room by not just Lando but Max and Alex as well, you might think he's in on this whole scheme. Instead, you just glare at him, irritated that he's so calm while you're both being held against your will.
"Is being made to be near me that horrible?" Carlos says.
"Oh, fuck off."
"You are acting as if they will not have to let us out eventually."
"How long is that going to take? Huh? I don't want to be locked in here for hours. It's actually FUCKING RIDICULOUS!"
You're shouting at the door again, hoping your dumbass brother and his stupid fucking friends can hear.
They all better be prepared for the consequences. There's no one better at holding a grudge than you.
You never should have trusted Lando when he had insisted you come to Charles Leclerc’s dumb yacht party. He never wants to be seen in public with you much less all but beg you to attend a party with all his friends who are so much cooler than you because he's an F1 driver and all his friends are, too, and you're just a strategist.
(You never thought that being a trackside strategist at Scuderia Ferrari would be preceded by "just" as though it isn't an impressive feat but with a brother like Lando Norris, nothing you do ever really seems to measure up. You're the reason Lando ever got into racing or F1 in the first place. So really, this is your own fault.)
You give up harassing the door (it locks from the inside so there must be something blocking it in the hallway) and start searching the room for another way out. It's a bedroom, and you're choosing to assume that it just happened to be the easiest place to trap you both and not a purposeful nudge to something untoward. Lando isn't that crude. You think.
After this little stunt, you don't think he deserves the benefit of the doubt.
You start checking all the drawers to see if there's anything useful. You don't actually know what you're looking for. Maybe like a fire axe or a hand saw so you can brute force your way out of here.
"We could talk," Carlos proposes.
"And give Lando what he wants? No, thank you."
"You are so proud. Can we not talk this out?"
"What's there to talk out, Carlos? You dumped me, remember?"
That shuts him up.
You refuse to look at him. Even with your back to him as you search through a completely empty dresser, you can feel the look on his face. Full lips pouting, big brown cow eyes all sad and pitiful. You'd fold like a cheap suit if you saw his pretty eyes right now and you're trying really hard to stay strong and hang onto your anger so you won't give in.
There's nothing in any of the dresser drawers. The nightstands are fruitless, too. The wardrobe houses only empty hangers, and not even the cheap wire ones that could be bent into something useful like a weapon to kill yourself with if things get any more tense in this tiny room.
"I regret it," he says.
You close the wardrobe with a heavy breath.
"I regretted it as soon as I said we should end it."
"Cry me a river, Sainz. Build a bridge. Get over it. You don't get to call me ‘nothing but a distraction’ then tell me you regret it and expect me to forgive you just like that—fuck this. I'm going to swim to shore."
You yank the balcony door open and climb up onto one of the chairs so you can get over the railing.
"Y/N!" Carlos curses in Spanish, scrambles after you and gets an arm around you before you can actually step up onto the railing. "What are you doing?!"
"I just said! I'm going to swim to shore. Let me go!"
Carlos picks you up like a purse dog and carries you back into the room. He stands in front of the balcony door after setting you down, blocking your only escape route.
"You cannot swim to shore. We are miles out of sea!"
"If it gets me out of this room, I'd do it!"
"Can you not just talk to me?"
"No!"
"Why?!"
"Because I don't want to!"
"What are you afraid is to happen?"
"I don't have to explain myself. Especially not to you."
So, you don't explain yourself. You walk over to the couch and take a seat, arms and legs crossed, looking anywhere but at Carlos.
You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to that first date with Carlos last year. You know what you were signing up for. You knew all the judgement would be on you if/when you decided to go public. You knew Ferrari would have many things to say about your relationship, and they did, when you told them earlier in the season before it could potentially get ugly with a reveal from unsasvory sources.
You knew all of that and you went for it, anyway, because could you even call yourself a Norris if you didn't go after what you wanted? You knew what being with Carlos would bring but apparently, you were the only one.
After eleven amazing months together, Carlos got cold feet. You don't know how else to describe it. You had told your family after three months; he'd told his after just one. Everyone was happy for you. Your family loves Carlos, and the Sainz clan accepted you with open arms. You were so happy.
But as your relationship pushed a year, Carlos said you needed to talk, called you a distraction, subsequently hazardous for his line of work, and ended things.
Did you call him an emotionally stunted manchild before storming out of the cafe he asked to meet at? If you did, he surely deserved it.
A few weeks after that, you're where you are now, locked in a bedroom on a yacht while a party rages on several floors above. Carlos says he regrets breaking up with you, that he wanted to take back everything he said, but he already said it and that's how things are now.
You'll not be the girl he comes crawling back to whenever it's convenient for him. If going steady is a hazard for work, then an off again-on again situationship is definitely not OSHA-compliant. You refuse to lower yourself to being a doormat that Carlos wipes his feet on whenever he feels he has the time.
After a while of standing guard at the balcony door, Carlos makes a move to sit on the couch with you.
"No," you say.
He halts midstep.
"You can sit on the bed."
Slowly, as though giving you a chance to change your mind, Carlos sulks over to the bed and sits.
He's moving to Williams next year. He has only a handful of races left in rosso corsa. He doesn't know you're sitting on a job offer that could have you following him, a promotion to head strategist at the Oxfordshire team that you can't believe you're actually debating because of your standing with a man.
You've told no one of Williams's proposition. So, you really don't know why you open your mouth to tell Carlos of all people.
"Williams wants me as their head strategist."
He looks up, eyes bright, surprised but excited for you. "What? That is amazing."
"Yeah, I know it is," you say, glaring at him again. "I haven't accepted yet, though."
Carlos is quiet, then carefully says, "Because of me?"
"No," you say because it's just ridiculous for that to be the reason you're holding up contract negotiations, "Yes, because of you. Obviously. I don't want you thinking I'm following you. I'm not. I'm pursuing my career. So, I know that changes you being all regretful. I just want to clarify things before you hear about it from someone else.”
“Why would it change how I feel?”
“Because we’ll still be coworkers next season.”
“That changes it? What does it change?”
Carlos' accent (hot as fuck) and the way he doesn't always say things 100% correct (cute as fuck) are misleading for his actual understanding of the English language. So, you're really not sure what he's getting confused over.
He's leaving. You were supposed to be staying. No longer working together meant no distractions for him until you would meet up at a hotel after a shitty quali and he would fuck the shit out of you. Or something like that.
It'd feel good in the moment but you don't want him for just sex. You don't want casual. You don't want to be a convenient, low-maintenance, not-quite-official girlfriend. You won't do it. No matter how pretty he is.
And his plan to get you back was ruined now that you'd be moving to Williams for next season, anyway.
“I’d not be a distraction if I was staying at Ferrari. Now, we’ll both still be on the same team. Not convenient for you to still be in a toxic work environment, huh? So, you can cut the crap.”
“That has nothing to do with my regret."
"I won't be a casual fuck buddy who you can't stand to be around when it doesn't work for you."
"I never said that!"
He seems genuinely hurt by your implication but you won't fall for it, won't let it deter you.
"It's kind of implied. You know with the whole 'I have to focus on my driving' thing. Like, what the fuck were you doing for the rest of the time we were together? Nothing changed and you suddenly decided it was too much, then you want me back but I ruined that for you. You'll be seeing me next year, too, so don't even bother with the whole regret speech or whatever."
"I—," Carlos starts, then says nothing.
He can't seem to find the words.
"What? Nothing to say? You wanted to talk. Talk."
"If I am in a team with you or not," he says, slow, calculated, "It does not change that I regret what I said."
Carlos takes a second to think before continuing. That's where you two differ.
Carlos has always been incredibly intelligent. You knew he was gorgeous before you had ever met in person but his mind made him appeal even more to you when you first started working trackside last season. Long, intellectual conversations preceded him asking you out after his masterclass in Singapore.
You nearly started foaming at the mouth when he said "it's on purpose" to keeping your brother within DRS to hold off Mercedes. You were ready to jump his bones right then and there in the middle of the team celebration when he asked you to dinner before you flew back to England.
But he was a gentleman. (He didn't fuck you until after your second date, but it was a close thing that first night when you leaned over the center console to kiss him. You'd have ridden him right there in the front seat of that rental car if your idiot brother hadn't chosen then to walk by and make a scene. Kind of a mood killer.)
The two of you both found fascination in the other's way of thinking, Carlos' smooth logic and your chaotic brilliance. He is all thought and few words while you talk and talk until you find your solution.
You always found beauty in the contrast. You balance each other. Simultaneously alike and disimilar. He is someone you saw yourself building a life with. After nearly a year together, those are the kinds of thoughts you start to have about a partner.
"So, you regret it," you gather, "But do you still think I'm a distraction?"
"Of course, you are a distraction. I am in love with you. There is nothing more distracting than that."
You laugh, disbelieving. "You're in love with me but I'm distracting and you can't be with me? Why? Because you love racing more?"
"I was scared. I was stupid. I am stupid. I am."
"Self deprecation won't do you any favors. But, yeah, you are stupid. You're not making any sense."
"I was scared. You were everything I could think of. I thought I could not find a balance between you and racing. But without you, it is even worse. I want you as a distraction. I know that because I have lost you.”
“You haven’t,” you say before your brain even knows what you’re doing. “Not entirely, yet. Maybe… You’re not allowed to do this again. Ever.”
And you’re crying. Of course.
Carlos is at your side in record time, kneeling in front of you, taking immediate advantage of the crack in your defenses. “Never.”
“You can’t do shit like this. You can’t push me aside like I don’t matter. You can’t call me a distraction.”
“You are a distraction. In the best way.”
Unimpressed and wiping your tears, you say, “Wow. You’re such a poet.”
Carlos laughs thickly. “I love you.”
“Ugh, fuck off.”
You’re still wiping at your face. You didn’t cry when Carlos called it quits, refused to let him have any sort of hold over you when he pushed you aside but now, you’re crying. It’s in relief but you still feel your face getting hot from the embarrassment of it.
He knocks your hands aside to cup your cheeks. “You are the love of my life. I will do whatever it takes to fix what I broke.”
“S’not broken. Just bent. Or whatever the saying is. I don’t fucking care—just kiss me.”
Carlos’ “yes, ma’am” is muffled against your lips.
It’s only been three weeks (three and a half but who’s counting) since he last kissed you but it feels like an eternity.
It’s salty from your tears and wet, also from the tears but more from the way you let his tongue into your mouth after probably not enough time has passed. You don’t care. You just want him.
“I love you," you break the kiss to say. "Don't leave me."
"I won't."
"Say it back."
"I love you. I love you I love you I love you."
.
His words jumble between English and Spanish as he kisses down your body.
Your breath catches as he pulls your hips further down the cushion you're sat on. Stupid F1 driver muscles. You want to sink your teeth into his bicep, make him walk around with the bruise, a reminder of who he belongs to.
He slips his fingers into the waistband of your pants, looks up for permission. You lift your hips. You've missed what his big brown eyes look like when they're all dark with want.
He pulls your pants and underwear down and tosses them aside, tugging you even closer to the edge of the couch. Your legs part. He puts your knees on his shoulders then finally pushes his face between your thighs.
You let your head fall back as you sigh, probably sounding ridiculous but he's always been good at this.
He had you ride his face one time. He practically had to beg to get you to agree. There was a lot of him gripping onto you, arms wrapped around your thighs and hips to force you to stay in place. He'd kept you there until you couldn't stay upright or fight against his hold, coaxing multiple orgasms out of you with just his mouth.
Then, he'd fucked you until you came for a fifth time. (You tell a guy one time about how your last partner hadn't the patience to get more than one orgasm out of you, and he makes it his life's mission to get three or more every time you go at it. How terrible for you. Ha.)
He eats you out like a man starving, like he has something to prove. To be fair, he does but he's not going to be entirely back in your good graces just because he's helping you get off for the first time in three and a half weeks. This is just extra credit.
One of his hands finds yours. He tangles your fingers and holds your hand as he involves his free fingers in slipping past your entrance. You open up for him with obscene ease, legs falling apart even further.
He fucks you with a single finger slow, slow, slow while his tongue licks languidly at your clit.
"Carlos," you whine his name.
You don't need all the pleasure you already know he's more than capable of giving you. You just need to get off already.
"I will get you there, hermosa," he promises with a kiss to your inner thigh.
"Get there faster; I don't want my idiot brother thinking better of his insane plan and letting us out while you're nose-deep in my cunt."
Carlos huffs a laugh. You can feel the air against where you're wet. It makes you squirm.
Usually, Carlos would tell you to stay still and be patient but seems to think better of it this time. You would probably still do as he says, circumstance regardless, but he doesn't need to know that. He just presses his lips back to your pussy.
He sucks on the hardened little bundle of nerves at the joint of your labia just how he knows will make you go limp and needy. He pushes a second then a third finger into you, the stretch just that much more than you can manage with your own, smaller digits.
You could've gotten it with the neglected dildo that lives somewhere mostly forgotten in your closet. There was something that felt so final about bringing out the toy you haven't needed since that second date. Thankfully, you still don't need it. You should consider just pitching it, at this point.
You push your hand through Carlos' hair, brushing the ridiculously perfect locks off his forehead so you can watch his stupid, beautiful face as he goes down on you.
"You're so pretty like this, baby," you praise.
His dark eyes flicker up to you, exhaling against your exposed cunt and shifting his knees on the floor.
You're sure if he had a hand free, he'd be palming himself over his pants. He gets off on you getting off and praise goes straight to his dick. You've got this fantasy of making him come completely untouched but you might need to do actual research on that before it becomes a reality.
He sticks his tongue down with his fingers, lapping at your hole and spitting your wetness onto your clit just because it's hot. Like the way he's slobbering over you isn't enough to make the glide of his tongue over your clit smooth and delectable.
"Come on, baby. Don't tease. Not now."
Carlos makes this little displeased noise in the back on his throat.
Quickies aren't really in Carlos' sexual vocabulary. He occasionally likes it as rough and fast as the next dick-haver but he's more of a spread you open and make love to you for hours at a time kind of guy.
He took you to a secluded little cabana in Mallorca for a week during summer break specifically so you two could spend days on end doing nothing but loving on each other. Then, he took you to meet his family and you had to pretend like you hadn't spent the majority of the week prior with their golden child's dick or fingers or tongue inside of you.
Currently, you're just wanting to find relief without Lando or some other F1 driver walking in on you first.
"Carlos, baby—please."
Carlos likes when you play nice. When you're so desperate for it that your bossy exterior goes away. You tell yourself that you exploit this because your unending pride doesn't like the alternative that you really just are that desperate for it.
He finally starts to finger bang you properly. Combine that with the obscene slurping sounds he's making against your clit and the lack of action for nearly a month and no one could really blame you for not taking long to hit your high.
Heat curls and explodes in your gut and up your spine, back arching, lungs gasping, Carlos' name falling from your mouth as your thighs try to close around his head. He gets his elbows up to hold your legs open. His fingers keep fucking you through your orgasm. He pulls his other hand free of your grip to massage your clit with his thumb, kissing your thighs, pubes, stomach.
He captures your lips in a kiss while you're still riding it out. It's intense and leg-shaking after so long without, emotion-driven, which is the best kind but not worth it after knowing what the fear of losing him is like. You can hardly kiss him back, face pulled in pleausre, moans spilling past your lips that Carlos swallows unburdened.
You tuck your face into his shoulder as he drags it out just to the precipice of overstimulation. You tug him into you, arms around his shoulders, fingers tugging the hair at the base of his skull. He lets his fingers rest inside of you, rests that thumb against your clit so he can hold you back with one arm, at least.
You just breathe for a moment, composing yourself where he can't see your face. The worst may be over but the level of trust you'd built over months together would not be so easily reinstated. He'd have to work hard for that, much harder than a sinlge mind-blowing orgasm.
"Don't leave me," you say in a whisper. "You can't, okay?"
"I won't."
"Promise."
"I promise I will not leave you again. I am the most dumb man if I lose you another time. I will deserve it, then."
"Be smart, then. Like I know you have the capacity to be."
Carlos pulls his fingers out. He catches your shiver, still wrapped up in his one arm. He kisses your cheek before finding something to clean his hands with. You've pulled your pants back on when he's finished.
"Likelihood someone heard us?" you prompt.
"Heard you, you mean?"
You kick at him as he comes back over to you. "Watch it."
He tucks you against his side once he's sat. "Scale?"
"One to a hundred."
"90, at least."
You smack his chest. "Dick."
"You are very loud, mi amor. You talk so much, and you make such pretty noises."
"Don't insult me immediately after I've forgiven you."
You've not drawn away from him at all. In fact, you've tucked your feet up on the couch to curl into him fully.
Carlos knows this. He presses a kiss to your temple.
"I love you. I am sorry I am so stupid."
"I guess I've just got to have enough brains and beauty for the both of us."
"You have always."
You hide your smile in his chest. He holds your thigh when you put your legs across his lap. Now you've got him back, you want to be as close as physically possible. Whoever first said they want to be inside their partner's skin really gets it.
.
George Russell ends up getting sent to let you two out. Evidently, your brother fled the scene of the crime once the yacht returned to port in the early hours of the morning. He dumped the chore of opening Pandora's box on an innocnet bystander.
"I am so sorry—"
"Oh, clever," you say when you spot the poor Brit, "He sends an uninvolved party to let me out like I couldn't track him anywhere in the world. I've his trainer's phone number and Jon likes me more than him. I am going to beat his skinny little muppet ass. When I find him—"
You trip over the tangle of chairs that had been used to barricade the bedroom door from the outside.
Carlos catches your elbow.
"Amor, it is late," he says. "Sleep, first, hm?"
You relax into his hold a bit, a silent concession. It'll be easier to murder your little brother after a good night's sleep, anyway.
"So, are you two...?" George trails off.
You cut him a glare.
"Nothing. Never mind. Apologies."
He speeds around the two of you and off the boat.
"The 2019 rookies are all terrified of you."
"Good."
Carlos laughs. "I am excited to see what Alex is like with you next year."
You smile.
Next year, you'll still be working with Carlos. It'll be at a different team, a midfielder at best but at least Carlos will still be on the grid. He'll still find increasingly laughable excuses to be in engineering just to see you. He'll still come home to you, the same that you'll come home to him.
A future with Carlos is still in the cards. He'll be damned if he messes it up again, you know that much.