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xxbimbobunnyxx · 6 months

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All You Have To Do Is Ask

(Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader x Eddie Munson)

Summary: Ever since your boyfriend Steve found out that you lost your virginity to your friend Eddie he can’t stop thinking about the two of you together, the fantasies of you and Eddie tangled together running through his mind on repeat. It starts off with just the two of you but when the fantasies start to evolve and Eddie is touching him too, he doesn’t know how much longer he can take it. WK:9k (idk how that happened)

Warnings: Modern AU, Everyone’s in their mid 20s, Kinda fuck boy Eddie in the beginning, Steve is having major bipanic, Dom!Eddie, kinda Sub!Steve, Sub!Reader, handjobs, oral (both m & f receiving), facial (Steve cums on readers face), cum eating, unprotected sex, threesome, choking, hair pulling, pining all around, kinda angst because Eddie loves reader and thinks it’s one sided, but it happy endings from me always! I think that’s it? If I missed any please lmk! 18+MNDI

A/N: Okay this one took me forever because I kept changing my mind about how I wanted it and I’m still not obsessed with how it turned out but thank you to my lovely betas @bimbobaggins69 @lilthbunny & @reidsbtch for hyping me up, I probably would’ve scraped this entire idea if it wasn’t for you guys.🖤

It was a hot summer day and Eddie was over at you and Steve’s apartment complex to take advantage of the pool and if he didn’t know any better he would think you were trying to torture him. You were laying on your side on one of the lounge chairs in this little black bikini and no matter how hard he tried to focus on anything else his eyes kept wandering back to the way your tits were squeezed into the top and the way bottoms fit your ass perfectly.

Then there was fucking Eddie, sitting on the chair across from you dramatically telling a story with his hands. He was shirtless and he had pulled his shaggy locks into a low bun. Droplets from it still being wet dripped down his chest and Steve found himself wanting to lick it off, chlorine be damned.

The way the water and sweat made his skin glisten made Steve think about him being sweaty in other situations.

Like you on your hands and knees while Eddie railed you from behind. Eddie between your legs eating your pussy like a man starved. Or you with your mouth stuffed full of Eddie’s cock, drool dripping down your chin from gagging. The scenes have been playing out in his head like a movie he couldn’t seem to stop watching. He was starting to feel like he was losing his mind.

It all started a few weeks ago when Nancy, Robin, and Jonathan came over to you and Steve’s. You were all sitting in the living room having a few drinks and passing around a blunt Eddie brought when the topic of how everyone lost their virginity came up.

Obviously when it came to Nancy’s story, she didn’t go into detail but her bringing it up in any capacity was enough to make Steve feel a little awkward. But that feeling didn’t last long, Eddie’s story brought on a whole different set of emotions.

“I lost mine on my sixteenth birthday, I had just got the van and I took this really awesome girl out to lovers lake. I wasn’t even expecting anything, we had been close friends for a while and I didn’t think she thought of me that way. But she straddled me and told me she wanted to give me her virginity for my birthday. I remember being such a fumbly idiot because I was so surprised but she was so sexy and confident about it. Honestly the best possible way I could’ve lost it.” He looked Steve in the eyes and smirked like he knew something he didn't.

“Oh my god Eddie! You make it sound like it was so romantic we bumped heads the first time we tried to kiss and then you spent almost 5 minutes trying to get my bra off because you were determined to do it yourself ‘for practice’” You giggled and smacked him on the arm.

“Wait… you guys?” Steve felt his mouth go dry because you never told him this, granted he hasn’t told you about how he lost his virginity either, but still, it seems like this would’ve come up considering how often Eddie is around now.

“Still wouldn’t change it for the world princess. You’re forgetting the part where we went back to my trailer and I made you scream my name all night long.”

“Oh my fucking god Eddie… shut up.” You laughed as you took the blunt from his hand to take a pull off of it.

Steve felt his cheeks grow hot, but not for the reason he was expecting. Normally he would feel jealous to some extent that the guy his girlfriend lost her virginity to was sitting in the living room of their shared apartment telling the story like it was the best night of his life but something about the way Eddie was talking made him blush.

“To answer your question Steve, yeah we did, and not just that time.” Eddie took a sip of his beer, a bit of it not making it into his mouth causing it to drip down his chin and for a split second Steve thought about licking it off... Wait what the fuck?

“Were you guys like… together?”

“No honey, we were just friends with benefits, we still went on dates with and saw other people. But neither of us found someone good enough to keep around, until I met you.” You smiled sweetly at him, pushing back a piece of his hair that came out of place.

“Best friends with benefits, thank you very much. But for me I don’t think I’ll ever find someone good enough to keep around, I’m good on all that lovey dovey shit. Speaking of, this has been wonderful my dear friends, but alas, this girl I've been talking to sent me a nude and asked me what I was doing over an hour ago. So I must bid you all farewell.” How bowed, exiting in a typical Eddie fashion, leaving Steve feeling more confused than he ever had in his life.

The night went on without it being mentioned again, but it was all Steve could think about, even as he laid in bed trying to fall asleep he couldn’t shake the visions of you and Eddie tangled together.

The fantasies keep evolving beyond Steve’s control, at first it was just you and Eddie in various states of pleasure. The first fantasies were focused on you, the way your eyes roll in the back of your head when you cum, those sweet little whimpers you make when he hits just the right spot, the way your tits bounce when you ride him… which were his regular fantasies but the only difference being Eddie was the one fucking you instead of him. Then they started to shift, his mind started to focus on the way Eddie’s hands would look on your body, the faces and sounds he might make, what his cock would look like slipping in and out of your tight wet pussy. They shifted again when he started imaging himself there with you, watching Eddie make you fall apart underneath him, maybe even joining in, fucking your face while he has a perfect view of Eddie taking you from behind. But they truly took a turn when he started to imagine how Eddie’s lips might feel against his, if his hands would feel rough against his skin from years of guitar playing, what his dick might feel like inside him and not just you.

But he didn’t think that was something that could ever happen. What if he made you uncomfortable by bringing it up? What if you thought he was weird? What if you didn’t love him anymore? On top of all of that, even if you were okay with it, he wasn’t sure if Eddie even likes guys.

“Hey baby, you okay?” Steve was snapped out of his trance by the sound of your voice, looking over at you with a look that he hoped looked semi composed.

“Huh? Yeah honey, I’m good. Just thinking about how much I love you.”

“I love you too, silly boy. You sure you’re okay? You checked out for a second there.” You sit up next to him on the lounge chair so you can put your head on his shoulder and rub little circles on his bicep with the tips of your fingers.

“Hmm? Yeah, I think I’m just starting to get a little hungry or something, I’m fine baby, I promise.” He smiles at you sweetly, placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

“You wanna head inside soon and get something to eat?”

“Yeah I-“

“God damn.” Eddie groans, cutting Steve off while looking at his phone with wide eyes.

“What? Another nude? You’re such a hoe.” You snort, at this point you were used to him bragging about his exploits even if it did give you a weird feeling you forced yourself to ignore.

“Yeah. This guy just sent me a dick pic and it’s fucking nice. Wanna see it Steve?” He looks Steve directly in the eyes and smirks.

Steve’s eyes grow wide and he tries his best to compose himself before speaking.

“Do I wanna-? What? Why would I? Why would I want to see it?” Despite his best efforts his voice cracks slightly and he internally scolds himself.

“I don’t know.” Eddie shrugs. “Just thought you might be interested is all.”

Steve’s head is spinning, why would Eddie ask him that? Did he know? Was he too obvious? Eddie likes guys?

“I didn’t - uh - I didn’t know you liked guys.”

“You didn’t know that? I feel like it’s common knowledge that Eddie likes to fuck dudes Stevie.” You laugh knowingly at your boyfriend’s reaction. You had noticed that he’s been acting sort of strange lately, not distant, just kind of spacey like he has something on his mind. At first you thought maybe he was thinking about breaking up with you but the amount of times he’s been railing you into the mattress lately said otherwise. Everytime you asked him if he was okay he said everything was fine, but you knew your Stevie and you knew something was up. So you started racking your brain, observing his behavior, and you finally came to a conclusion.

You started to notice the way Steve would look at Eddie when he thought no one noticed, the way his eyes lingered on his hands for just a little too long, and most of all how flustered Eddie made him. After thinking back on it you realized his behavior changed the night he found out that you and Eddie used to fuck. Then it all clicked into place, Steve has a crush on Eddie. You’ve considered bringing it up to him on multiple occasions but you didn’t want to push him to talk about it and freak him out so you just waited to see if he would bring it up himself.

But it’s been weeks now and you can tell it’s starting to really weigh on him. It didn’t help that Eddie was constantly giving him shit and not so subtly flirting with him.

“Yeah Steve, I don’t just like guys though, I love them.”

Eddie’s brown orbs are still boring into Steve’s hazel ones and he feels like he might actually pass out.

“Oh. Well, that’s uh - that’s cool man, good for you.”

“It’s really good for me, Steve. Have you ever thought about it, being with a guy?”

You bite your lip, imagining Steve with a guy, but not just any guy…Eddie. Ever since you picked up on Steve’s little crush you can’t stop thinking about them together, all of you together, really. You didn’t think it would ever really happen, but in this moment, something was shifting.

“Stevie, will you go upstairs and start the sandwiches? Me and Eds will gather up the stuff and meet you up there.” You cupped his face, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“Yeah uh - I’ll go do that.” Steve sighed, relieved that you gave him a way out of this conversation, he stood up and placed a kiss on your head before trying to walk off as casually as he could with the slight boner he was starting to sport.

“Edward Munson, what in the hell was that?” You glare at him, but there’s a glint in your eye and a smirk on your lips that tells him you aren’t really upset at all.

“I was just giving him shit babe, don’t be mad at me.” He looks at you with puppy dog eyes, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

“I’m not mad, if anything, I’m intrigued, and a little turned on.”

“Yeah?” His breath picks up and his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. It’s one thing teasing Steve but you sitting here telling him it turns you on… well that’s a whole different situation that he’s not sure how to handle. Eddie has gained a lot of confidence since he has last been with you, he feels secure in his ability to be in control and make people want him… but you? You make him feel like he’s a nervous teenager again.

“Yeah.” You nod, biting your lip. “I think it turns Steve on too… he just doesn’t know how to admit it.”

“Well that, I do know. Every time I flirt with him even a little he looks like he’s gonna pass out.” Eddie snorts, his eyes searching your face for any signs that you’re uncomfortable or jealous. But all he sees is lust there and it makes him feel like he’s the one that’s gonna pass out.

“I think… what if… You wanna test something out with me?” Your bare foot reaches out to caress his calf, your eyes are filled with fire and your bottom lip is secured between your teeth.

“What - what did you have in mind?” If it’s what he thinks it is… he might actually lose it.

“I think you know Eddie… but if you want me to lay it out plain and simple I want you and Steve to both fuck me… and each other, while I watch.” Your foot continues to rub little circles along his bare calf and he feels himself growing hard at this small amount of contact alone. He missed the feeling of your skin.

“Do you think he would be fine with that? Or even into it? I don’t want to freak him out or make him think I’m trying to steal his girl or something.” He’s tried really fucking hard to not flirt with you or look at you for too long but if he’s given the go ahead he’s not sure he will be able to hold back.

He doesn’t want to upset Steve, he likes him and not just because he thinks it’s adorable how flustered he gets when he teases him or the way he wants to take a bite out of his peachy little ass but he’s come to really like him as a person and a friend too. But Eddie loves you, he always has, he’s always regretted letting you go, trying his best to fill the void and bury those feelings in person after person. It never worked, he would feel good for a bit but as soon as it was over and sometimes even during his mind would always drift to you.

“He won’t think that… plus it’s not stealing if you share… C’mon Eddie bear… you knowwww you want to.” You giggle as you stand up, turning around to grab your towel off the chair giving Eddie a perfect view of you in your swimsuit from behind. The bottoms sat high on your ass and the way they tightened against you when you bent over made it so he could see the outline of your pussy and he groaned.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me, I swear.”

You tilt your head over your shoulder to smirk at him, leaning down to grab your bag before walking toward the pool gate.

“You coming?”

“Wait!” He quickly grabbed his towel and ran after you. “You asked me if I wanted to try something, what are we trying exactly?”

“When it happens, you’ll know. Just follow my lead.” You winked at him as you pulled the gate open, leading the way back to your apartment, making sure to swing your hips just a little extra as he trailed behind you.

Once you got inside you decided to take a quick shower to get the sweat and chlorine off of you. It took everything in your power not to let your hand travel between your legs as the warm water cascaded down your body. Your mind ran wild with the thoughts of the two boys just a wall away from you.

You exited the shower feeling pent up, so you decided it was time to put your plan in motion. You dried off before generously applying your favorite lotion all over your body, you take your hair out of the bun you threw it into to keep it dry and fluff it a bit in the mirror happy enough with how it looks since you’re hoping to get it pulled later anyways. You wrap your towel around yourself and walk across the hall into your bedroom without turning your back, but you feel eyes on you. You click the door shut gently, walking over to your dresser to find something sexy but still comfortable.

You decided on your tiniest black spandex shorts with no underwear and a little pink tank top that was thin enough to see the outline of your nipples without a bra. You topped it off with fuzzy black thigh highs and smirked at yourself in the full length mirror. Steve loved it when you wore this outfit.

You take a deep breath, hyping yourself up before exiting the room. When you step into the living area Steve and Eddie are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, both on their phones with three plates sitting in front of them on the coffee table. Eddie had changed back into his jeans but his shirt was off and Steve was still in just his bright red slightly shorter than normal swim trunks. You bite your lip as you walk around the couch and scoot past Eddie, your ass practically swallowing those little shorts stopping in front of his face for just a moment longer than necessary.

“Hi boys, you didn’t have to wait for me to eat.” You say as you plop down between them, your thighs and tits bouncing deliciously in the corner of each of their eyes.

“You know I like to eat with you baby.” Steve leans into you, placing his large hand on the sliver of skin between your sock and your thigh.

“You guys are kind of disgusting, cute, but disgusting.” Eddie says as he picks up his sandwich, taking a large bite.

“Awww don’t be jealous Eddie bear, I’m sure Steve would grab your thigh too, if you ask nicely.”

Eddie inhales a piece of his sandwich, coughing as it hits the back of his throat, he grabs his water off the table and eagerly takes a drink.

“Wha-? Why would I? What?”

“Why would you do that? Because I know you want to…” You place your hand over his, pushing it slightly higher on your thigh as you clench them together.

“I don’t - I mean -“ Steve runs his fingers through his hair, sighing. “Why are you being so casual about this?”

“About what honey?” You ask innocently.

“You know what… How did you know? Are you mad? I’m sorry. It’s okay if you don’t-“

“Steve! Calm down. I know you like Eddie because you aren’t as sneaky as you think you are. I caught on about a week ago that you’ve been acting strange ever since you found out Eddie and I slept together. Also no I’m not mad, I already told Eddie it turns me on.” You bring your leg up to rest over his thighs, giving him a perfect view of your pussy in those tight little shorts. If they weren’t black he would be able to see how wet you are.

“You told him? You guys… talked about me?” There was a panicked look in his eyes that you wanted to soothe immediately.

“Yeah we did pretty boy, we talked about how cute you are when you get all flustered… and if you want to put your hand on my thigh, be my guest.” Eddie smirked, patting his large ringed hand against his jean clad thigh. “As long as it’s okay with your lady, that is.”

“Mmm that’s okay with me, as long as I get to touch you too…” Eddie took note of the fact that you just said touch in the general sense this time, nothing about his thigh.

“Yeah - uh - as long as that’s okay with Steve too…” The thought of not just Steve but you touching him was making him squirm.

“Yeah I - um… I think I’d be okay with that, yeah.” Steve sighed, and his grip on your thigh tightened.

“Yeah?” You looked him in the eyes, searching for any signs of doubt but you didn’t find any. Definitely some nervousness, but above all you saw a hunger in him that you’ve never seen before.

“Yeah.” He said more confidently this time.

“Cool.” You smirked as you turned your head towards Eddie, your eyes not leaving his as you brought your hand to rest as high on his thigh as it could be without fully palming his cock. “Eddie.”

“Huh?”

“Kiss me.”

He feels like he’s been waiting years to hear you say those words again, because he has and he doesn’t wait another second to take your face in his hands and crash his lips against yours. Your hand leaves his thigh and snakes into his hair like it has many times before, you pull slightly causing him to moan into the kiss. You feel his tongue swipe across your bottom lip but instead of granting him access you pull away, leaving him to subconsciously chase after your touch.

“Now kiss Steve.” You wrap your hand around the back of his neck and give him this look that makes him feel like he would do anything you asked in that moment, maybe even whenever you wanted. He’s never felt like that about anyone besides you.

You turn your head towards Steve, bringing your other hand to the back of your boyfriend’s neck.

“Would you like that baby? You want Eddie to kiss you, just like you’ve been dreaming about?”

“Uh huh - yeah.” Steve nods dumbly, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that this was really happening right now.

Eddie doesn’t need to be told twice, he reaches across you to grab Steve’s face and pull his lips into kiss. Steve moans, the kiss feels like letting go of a deep breath he’s been holding for weeks and he wants more more more. His hands come up to Eddie’s shoulders to pull him closer and they’re practically squishing you but as you watch Eddie’s tongue dart into Steve’s mouth you can’t find it in yourself to care.

Your hand snakes between your legs and you start to slowly grind against your palm, watching as Eddie practically devours your boyfriend. Steve is letting out these little whimpers you’ve never heard before and Eddie’s groans are something you don’t even realize you missed. A breathy moan escapes your lips and it causes the boys to break from their kiss, their eyes turning to look at you.

They both groan in unison at the sight of you, your tiny shorts hugging your body just right as you grind against your palm, your tits practically spilling out of that little top, breathy gasps leaving your mouth as your chest rapidly rises up and down.

“Awww it looks like someone’s feeling a little needy? You always were such a needy little slut.” Eddie's hand comes up to your jaw and cups your chin causing you to moan at the same time that Steve’s gaps, his eyes going wide in surprise.

“What? Do you guys not play like that? Does Stevie not know how naughty his little sweetheart really is?”

Steve is speechless, trying and failing to find words, he’s never been this hard in his life.

“Tell him princess, tell him how much of a little cock slut you are.” Eddie’s grip on your chin tightens slightly, causing your lips to pout, using his hand to tilt your head so you’re looking at your very flustered boyfriend.

“I’m a little - fuck - a little cock slut.” No one but Eddie has ever made you feel this way. Steve was rough with you sometimes but he was more of an attentive lover. You never trusted any of your other partners enough to give them this kind of power over you but Eddie immediately had you slipping into that space with him like you never left. His hand leaves your chin only to wrap loosely around your neck and pull you close to his chest.

“You don’t play rough with her pretty boy? She’s really fun like this.”

“I mean I do… just not… like that.” Steve’s eyes are all over the place, Eddie’s hand on your throat, the way his arm is pressed between your tits, Eddie’s bare chest. It was like his fantasy come to life but better.

“You gonna be a good girl for us, huh princess?” Eddie's grip on your throat tightens and it causes your eyes to roll back.

“Mhm.” You nod the best you can against his grip, your head starting to go fuzzy in the best way. Eddie’s hand leaves your throat to leave a harsh slap on your thigh that causes you to yelp.

“Use your words, or have you forgotten everything I taught you?” Eddie’s voice is a growl in your ear but his eyes are still boring directly into Steve’s.

“Yeah, yes, I’ll be a good girl.”

“You hear that Stevie? She’s gonna be a good girl for us, gonna let us play with her just how she likes. I think you’re going to be learning some things about not just yourself but your girl too tonight. You want that, want me to teach you?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Steve’s hand comes down to palm his cock that feels like it’s about to bust out of his shorts.

“Alright. Get on your knees baby, now.”

Eddie releases his grip on your neck, his hands leaving you completely as he backs up to give you space to get up. You slide off the couch and onto your knees, deciding to tease them a little you crawl a few feet forward. Your tiny shirts are gripping your ass, the socks are hugging your thighs just right causing two different groans to sound behind you. You turn around to face them, tucking your legs under you as you sit on your knees with your hands folded in your lap, putting on your best “good girl” face.

You look between the two men, both of their eyes eating up every inch of you. Steve looks like he’s about to combust, his cheeks are flushed and his dick is so hard it looks like it’s about to rip his shorts open at the seams. Eddie’s more calm with a cocky look on his face but the slight dusting of red on his cheeks and the way his pants weren’t looking like they were holding on much better than Steve’s gave you a tiny glimpse of that fumbling teenage boy that you fell for that night in the van.

They were still sitting on opposite ends of the couch and you wanted them closer. You weren’t exactly sure if you wanted them closer to each other or you, but preferably both.

“Okay princess, want me to show your pretty boyfriend how you like to be played with?” Eddie leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, his chin coming to rest on top of his folded hands. You wanted to bite his bare shoulders and suck his fingers into your mouth. He was so fucking hot.

“Yes, please sir.” You clench your thighs together and a whimper involuntarily leaves your mouth.

“I will baby, I’ll show him just how you like it. But first I’m gonna teach Steve how to play with me.” Eddie scoots across the couch quickly closing the distance between him and your boyfriend. His hand came to rest on Steve’s bare upper thigh. “You want that, pretty boy?”

“Yeah - yes.” Steve’s chest is rising up and down rapidly as his breath picks up, his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows and his dick twitches in his shorts. You could almost cum just looking at him. You watch as Eddie’s other hand comes up to tangle his fingers into Steve’s hair. He pulls Steve close to him, smashing his lips against his in a way that could only be described as hungry, starving even. Steve’s arms wrap around Eddie’s neck, pulling him closer, you see their tongues dart into each other's mouths and god this was hotter than you ever imagined.

Eddie’s hand inches up to palm Steve’s cock and you hear him moan into the kiss. Eddie palms him for a few seconds before grabbing him through the fabric causing Steve to break the kiss and throw his head back. This was one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen, and even though you know from your time playing with Eddie that you weren’t supposed to touch yourself without permission, you just couldn’t help yourself.

You slide your hand into your shorts, running your fingers through your wetness before bringing them up to rub circles around your clit. Eddie shoves his hand down Steve’s shorts almost in tandem with you and it only eggs you on more. You tried to hold your moans in as best you as you could, they were so lost in each other they hadn’t even noticed what you were up to.

Eddie has Steve’s shorts pulled down enough for his cock to be on display, fully jerking him off now and the sight causes you to slip up, a small whimper escaping you.

Eddie’s eyes snap toward you and as soon as he catches sight of your hand down your shorts he fucking smirks.

“Aww is somebody getting a little worked up over there? Feeling a little left out?” He mocks pouts at you.

“I mean left out wouldn’t be the right word, I’m kind of enjoying the show if I’m being honest.” You hadn’t stopped rubbing your clit, and Eddie was still jerking Steve off like it was his job. Steve was just focusing on not cumming, between the dynamic that you and Eddie were displaying, your hands down your pants, and the speed Eddie was jerking him off he felt himself getting closer and closer to the edge.

“Why don’t we give you a front row seat then?” Eddie stands to his feet, leaving an edged Steve sitting on the couch trying to catch his breath. Eddie walks over so he’s standing above you, looking down at you like prey. “Steve, get over here.”

Your eyes dart over to Steve as he walks towards you looking bashful, kicking his shorts off on the way.

“Hey baby.” You smile up at him sweetly, running your hand up his thigh, your other still rubbing tight circles over your clit.

“Hi honey.” He reaches his hand down to cup your face and runs his thumb across the apple of your cheek. “You look so pretty down there… you know I love it when you wear this.” His hand runs down your neck to your shoulder where he tugs lightly on the thin strap of your top.

You clench your hand between your thighs, rocking against it as you make direct eye contact with your boyfriend. You feel a hand in your hair jerking you the opposite direction causing your eyes to snap over to the other man in the room.

“Aren’t you guys sweet? I thought we were playing rough tonight? Also were you given permission to touch yourself?” Your hair is wrapped around his fist and he shakes your head from side to side in a taunting manner. You want him to fucking destroy you.

“No - no sir, I’m sorry.” Your hands movements pause but you don’t remove it from your shorts.

“Fuck.” Steve curses under his breath, you calling Eddie sir was doing things to him he never thought it would. He thinks he might want you to call him that one day.

“I guess you’ll just have to get yourself off while I play with Steve then? Since you wanna touch yourself so bad. You remember the traffic system?”

“Yes. Green is good. Yellow is slow down. Red is stop.” You nod your head the best you can against his grip.

“Good girl. Take your clothes off.” He releases you from his hold and turns to Steve as you hastily remove your clothes, leaving the socks on because you know it drives your boyfriend crazy. “You gonna be good for me too Stevie?” His hand reaches out to run down Steve’s broad chest, stopping just before his cock. Eddie runs the tips of his fingers across Steve’s abdomen and it makes him shiver.

“Yeah, I - uh - I’ll be good…” Steve’s face turns bright red and his breath starts to speed up again. Eddie turns to you with a fire in his eyes, spitting on his hand and bringing it to Steve’s cock, pumping him slowly.

“Okay. So here’s what’s going to happen… me and your pretty boyfriend are gonna get each other off and you don’t get to touch anyone but yourself, and then he’s going to cum on that pretty little face of yours. If you’re good, maybe I’ll give you a treat after.”

He reaches for the button on his pants, unzipping them and pulling them off in one swift motion, his cock springing out directly in your face. It makes you salivate, it’s even prettier than you remember. You want to lean forward and wrap your lips around him, you want them to both shove their cocks in your mouth as far as they will fit. But you also really fucking want them to touch you so you spread your legs further and bring your fingers back to your folds, rubbing your wetness around.

Neither of them seem to notice as Eddie takes Steve’s hand in his free one, spitting on it and bringing it to his cock. Steve lets out a groan, his hips thrusting into Eddie’s hand.

“Traffic system goes for you too, pretty boy.”

Steve nods and Eddie reaches his hand out to grab Steve’s throat, pulling him in to attach their lips. You watch as beads of precum start to drip from both of their tips, their hands jerking each other off in tandem. You reach down to insert two fingers inside yourself, your other hand joining it, continuing to rub circles against your clit.

Their moans and the way they’re grabbing each other is driving you crazy, and as much as you wish their hands were on you too the sight already had you close to the edge.

“Fucking shit, you guys are so hot.” Your moans increase in volume, your fingers speeding up as you rock against them.

Eddie breaks the kiss to look down at you, that damn smirk spreading across his lips.

“Did I say you could talk, slut?” He grips your cheeks, squishing your lips together and you whimper out a no.

“Looks like we’ll just have to shut you up then.”

He lets go of your face and brings his fingers up to Steve’s lips.

“Suck.” Steve eagerly wraps his lips around the digits, sucking greedily.

Eddie looks at him and sticks his tongue out expectantly. It takes Steve a second to catch on, the feeling of Eddie’s thick fingers in his mouth combined with how fast he was jerking his cock clouding his mind. Once he did he brought his own fingers up to Eddie’s mouth, moaning around the curly haired man’s fingers at the feeling of his tongue.

Eddie pulls his fingers from Steve’s mouth, rubbing his slick fingers against your lips. You’re quicker than Steve, taking the hint and immediately sucking his fingers into your mouth. He pulls his head back so Steve’s fingers slip out of his own mouth and your boyfriend is quicker this time, his fingers joining Eddie’s as you take all four digits into your mouth.

The feeling of your mouth being so full, the way they had started kissing loudly again above you, their hips thrusting into echoing others fists, and your own fingers pushed you over the edge. You cum hard, moaning and drooling around their fingers. You lock eyes with Steve as your orgasm crashes over you, your hips rocking against your own fingers as you moan around theirs.

“Good fucking girl, cumming for us like that. Isn’t she a good girl, Steve?” Eddie’s voice comes out a breathy groan, Steve’s hand still wrapped tightly around his cock.

“Yeah - she’s so - fuck, she’s so fucking good.” Looking at your boyfriend you can tell by the way the speed of his hips has picked up as he thrusts into the other man’s hand and the moans leaving his lips that he’s close.

You pull your fingers out of your pussy but continue to run small circles over your clit, feeling sensitive after you just came. You moan around their fingers, drool dripping down your chin and onto your chest. You wrap your lips tighter around them and roll your tongue along the bottoms of the digits causing Steve to let out a loud groan.

“You gonna cum for us baby boy? Come on, cum all over her pretty little face.” Eddie pulls his fingers out of your mouth to grip your jaw and it causes Steve’s to fall from your lips as well. His grip is strong, holding you in place while he continues to send your boyfriend closer and closer to the edge. “Stick your tongue out.”

Steve is a mess, Eddie’s hand is slick with spit and precum against his cock, you’re staring up at him with your tongue sticking out, your eyes are glazed over and Eddie’s hand looks just how he imagined it would on you, you still have drool coating your lips and chin and Steve can’t take it anymore. He cums hard, his cum coats your tongue, dripping down your chin and onto your chest.

“Holy fucking shit.” Steve groans when Eddie’s hand releases his over sensitive cock, his hands coming up to run through his silky locks. Your tongue is still out, more cum starting to slide down onto your chest. Eddie looks at you entranced for a moment before getting down on his knees in front of you, leaning down to run his tongue between your tits, stopping to lick across your chin before sucking your tongue into his mouth, intertwining it with his.

He greedily takes Steve’s cum into his mouth, moaning into the kiss.

“Mmm I just had to find out what pretty boy tastes like.”

Eddie pulls away from you, your face is in his big hands and the look in his eyes is that same one from earlier that almost takes you back to your first time with him. He was looking at you with adoration. Even though he just ate your boyfriend’s cum from your mouth, this somehow felt more intimate.

“You gonna let me fuck you now baby? While Steve watches? Just like all his little fantasies.”

“Yeah, please, please fuck me Eddie.” Your voice came out a whine and you didn’t even have it in yourself to be embarrassed about it, you weren’t above begging at this point.

“Okay, hands and knees, face the couch so Stevie has a good view while I fucking ruin his little princess.”

Steve shuffled towards the couch and took a seat on the middle cousin while you turned towards him on your knees, your back arched and your ass in the air giving Eddie the perfect view of your dripping wet pussy.

“How are you doing baby? Are you good?” You smiled sweetly at your boyfriend, who was still flushed from how hard he came minutes ago, but somehow it looked like he was already getting hard again. Steve had good stamina but this must really be doing it for him.

“Yeah honey, I’m good, great even. You look so fucking sexy. You both do.” You watch Steve’s eyes travel behind you and you can only assume he’s locking eyes with Eddie. What you didn’t see was the flustered look on his face when Steve complimented him for the first time.

You felt large ringed hands grab your ass, spreading it apart, right before you felt Eddie’s tongue dive directly into your pussy. You cry out at the sensation, knowing you would’ve felt forward if it wasn’t for Eddie's strong grip on your ass. His tongue ran circles along your clit before he took it into his mouth, sucking hard. One of his hands leaves your ass and you feel his large fingers circling your entrance before he pushes two deep inside you, immediately curling them just the right way.

“Fuck! Eddie oh my god, that’s so good fuck! That's so good.”

You start rocking back against his fingers as you open your eyes that fell closed to look at Steve, he’s almost fully hard again and he looks fucking feral. His eyes are dark and he’s biting his lip so hard that it looks like he could break the skin. He brings his hand to his cock to run his palm over his shaft, letting out a little groan at the feeling. Eddie continues licking and sucking your clit as his fingers drag against that perfect spot. You were so lost in just how good it felt, the feeling of finally having one of them touching you after waiting for what felt like hours that your orgasm snuck up on you.

“Oh my god - oh my god - I’m cumming I’m cumming fuuuuck.”

Your arms give out causing your face to hit the plush carpet but you’re too lost in pleasure to care. Eddie continues fucking his fingers into you through your high before pulling away. He looks Steve directly in the eyes as he brings his fingers coated in your wetness to his mouth, sucking them clean. You had barely come down from your high when you felt Eddie’s dick run through your folds.

“You taste even better than I remember, do you feel just as good too?” Eddie asked you as he pushed the head of his cock inside you. He pulls it out and pushes it back in a few times before shoving his cock halfway in you in one thrust. “Fuck, you feel even better than I remember.”

You know he is just trying to give you time to adjust but you can’t wait anymore, you need him inside you again. Now. You push back against him, the rest of his cock nestles deep inside you and you moan loudly at the feeling.

“Fuck Eds, you feel so good, please don’t hold back, I want you to ruin me.”

Eddie growls, grabbing onto your hips as he starts fucking into you at a brutal pace. You push back up onto your hands so you can look at Steve and he’s fully hard now, his hand wrapped around his cock as he drinks you and Eddie in. His eyes don’t know where to settle, the look on your face, the way your ass jiggles as Eddie’s hands move to grip onto it, Eddie’s hands. He could see the way his cock was slipping in and out of you and the mixture of the sounds of your skin slapping together and the sounds leaving both of you making him crazy.

“This what you wanted Steve? Just wanted to see me ruin your girl?” Eddie’s hands leave your ass, one snaking around to rub your clit and the other yanking you up by your hair so your back was flush against his chest. This new angle had him hitting deeper, his fingers slipped along your dripping pussy in tandem with his thrusts and you felt yourself already getting close again.

“Yeah this is what I wanted, it’s been better than I imagined, fuuuuck.”

You watch as your boyfriend tilts his head down to spit on his cock, his moans getting breathier. Eddie continued to pound into you, the hand in your hair coming to wrap around your throat and your third orgasm of the night hit you light a freight train.

“God damn this pussy is so fucking tight, feels so good when you clench around me like that baby, shit. Can you be a good girl and do it again for me, huh?” Eddie’s voice is rough in your ear and if he kept it up how he was going you were going to be cumming again very soon.

“Yeah - yeah I’ll be - fuuuuck oh my god! I’ll be good, I'll be such a good girl for you and Stevie wanna be your best girl.”

“Turn around, I wanna watch you when you come undone under me again.”

Eddie pulls his cock out of you and scoots back to give you room to turn around. You lay on your back and look up at him, his hair is all over the place, his eyes blown wide, there’s a sheen of sweat on his broad chest that made his tattoos almost shine. He was beautiful, in that moment you realized how much you missed this, missed him. You couldn’t help but think that you didn’t want this to be a one time thing, you wanted more. You wanted them both all the time and you almost felt greedy for it but before you had too much time to linger on those thoughts Eddie was gripping your thighs and throwing them around his hips. He takes his cock in one hand, pushing it deep into your pussy in one thrust. He resumes fucking you as hard and fast as he was before, causing your eyes to roll back.

Meanwhile Steve was going insane, he has a better view of Eddie’s cock now, it’s coated in your cum and sliding so deliciously in and out of you. But his eyes keep traveling back to Eddie’s face, he would hold eye contact with him each time, the moans Steve had been dying to hear for weeks, he was licking and biting his lips and Steve could not stop thinking about them being wrapped around his cock.

“If you want me to suck your cock pretty boy, all you have to do is ask.” Eddie smirks at Steve, he could see the way his eyes kept lingering on his lips and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want his mouth on him.

“Yeah? You sure it’s me that wants it and not you? You did say you loved guys. Prove it.”

Eddie’s thrusts momentarily falter at the tone of the other man’s voice, Steve seemed so nervous before but the way he was looking at him now made him feel like he was gonna bust.

“Come over here then.” He sticks his tongue out, his thrusts picking up again.

Steve stands to his feet, walking over to stand over Eddie. He grabs his cock in his hand and taps it on the metal head's tongue a few times before pushing it into his mouth with a groan. Eddie starts eagerly bobbing his head up and down on Steve’s cock while he continues to pound into you.

“Fuuuuuckkk, oh my god, yeah that’s fucking - that’s so fucking good.” Steve feels like he’s going to cum again already. You’re looking up at him while profanities leave your lips and Eddie’s big brown eyes are locked on Steve’s face. One of his hands comes up to cup Steve’s balls and he loses it. Grabbing two fistfuls of Eddie’s hair and shoving his cock deep into his throat.

“I’m gonna fuck your mouth, you want that? You seem like you’d be into that.” Eddie nods as best as he can and Steve takes that as the go ahead, thrusting in and out of the other man’s mouth. “You look so good baby, taking Eddie’s dick so good, look at you. Fuck! Yeah that’s so good, fuck, you’re fucking her so good. You guys are so fucking hot.”

“You guys are so hot too fuck. Fuck Eddie you feel so good, just like I remember. I want you to fuck me full, I wanna make you cum.” Eddie’s hand that isn’t on Steve’s balls comes to rub your clit and angle your hips so he’s hitting that perfect stop again. “I’m gonna fucking cum! Shit! Cum with me please please I want you both to cum with me.”

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck” Steve shoves his cock far down Eddie’s throat, causing him to gag and the feeling sends him over the edge, spilling down his throat. Eddie pulls off his cock, turning towards you to grab your jaw.

“Open” You stick your tongue out and he spits Steve’s cum into your mouth, sharing your boyfriend's cum with each other for the second time that night. “Good fucking girl, you’re such a good girl.”

You cum the hardest you have all night, your walls clench around Eddie’s cock and the feeling sends him over the edge. Hot ropes off his cum spilling inside you he fucks you through it until his thrusts falter and he collapses in top of you. After a second rolls off of you onto his back on the ground, the feeling of him slipping out of you makes you feel empty. Steve gets down on the ground next to you, taking your face in his hands and kissing you passionately. You turn towards him, letting your fingers tangle into his hair. You get lost in the kiss for a moment and then you hear Eddie shuffle beside you.

You remove your lips from Steve’s to look over at him and he’s already standing up. Grabbing his pants and pulling them up his legs. You watch as he walks toward the chair that his shirt was laying on, and you push yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him. He pulls his shirt over his head and starts walking towards the door to his shoes.

“Eddie? Where are you going? Are you leaving?” You scramble to your feet, hastily walking over to him.

“Uh - yeah? I don’t wanna linger, I'm sure you guys have shit to do.” He starts pulling his socks on his feet and you rip them from his hands.

“What do you mean linger? You want to leave?” You look at him with your brows knitted together, a pout on your lips and Eddie thinks he would give you just about anything. But you aren’t his, and he can’t stay here and watch you with Steve. Not after that, at least not right now.

“I mean, I figured this was just a one time get it out of your system kinda thing. I don’t usually stick around after hookups.” Eddie shrugged, trying to keep his face nonchalant.

“That’s all this was to you? A hookup? I thought…”

“Was it more than that to you?” His voice came out soft, almost nervous.

“I mean I was hoping we could, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.” You sighed, letting your head drop in frustration. You wanted him to stay.

“We want you to stay. If you want to. It doesn’t have to be a one time thing. I know you both don’t want it to be, and I don’t either. I might not be sneaky but you aren’t either, I see the way you look at each other.” Steve comes up behind you, his hands running up and down your arms, reassuring you with his touch.

“I - what do you even mean? You want me to be like your boy toy or something? I don’t know if I’m up for that.”

Eddie shakes his head, he can’t handle being someone you just fooled around with sometimes. He tried to shove the feelings down for so long but today just proved to him that he couldn’t just pretend he didn’t love you anymore. He also really likes Steve, he could see himself loving him one day and that terrifies him.

“No, I was thinking more like… boyfriend.” Steve wraps his arms around your shoulders pulling your still naked body against his. “That’s what you want, isn’t it baby? You want Eddie around all the time?”

“Yeah but-“

“No buts, I’m not jealous or upset, I know you love me. I want him too, I wouldn’t say anything if I wasn’t okay with it, if I didn’t want it.” He runs his nose along the side of your throat before bringing his lips up to place a gentle kiss on your cheek.

“I - uh - yeah, okay. Only if Eddie wants though.. I know he doesn’t do relationships and this is a really weird situation and-“

“Hey. Baby.” Eddie walks up to you now, taking your face in his hands. “You wanna know why I don’t do relationships? You. It’s always been you. Yeah this is a weird situation but if I get to have you? And I get to have a boyfriend with a cute little ass too? Doesn't sound too bad to me…”

“Yeah?” You look at him with a twinkle in your eye, like he hung the stars just for you, he missed you looking at him like that. He wouldn’t mind getting used to it. “How would that even work?”

“Don’t worry about that right now honey, we will figure it out together, okay? For now I think we should all get cleaned up. Take a nice shower, we can DoorDash some food and find a movie on Netflix.” Steve’s voice is soft and sweet, they are both touching you like you might break and their words make you want to cry tears of joy.

“Can I suck you guys off in the shower? When you had your fingers in my mouth I had this thought…”

“You are insatiable, there will be plenty of time for that. For now, let’s just be together. Yeah?” Eddie chuckles, squishing your cheeks playfully before placing a gentle kiss on your lips.

“So, you’ll stay?” You bring your hands to rest over his, nuzzling your face into his palms.

“I’ll stay as long as you want me too baby.”

“Even if it’s forever?” Steve’s voice comes from behind you and it warms your heart and soul.

“Even then.” Eddie smiles at him, pulling him in for a kiss.

You spend the rest of the night just being together, laughing and kissing, making plans and promises. It felt like the beginning of something beautiful, the beginning of forever, with your boys.

Taggies: @onegirlmanytales @taintedcigs @jamdoughnutmagician @laylaloves-ed 🖤🖤

#eddie munson x reader #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #Steve Harrington x fem!reader #Steve Harrington smut #steddie x reader #steddie #steddie x fem!reader #Steve x reader smut

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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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