carlonsos

[carlonsos]

I'd love to meet f1 moots 🫶🏻 pls hmu yall <3

[carlonsos]

MASTERLIST

Carlos Sainz Jr.

Lights off, Hands On. — one-shot. smut, angst.

Fernando Alonso

[carlonsos]

Lights Off, Hands On.

Pairings: Carlos Sainz Jr x female!reader

Synopsis: in which the reader and Carlos were once the heartthrob of the paddock, have broken up a few months back. Tonight, you wanted a time to lose yourself. Put a distance to reality. And to put distance to reality, you did.

CW: +18, smut, mature themes, hate-sex, breeding, can't get enough of one another.

The bass thrums beneath your skin, the pulse of the club syncing with your heartbeat as you tilt your head back, swallowing the last sip of your drink. It burns, but not as much as the sight of Carlos across the room.

You don’t expect to see him here. Not in this city, not tonight, not with her.

She’s tucked against his side, a brunette in red, her laughter bright even in the dim haze of the neon-lit lounge. His hand rests at her waist—low, easy, familiar. You shouldn’t be looking. You should turn away.

But Carlos sees you first.

His smile fades. His fingers twitch against her dress. And for a split second, it’s just you and him, standing on the edge of something neither of you ever learned how to escape.

You move before you think, weaving through bodies, ignoring the clawing ache in your chest. There’s no plan, no hesitation, just the need to get close enough to remind yourself why you left in the first place.

Carlos shifts, murmuring something to her. She doesn’t notice his distraction, but you do. You see the way his fingers twitch at his sides, the way his chest rises and falls just a little too sharply, the way his jaw clenches like he’s trying to bite back a reaction he has no right to feel anymore.

It’s not fair.

You spent months learning how to live without him, how to move through the world without looking for him in every crowd, without aching every time you heard his name. See it on TV every race weekend. Where you see images of him in the paddock, where you once linked arms and walked through it with ease.

And yet—

One glance, and it all unravels.

You don’t think. You move. Your feet carry you to the bar, to the one place you know he’ll follow.

And he does.

By the time you reach the bar, he’s already there.

He stops just behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him, too close for people who are supposed to be strangers now.

You don’t turn around.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is low, rough.

You look ahead, lifting your drink to your lips. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Carlos exhales sharply. “Don’t play games with me.”

You swallow down your drink, gaze dropping as you set your glass down with a soft clink. “I thought that’s all we ever did.” A hint of bitterness.

His silence is heavy, weighted with things neither of you have the courage to say.

Then—softly, bitterly—he murmurs, almost a hiss, “I hate seeing you.”

You blinked ahead, ignoring the sting in your throat. “I hate seeing you, too.”

It’s a lie. You both know it.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the bar as you finally slowly turn to face him. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but there’s something in them that makes it hard to breathe.

“You’re happy,” you say, forcing the words out, testing them, seeing if they break you the way you think they might.

Carlos doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tenses. His gaze flickers—down to your lips, to your throat, to your hands gripping the bar like you need it to keep you upright.

Then he shakes his head, his Spanish accent thick. “Am I?”

Your chest tightens. “She seems nice.”

“She is.”

You nod, ignoring the nausea curling in your stomach. “Good.”

Carlos exhales, running a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into every movement. “Why are we doing this?”

You tilt your head, smiling in a way that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Doing what?”

“Lying to each other.” His voice is hoarse.

“Pretending like this doesn’t hurt."

The words knock the air from your lungs.

You want to tell him it doesn’t. That you’re fine. That you don’t still wake up expecting to feel his warmth beside you, that you don’t still hear his voice in the quiet spaces of your day.

But what’s the point in lying when he already knows the truth?

Your silence says enough.

Carlos sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Come with me.”

You blink. “What?"

He steps closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just—five minutes. That’s all I need.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You should say no. You should walk away.

But you never could tell him no.

So you let him take your wrist, let him pull you into the dark hallway behind the bar, let him press you against the wall like he’s seconds away from falling apart.

Then, he kisses you.

And it’s devastating.

It’s months of longing, of regret, of wanting something you both know you shouldn’t have. His lips are desperate, his hands frantic, like he’s trying to commit you to memory before the moment is gone.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, pouring every unsaid word into the way your mouths move together.

It’s fire and ruin. It’s love and destruction. It's harrowing but so fucking good.

It’s everything you swore you’d never let happen again.

His forehead drops to yours, the two of you gasping for air, as though meeting each other's lips again is your oxygen. “Tell me you don’t still feel it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Carlos…”

“Tell me.”

You exhale shakily. “I can’t.”

A sharp breath. His hands tighten on your waist, like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through his fingers.

“Neither can I,” he whispers.

And then, he's kissing you again. Like starved man, you meeting that intensity, arching your hip to hip. Fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just to hear that familiar groan rumble in his chest. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, pressing you closer, as if he’s trying to erase the time apart.

But time hasn’t changed anything.

Not the way he fits against you. Not the way your body responds to his touch. Not the way your heart still stumbles in his presence.

It’s dangerous. Addictive. A losing game you both should’ve quit a long time ago.

And yet—

“Tell me to stop.” His breath is hot against your skin, his voice rough, strained.

You could. You should.

But instead, you whisper, “I don’t want you to.”

And so he doesn’t.

He slots his thigh between yours. Your core instantly chasing that heat at his thigh. A moan escapes you to which he happily drinks with lust.

The cold air outside bites at your skin, but the heat between you and Carlos is unbearable. His hands are everywhere—gripping, pulling, claiming. The moment you press against the wall, the world around you vanishes. There is no club, no noise, no one else but him, his body, his lips, the way he moves like he’s trying to erase the space between you.

You gasp into him, and it only fuels his urgency. His hands are under your jacket, fingertips grazing the bare skin of your waist, sending a shiver of electricity through your body. You can feel the heat radiating from him, feel his chest rise and fall against yours, his breath uneven and ragged.

Your hands roam—fingers threading into his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss, urging him closer as your bodies align, fitting together in a way that feels too familiar, too right.

Carlos growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips, and you feel his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, warm and insistent. The moment his fingertips brush the soft skin of your stomach, a jolt of need shoots through you, and you press yourself harder against him, as if the friction might be the only thing that keeps you both tethered to reality.

His hands move with purpose—sliding down your body, over your hips, gripping you like he’s never going to let go. He pushes his body into yours, the hard press of him sending a wave of heat crashing through you.

The feeling of him—of him—is intoxicating. You’ve forgotten how well he fits against you, how perfectly his body matches yours. His chest presses against yours, the beat of his heart wild, and you can feel the tension building between you like a slow-burning fuse.

His hands slip lower, teasing the waistband of your jeans, his fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach, and it makes you ache. You want him, you need him. No more games, no more pretending this is just a fleeting moment.

His hand slides under your shirt, warm fingers splayed across your back, before slowly making its way up, pushing the fabric higher. You let him. There’s no stopping him now, no stopping either of you.

His thumb grazes the side of your breast, a touch so light it almost makes you ache with need. Eliciting goosebumps across your skin. You arch into him, unable to stop yourself, and he groans, deep and low. “You’re fucking killing me.”

You couldn't help but moan against him, cursing out against his lips to which he responds with his own curse in his mother tongue. "Joder."

You pull at the fabric of his shirt, trying to get it off, and he helps, lifting his arms just enough for you to tug it over his head.

The moment his bare chest presses against yours, a shudder runs through you. He’s solid, warm, real. And you want every inch of him.

Carlos groans, his hands trembling slightly as they slide up your sides, pushing your shirt higher, revealing your bare skin. His eyes darken as he takes you in, every inch of you like he’s afraid you might slip away.

There was no going back. Reality was thrown out the window. A single meeting of heated gazes and the two of you were hurriedly removing each others' jeans.

As soon as you slid the zipper down, pushing the jeans and boxers down his hips, you couldn't help but moan out in absolute, shameless lust as you traced the lines of his hips, the dips, to his length that sprung up as soon as it was free.

You couldn't waste any more time.

Your core pulsed with insane need. Both of you exposed to the cool air, keeping one another warm at the proximity. Easily, as ever familiar, as though you were never months apart, you hooked your leg around his waist. His forehead rests on yours, both of you gasping at the light touch of his length meeting your core with the slightest of touches.

With a hand around your waist, his lower jaw slightly jutting out in concentration, his other hand stroking himself momentarily before slowly guiding himself toward your entrance.

A guttural moan escaped him as he slid into your tight walls, eliciting a choked moan from you. Your head fell back against the cold wall. His lips found your neck to ground himself as he began to slowly move into you.

His thrusts were slow at first, but it wasn't soft whatsoever. Each was slow, deliberate, strong. Knees slightly arched so that he could push himself all the way to the hilt, his balls touching your core. The depth of it had your mouth falling open, eyes wide as you drank in the feeling of the familiar stretch, the pleasurable pain.

It wasn't long before he was pounding into you. Thrusts slowly growing in pace. The rustle of his belt hitting the floor was a mere background noise, much like the club that grew awfully distant. Your hooked around his shoulders, fingers tugging at his dark, long strands. His strong hands, evident from his lifestyle as a Formula One driver held you expertly, shielding what he could from the wall from scraping against your back.

You began to lose clarity - since his eyes landed on yours. All reality was out the window as the two of you drank each other in in the way you touched each other.

Of how you missed him, how he held you so fucking gently when he's still pounding into you, enough to have you wanting to melt into him. To fuck you senseless. Like he did all those months ago.

Your nails fell down his neck to his back, feeling a build up in your lower abdomen. Nails scraping up his back as a knot was forming, your toes beginning to curl against him. His breathing became more shallow - he was nearing too.

"Y/N—" he grunted, his breathing frantic, eyes closed shut, licking stripes across your neck as you took him in with every hit inside.

"Do it. Give it to me." You whispered hoarsely, voice shaking with his thrusts. The upward motion thrusting his length's head reach the deepest inside of you with so much ease. Beads of sweat from the both of you, breathing each other in.

He couldn't contain his moans. Deep. Vocal in those short moments. Dragging it out as he finally stilled, his length pulsing and spilling into your walls. Your breathing hitched as you came, eyes closing shut as your opened your mouth to a silent scream, riding into your orgasm which evidently squeezed him to pump out what was left into you. The warmth filled you up. And he filled you up good.

He kept himself there. The two of you riding your highs down. Faces flushed. Lust falling. Catching breaths.

Your eyes fluttered open to meet his own doe ones. Boring into you. Where your heart jolts. You couldn't help it. "I fucking hate you. I fucking missed you."

A dry chuckle escaped him. His lower lip jutting out. You feel his semen drip down your inner thigh, leaving you shuddering at the warmth of it distinctly different from his skin against you.

"Me too, cariño." He breathes against your jaw. Your heart swells for all the wrong reasons.

And then—his phone buzzes on the floor with his jeans pooled at his ankles.

Carlos freezes.

The sound shatters whatever spell was holding you together.

His phone vibrates again, and you both know who it is.

Reality crashes over you like a tidal wave.

Carlos steps back slowly, his arms holding you as he gently, almost regrettably, shifting himself out of you. You feel more of him drip down you now, your core twitching. God, that was so fucking deliciously filthy. He curses lowly. Your neck now exposed making you shiver.

Your throat tightens. “You should probably get that.” You unhook your leg from him, shuddering as you braced yourself against the wall and reached for your jeans as he reached for his shirt next.

As he buttons his shirt, he cleared his throat, gaze shifting away as he finally answered the call. "¿Sí, mi vida?" He outwardly flinched.

Your heart shattered. It shouldn't. Why the fuck–?

"Took a while in the toilet. I'm on my way now."

What a fucking lie. An easy one at that.

His lips part, like he wants to say something. Apologize. Explain. Promise you something you know he won’t keep.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he swallows hard, shoves his hands in his pockets, and nods.

You force a smile, ignoring the way your heart aches. “Take care, Carlos.” You whisper.

His eyes darken. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like this is the last time.”

You hesitate. Then, softly, “Isn’t it?”

Carlos looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s trying to carve the image of you into his mind.

Then, without another word, he turns and walks away. His jaw tensed. His doe eyes intense. Drinking you in all over. As though it was the last time. Perhaps it truly is. Is it?

Without another word, he spun around and walked away, raking his hand over his hair to tame it - removing any telltale signs of his endeavor.

You crossed your arms, hugging yourself. You couldn't think. Not right now. But you knew you couldn't go back in anymore. Instead, you walked out of the alleyway towards the car park and headed towards your car.