#cervantes!reader

The garage is quieter than you’ve ever heard it before. No shouts from mechanics, no whine of drills or wrenches, just the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the faint smell of hot rubber that clings stubbornly to the air even after the cars are wheeled away.

You swing your legs idly from the folding chair you claimed an hour ago, phone long forgotten on your lap.

Your dad said it wouldn’t take long.

“Just a quick debrief, stay put, I’ll grab you when we’re done”, but “quick” in race weekend terms is always a lie from Ruben Cervantes.

Which leaves you here. Restless, bored, and very aware that the only other person left in the space is Sonny Hayes.

He’s exactly where he’s been since Ruben disappeared upstairs, still slouched on a stool near the coffee machine, one of his ankles hooked over the other, his hand wrapped around a paper cup. Even off-duty, he looks like he’s been carved out of something harder than the rest of the world. His jaw is sharp under the fluorescent lights, grey creeping through the edges of his hair.

His eyes flick up every so often like he’s making sure you haven’t wandered off, but otherwise, he seems content to leave you to your boredom.

It’s strange, in a way.

Sonny has always been around. Your dad’s old teammate, his drinking buddy, the guy who used to ruffle your hair when you ran around the paddock in oversized team gear. He’s always been Uncle Sonny in that casual, honorary sense. But now, with no one else around, the nickname doesn’t fit.

Your gaze drifts across the garage until it lands on the hulking shape in the room across the hall. The simulator rig, still powered down but impossible to ignore. You’ve seen drivers climb in and out of it on practice days, but never this close.

You tilt your head, considering. “So… what’s it like?”

Sonny’s eyes flick toward you, lazy, wary. “What’s what like?”

“That thing.” You jerk your chin toward the sim. “The car. Driving it.”

He smirks faintly and goes back to sipping his coffee. “Fast.”

You roll your eyes. “Wow, thanks, very descriptive.”

“You asked, I answered.” His voice is that low, gravelly rumble that makes every word sound like a dismissal. “It’s not something you put into words, kid. You feel it.”

The nickname lands heavier now, making you bristle. “Don’t call me that. I’m not ten.”

That earns you a longer look. His eyes narrow, assessing, like he’s noticing for the first time that you aren’t the gangly teenager sneaking sodas from the team fridge anymore. It only lasts a second before he turns back to his coffee.

You stand, crossing the floor toward the sim. The thing is kinda intimidating up close, all wires and screens and the sleek outline of the cockpit seat. You brush your fingers over the wheel, imagining what it would feel like with an engine roaring behind it.

“Does it really throw you around like people say?” you ask. “Like, do you feel every bump? Every turn?”

You hear the sound of his stool scraping back from behind you. A moment later, he’s closer, his presence filling the space before he even speaks.

“You shouldn’t mess with that,” he says, quieter now. “Not a toy.”

“I wasn’t gonna break it.” You glance at him sideways, lips quirking. “You don’t think I could handle it?”

His laugh is short, humorless. “It’s not about handling it. You wouldn’t last two seconds before your head hit the wheel.”

Something about the way he says it, so matter-of-fact, makes you want to push. “So show me.”

That makes him pause. You watch the muscle in his jaw tick, like he’s debating whether to shut this down outright. Finally, he exhales through his nose and mutters, “You're not gonna let up, are you?”

You smile sweetly, leaning back against the frame of the rig. “Not when I’m curious.”

He mutters something under his breath about Ruben killing him for this, but he sets his coffee down anyway, stepping past you to crouch by the simulator’s power switch. The screens flicker to life one by one, casting a pale glow over his face, and for a moment you think you forget to breathe.

Watching him like this, so focused and methodical, isn’t anything new. You’ve seen him on TV, on podiums, even slouched in your dining room during the off-season. But it's different when you're standing so close, impossible to ignore the lines carved into his face, the way his hands move with easy confidence over every switch and strap.

He slides into the seat like it’s second nature, body folding down into the cockpit until he looks like part of the machine. For a heartbeat you just stand there, staring, and then his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“Well?” he drawls. “You wanted a show.”

Heat crawls up your neck, but you force a shrug. “Just making sure you remember how.”

That earns you a real smirk, crooked and sharp. He reaches for the belts and clicks them across his chest, shoulders flexing under his t-shirt. The cockpit is narrow enough that his arms brush the sides as he works, and you can see veins shifting under tan skin.

“Everything’s tighter in here than you think,” he says, his voice slipping into that calm, instructive tone you’ve heard him use with your dad when they talk setups at home, or during team briefings.

“You don’t move around. You can’t. Car does all the moving for you.”

The sim hums louder when he taps controls, and suddenly the screens wrap around him with the illusion of asphalt and guardrails. He grips the wheel, and just like that, the laziness vanishes.

His whole body sharpens. His eyes lock forward, jaw clenches, and shoulders square up.

You find yourself leaning in, fingers curling around the edge of the rig as the seat vibrates under him. His arms flex with each turn. It isn’t flashy, but there’s a rhythm to it, muscle memory.

“Throttle’s everything,” he says, low and even. “Too much, and you’re sliding. Too little, you’re dead in the water.” He presses down with his foot and the rig lurches, the engine sound vibrating in your chest.

“But brake points are instinct. You can’t second-guess.”

You swallow, eyes fixed on the way his knuckles tighten around the wheel. “So it really feels like this?”

“This?” His lips twitch. “Multiply it by ten, and then you’re getting close.”

The car on the screen shudders through a corner. You gasp without meaning to, stumbling forward a little, and his hand shoots out instinctively to steady you, hot against your hip, just for a second, before he pulls it back like the touch burns him.

“Careful,” he mutters. “It’ll throw you if you’re not strapped in.”

You look down at him, heart skittering, and for the first time he doesn’t immediately look away. There’s something in his gaze that makes the space between you feel smaller than it is.

You force a grin, trying to break it. “You make it look easy.”

“It’s not.” He shakes his head, tearing his attention back to the screens. “Every second, the car’s trying to kill you. You either stay ahead of it, or you don’t walk away.”

“That’s why you like it, isn’t it?”

His eyes flick to you again, sharp, unreadable. “What makes you think I like it?”

“Because you’re still here,” you say softly. “Still doing it, when you could’ve walked away years ago.”

He doesn’t answer, just flexes his hands on the wheel like he needs something solid to hold onto. The car on the screen eats up another straight; you can feel the vibrations through the floor.

You lean in, lowering your voice. “So when do I get a turn?”

That breaks his concentration. His head snaps toward you, disbelief written plain across his face. “Not happening.”

“Why not?” you ask, letting the words tilt into a tease. “Afraid I’ll be better?”

“You wouldn’t last half a lap.”

“Then show me.”

You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, he’s trying to find the right angle to brush you off.

But you don’t give him a chance to tell you no again, because before he can find the right gruff dismissal, you swing one leg over the edge of the cockpit and lower yourself into the narrow space, right onto his lap.

Sonny goes rigid beneath you, every muscle locking like you’ve just thrown him into a live current.

The sim seat definitely isn’t made for two, and the fit is impossibly tight. Your back is pressed to his chest, your thighs spread wide to straddle his, the wheel just out of reach of your fingertips. His breath hitches hot against your hair.

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice is low, dangerous.

“Learning,” you say, all false innocence as you wiggle to settle in. His thighs are solid beneath you, the belts of the cockpit digging against your hips. “You said I wouldn’t last two seconds on my own. So… show me.”

His arms hover like he doesn’t know where to put them, as if touching you will set off an alarm. Even like this, he dwarfs you, his shoulders boxing you in on either side, chest a hard wall, legs stretching so much farther under the pedals that you feel small in a way you haven’t in years.

“Off,” he bites out. His voice cracks around the single word. “Now.”

But you lean back, tilting your head just enough to catch his profile. “C’mon, Sonny. Just one lap.”

The use of his name lands like a punch. Your voice is soft, coaxing, not the bratty kid tone he expects.

“I said-” His jaw flexes. He swallows whatever warning is next, dragging a hand through his hair instead. “Christ, you don’t make anything easy, do you?”

You smile. “Where do my hands go?”

He curses under his breath but reaches for your wrists, guiding them forward until your fingers curl around the wheel. His much larger hands close over yours, and suddenly it feels less like a lesson and more like a trap. The heat of his skin bleeds through and you can’t help shifting slightly, pressing back against him.

The sim jolts into motion as he taps the control. The engine’s roar fills your ears, vibrations shuddering up through the seat and into your body. Well, into his body, which is pressed flush against yours. His thighs bracket you, his arms wrap around you to grip the wheel, and the size of him makes you feel as if swallowed whole.

“Hold it steady,” he mutters against your ear, voice gravel scraping low. “Don’t fight it. Let me… guide you.”

The words thrum through you, double-edged, and you let out a soft laugh. “Feels like you’re doing all the work.”

“Because you don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” he growls back, but his breath is harsher now, his hands tightening over yours.

The car jolts through a sharp corner, the rig shuddering violently. The motion presses you back harder against him and you feel everything, including the unmistakable heat building beneath you.

Your breath catches, and you shift again, deliberately this time.

His hands slip from the wheel to your waist, fingers digging in. “Don’t,” he warns.

But you only tilt your head, lips brushing his jaw as you whisper, “Then make me stop.”

For a beat, the only sound is the roar of the simulated engine, the rattle of the seat. His chest rises and falls like he’s fighting with himself.

Then his grip tightens, dragging you down against him with a force that makes your pulse stutter.

“You don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, sweetheart,” he rasps against your ear. “And I’m not the man you want to play it with.”

But he doesn’t let you go. His grip on your waist tightens like he means to shove you off, but he doesn’t.

The sim jolts again, the wheel twitching under your fingers, but neither of you are paying attention to the track anymore.

“Stop moving,” he mutters, low and ragged.

You tilt your hips just slightly, the motion deliberate, pressing yourself back against him. The growl he lets out is guttural, helpless.

“You think this is funny?” His voice rasps over your skin, vibrating low in your chest. “Sitting here, squirming on my lap like a damn-” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale.

You smile, wicked and breathless. “Feels like you’re the one squirming, Sonny.”

That does it. With a hissed curse, his hands land hard on your hips. The sim car jerks into a wall on the screen, alarms blaring, but the motion only makes the seat shudder violently beneath you.

He drags your hips back, forcing you flush against him, and his voice cracks through his teeth. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Yes I do,” you whisper, head tipping back against his shoulder. “I know exactly what I want.”

His breath shudders out, hot against the shell of your ear. He presses his mouth there, just a ghost of lips, and you feel his restraint splinter.

“Ruben would kill me,” he mutters, like saying it aloud might ground him. But his fingers are already sliding under the hem of your shirt, calloused palms hot against your skin. “Christ, I should walk away right now.”

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls you tighter against him, the sheer size of him enveloping you. Every shallow rock of your hips against him drags another ragged sound from deep in his chest.

“Look at you,” he grinds out, voice low and hoarse. “Dad’s little girl, sitting here trying to ruin me.” His teeth graze the curve of your neck, not quite biting.

“And you’re doing a damn good job.”

Your fingers clutch at his forearms, nails biting into muscle. “Then stop fighting it.”

The sim rattles around you, forgotten, the world outside the cockpit narrowing until it’s only his breath, his heat, his hands dragging you into the hard line of his body.

One hand slides down, past your stomach, pressing firmly between your thighs. You gasp, the sound swallowed immediately by his mouth on your jaw, rough and demanding.

“Goddamn it,” he groans, almost to himself, as if he can’t believe he’s letting this happen. “You feel that? That’s what happens when you play with fire, sweetheart.”

You roll your hips into his palm, into him, and he curses again, louder this time.

His control slips fast.

His touch goes rougher, his kisses harder, every word spilling out like a confession he can’t hold back.

“This is wrong,” he growls, but his hand is already working you through your clothes, the heel of his palm pressing just right. “So fucking wrong…”

You turn your head, catching his mouth with yours at last, and the kiss is a collision. It's messy, desperate, teeth clashing until he groans into you and drags you harder against him.

Sonny is everywhere, his body is caging you in, his hands pulling you apart, his breath filling your lungs like you’ll never get enough.

Finally, with a sharp jerk, he tears his mouth from yours. His voice is wrecked, his forehead pressed hard to the back of your head.

“If I don’t get you out of this seat right now,” he pants, “I’m gonna fuck you in it.”

And then his hands are under your thighs, lifting you out of the cockpit like you weigh nothing at all. You gasp, clutching at his shoulders, but he’s already moving. He crosses the garage in three long strides before slamming you up against the nearest wall. The impact rattles the tools hanging there, your breath knocked out of you in a startled laugh that dies in your throat when you see his face.

His eyes are dark, wild, all the lazy composure stripped away. He cages you in, one massive hand gripping your hip, the other braced beside your head.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, forehead dropping against yours. His breath is ragged, hot. “I shouldn’t be touching you.”

But he is.

His hand slides up your side, under your shirt, calloused palm rough against bare skin. You arch into it instinctively, chasing the heat, and his mouth finds yours like he’s been starving for years. His tongue sweeps in, his teeth catching your bottom lip until you whimper against him.

That sound undoes him. With a growl, he grabs both your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head, his grip iron. The other hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back so his mouth can trail down your throat. He bites, sucks, laves at the skin until you’re squirming, until your pulse is hammering under his tongue.

“You have no idea what you’ve started,” he rasps against your neck.

“Then… finish it,” you whisper, breathless.

His laugh is low, humourless, almost broken. “Careful what you ask for, sweetheart.”

He releases your wrists only long enough to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly aside. His hands are everywhere, palming your breasts, kneading the soft flesh, thumbs dragging over your nipples until your knees buckle.

He catches you easily, slamming your body tighter against the wall, his own pressed flush to hold you up.

“Look at you,” he groans, eyes raking down your body like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. “Ruben’s little girl. You know what he’d do to me if he saw this?”

You meet his gaze. “He’s not here.”

That’s all it takes. He swears harshly, and then his hands are on your waistband, shoving your pants down your legs in a rough, impatient motion. He kisses you again, harder, while his fingers slide between your thighs, finding you already wet. He groans into your mouth, the sound guttural, like he can’t believe it.

“Fuck. You wanted this. All along, you knew.”

“Yes,” you gasp, rocking into his hand. “I wanted you.”

That shatters what’s left of his restraint. He spins you, pressing you chest-first against the wall. The cold surface shocks you, but his body heat smothers it instantly. He yanks your underwear down with one hand, the other flattening against your stomach to pin you in place.

“You’re too damn small for me,” he growls in your ear, rutting against you through his jeans. “I’ll break you.”

“Try me,” you throw back, voice trembling but certain.

He curses again, pulls his zipper down, and in one sharp motion he’s pushing inside you. The stretch steals your breath, a cry ripping out of your throat as your hands scrabble uselessly at the wall for purchase. He clamps a hand over both of yours, pinning them flat, his whole body pressing you into the metal as he groans.

“God… tight little thing,” he pants, every word a growl. “Taking me so well.” You moan, pushing back against him, but he won't let you move much.

He sets the pace himself.

Slow, deep thrusts at first that make your legs shake, then harder, faster, until the sound of your body hitting the wall echoes through the empty garage. His hand slides from your stomach to your throat, pulling you back against him as he drives into you.

“That’s it,” he growls against your ear. “Take it. You wanted to play grown-up, didn’t you? This what you were begging for?”

“Yes, Sonny- fuck-”

He groans your name like it’s a sin, rutting into you with bruising force. His free hand slips down between your thighs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in messy circles that have you gasping and shaking in seconds.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice rough. “Right here, with me buried inside you. Show me how bad you wanted this.”

It’s all too much. The wall, his body, his voice wrecking you from the inside out. You shatter around him with a broken cry, legs giving out as pleasure rips through you. He holds you up easily, growling as your body clenches tight around him.

“Fuck- goddamn it- ” He buries his face in your neck as he thrusts harder, sloppier, until he finally loses himself with a raw groan, grinding deep as he spills inside you.

The two of you collapse against the wall, breath mingling, bodies trembling, his arms the only thing keeping you upright. He doesn’t let go, not yet. He just presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard, like he’s still fighting with the weight of what just happened.

Your chest is still heaving when the world starts to crawl back into focus, the hum of the garage lights, the faint creak of tools swaying on their hooks, the sting of cold air on your sweat-damp skin.

Sonny hasn’t moved. He’s still pressed against your back, his forehead buried against your shoulder, his arms locked tight around you like if he lets go, the whole thing will come crashing down. His breath is hot, ragged, ghosting over your neck.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice shredded. “What the hell did we just do?”

You shift in his grip, forcing him to lift his head. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, guilt and hunger knotted together.

“What we wanted,” you murmur, lips curling into the ghost of a smile.

His jaw works, like he wants to argue, but his hands don’t leave your waist. Instead, he spins you slowly, pressing your back to the wall again, just so he can see your face. His size still dwarfs you; even hunched over, he’s a head taller, broad shoulders blocking out everything else.

"This can't happen again."

You run a hand through his hair, "Says who?"

“You don’t get it,” he says, almost pleading. “Your dad… if he knew-”

You cut him off with a kiss, soft this time, a contrast to the hunger from before. He doesn’t resist, not really. His lips find yours with an ease that betrays how much he’s wanted it, how long he’s been holding back.

When you finally pull away, you whisper, “He’s not here.”

That earns you a low groan, part frustration, part surrender. He drops his forehead against yours, shaking his head. “Christ, you’re trouble.”

You smirk. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

He huffs a laugh and finally steps back. The loss of his body heat makes you shiver, but his hands linger, smoothing down your arms like he can’t quite stop touching you. He glances toward the sim, the scattered clothes, the obvious wreckage of what just happened, and swears under his breath.

“Get dressed,” he mutters, running a hand through his damp hair. “Before someone-”

And then you both freeze.

Footsteps echo down the hall outside the garage, steady, purposeful. Your dad’s voice drifts closer, muffled but unmistakable as he finishes up his call.

Your heart leaps into your throat. You scramble for your clothes, tugging them on with shaking hands, while Sonny moves faster than you thought possible. He sweeps your shirt from the floor, tosses you his jacket to cover up, and yanks his zipper up like he’s done this kind of cleanup before.

Which, to be fair, he probably has.

The door creaks open, Ruben’s laugh carrying into the garage. Sonny straightens instantly, back to his stool by the coffee machine like he’s been there all along. You drop into the folding chair you started in, jacket hiding your rumpled clothes, pulse hammering in your ears.

Ruben steps in, still distracted by his phone. “Sorry about that, took longer than I thought. You two surviving down here?”

“Yeah,” Sonny says, smooth as gravel, lifting his coffee like it hasn’t gone cold. “Just babysitting.”

You bite your lip to smother a grin, pulse still racing. If your dad notices the flush in your cheeks or the way Sonny won’t quite meet his eye, he doesn’t comment.

But when you risk a glance at Sonny, his gaze flicks to you for just a second. It’s quick, sharp, and charged with something that makes your stomach twist. Guilt, yes, but also hunger, a promise you know he won’t be able to keep.

One time, he’d said. You don’t believe it. And neither does he.