No Breaks
Sonny Hayes x driver!Reader
Fandom: F1 the Movie (2025)
Summary: You swore you’d never give him the satisfaction. Sonny swore you’d never last a season. Somehow you’re both still here, circling the same track, circling each other, too stubborn to admit where the heat’s really coming from.
Warnings: SMUT 18+, enemies to lovers, yelling as foreplay, hate sex (capital H), size difference, strength kink oops, manhandling, dirty talk but meaner, age gap, unresolved sexual tension combusting, protective older man activated aftercare™, pining but make it violent, feelings?? maybe?? not tonight.
A/N: ok, this was a request I fell in love with, so I hope it is up to par. I could have written thousands of words of actual smut, but the pre-smut/buildup was so much hotter for some reason, so there's a lot of that, lol.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS
WC: 3.5k
The garage still smells like hot brakes and burnt rubber when you climb out of the car. Your gloves are half stripped off before your feet even hit the concrete, and the second your helmet’s off, the heat of the paddock feels like nothing compared to the fire already crawling up your spine.
You don’t have to look for him, because Sonny’s already there, leaning against the wall like he owns the damn place. Sweat darkens the collar of his fire suit and his blond hair is plastered damp across his forehead. He’s not even bothering to hide the smirk pulling at his mouth.
“You nearly put me in the wall out there,” you snap, shoving your gloves into the hands of a waiting mechanic.
“You cut across my line first.” His voice is maddeningly calm, that gravelly edge somehow making it worse. “You left me nowhere to go.”
You scoff. “You had room. You just didn’t have the balls to take it.”
The smirk twitches into something sharper. He pushes off the wall and takes a few steps closer, casual as anything, though his eyes are hard. “I’ve been doing this for decades, sweetheart. Maybe try finishing a race without tripping over your own ego before you give me advice.”
Your laugh comes out harsh. “Sweetheart? That’s rich. You’re the one who can’t handle a little competition without crying about it.”
A couple of engineers glance up from the telemetry screens, sensing the storm but wisely keeping their heads down.
Sonny’s close enough now that you can catch the salt of his sweat, the burnt tang of fuel still clinging to him. He doesn’t lower his voice when he says, “You’re reckless. And if you keep driving like that, you’re gonna take us both out.”
“Maybe I just don’t drive scared,” you shoot back, chin tilting up. “But hey, if it rattled you that bad, maybe it’s time to hang it up and let the younger ones handle it.”
For a second, his jaw works, like he’s holding back exactly what he wants to say. Then, quieter, tighter,
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The hotel room is too quiet after the chaos of the day. You’re stretched out on the bed, TV flickering low just for some background noise. Your phone has been buzzing nonstop for hours. You know why, your post-race interviews have been circulating since this morning.
"He’s quick, but he’s reckless. You can’t always count on a guy like that when it matters."
You hadn’t thought much of it when you said it, just the heat of the moment, mic shoved in your face, adrenaline still burning a hole in your chest. But you know damn well how it sounds on replay.
Which is why you’re not surprised when a knock rattles your door at 1 a.m. Sharp. Insistent.
You drag yourself up, bare feet on the carpet, and glance through the peephole. Blond hair, broad shoulders, a scowl that could crack concrete.
Of course.
You open the door just enough to lean against the frame. “If this is a wellness check, you’re late.”
Sonny doesn’t take the bait. He pushes past you like he has every right, the smell of cigarette smoke and hotel bar whiskey clinging to him. “What the hell was that?”
You shut the door with a sigh. “Be more specific.”
His voice rises. “‘Can’t count on a guy like that’? You think you’re the one people can count on?” He turns on you, eyes blazing. “You’ve been here five minutes and you’re already running your mouth like you’ve got this all figured out.”
You cross your arms, refusing to back up even as he stalks closer. “I just told the truth. Sorry if that hurts your feelings.”
“Feelings?” He laughs, short and mean, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “You think I give a damn about feelings? You’re dragging me in front of the press like this is high school drama.”
“You nearly put me in the wall today, Sonny.” Your voice cuts sharply through the air. “I’m not gonna smile pretty and pretend it didn’t happen just because you’re some legend with a name that still sells merch.”
His jaw tightens.
He doesn’t back down, though; he never does. He takes a step closer, and then another, until you can feel the heat rolling off him, your chin tipping up to meet his eyes. “You don’t get it. You never will.”
Your laugh comes out harsh. “No, I get it. I get that you’re terrified of anyone younger, faster, hungrier than you. That’s why you keep circling me like a guard dog."
"Really?" He smirks.
"Yeah, really. Because you know your time’s almost up.”
That lands. His eyes flash, and for the first time tonight, the smirk drops. “Careful,” he warns, voice low, dangerous.
“Or what?” you snap, stepping into him instead of away. “You’ll glower me into silence?”
The air between you feels electric, like standing too close to a live wire. He’s so close you can feel the brush of his breath, the subtle tremor in his chest with every sharp inhale. His eyes flick down, just once, to your mouth, so quick you almost doubt you saw it. Almost.
Your pulse hammers. You force your voice steady. “You should go.”
“Not until you get it through your head,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “You don’t get to fuck with me out there, and you sure as hell don’t get to fuck with me off track.”
“You don’t own me, Sonny. You don’t own the track, you don’t own this team, and you don’t get to tell me what I can say.”
He barks a laugh, sharp and ugly. “You really think anyone gives a damn what you say? You’re here because they needed someone to fill a seat. Don’t confuse that with being irreplaceable.”
The words slice deep, sharper than you want him to see. So you shove him, hard, palms flat against his chest. He rocks back a step, but only for a second before he’s right there again.
“Fuck you,” you spit.
His hand slams the wall beside your head as he cages you in. His face is flushed, furious, and far too close. “Say that again.”
Your chest heaves against his, breaths colliding, every nerve stretched tight. “Fuck. You.”
The moment hangs, a couple seconds of sheer, vibrating tension, the kind that feels like it has nowhere to go.
Then something in him breaks.
One second it’s pure rage crackling between you, the next his mouth is on yours, crashing down in a kiss that’s more like a fight. Teeth, heat, the taste of whiskey and adrenaline.
You don’t hesitate. You bite back, your hand fisting in the front of his undershirt like you’re trying to tear it off him. His growl rumbles against your lips, rough and dangerous, and the sound makes you shiver despite yourself.
You wrench back just enough to glare up at him, lips swollen, breath ragged. “You’re such an asshole.”
His thumb brushes your jaw, holding you in place. His grin is sharp, dangerous. “And you still want me.”
Before you can throw another insult, his mouth is on yours again, hungrier this time, teeth dragging against your bottom lip.
He doesn’t give you space to think. The moment you push back against him, he uses it. Big hands lock on your hips, dragging you clean off the wall like you weigh nothing, steering you backwards through the dim hotel room.
“Where the hell do you think you’re-” you start, but your words cut off in a gasp when your spine knocks into the edge of the dresser. The wood rattles under the impact.
He cages you in without hesitation, one arm braced firm beside your head, the other hand sliding down your side, deliberate and unhurried, like he’s testing just how easily he can pin every inch of you.
You glare up at him, jaw tight, even as your pulse skips. “You think throwing me around makes you right?”
His smirk curves slow, infuriating. He leans closer, letting the weight of his chest crowd you until your shoulders press harder against the wood. “Doesn’t make me wrong.”
The hand at your hip tightens, dragging you forward against him. His size swallows yours whole, thighs bracketing yours, chest broad enough to eclipse your view, heat radiating off his skin. You push at him out of sheer defiance, but it’s like shoving against a wall.
He doesn’t even budge.
“You don’t get it, do you?” His voice dips low, the gravel in it rough against your ear. “I’ve been fucking longer than you’ve been alive. You really think you can put me on the back foot?”
You tilt your chin up, refusing to break eye contact even with your breath caught in your throat. “I’m not scared of you.”
That earns a laugh, low and mean, vibrating through his chest where it brushes yours. He deliberately shifts his weight forward, pinning you harder against the dresser, his thigh nudging between your legs until you can’t ignore how much space he takes up.
“You should be.”
He trails his fingers from your hip to your wrist, catching it mid-swing when you try to shove him again. With practised ease, he presses your hand above your head and holds it there, his grip firm but controlled. The message is clear, he doesn’t need both hands to keep you where he wants you.
“You’re all fight until someone calls your bluff,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. “But I can read you easier than you think. You can’t hide it.”
You twist under his hold, your free hand bunching in his undershirt in a useless attempt to lever him back.
“You’re full of shit.”
His grin sharpens. He lets you struggle a moment longer, lets you feel just how little your resistance matters, before ducking his head to press his mouth to the side of your jaw. Hot, deliberate, a scrape of teeth that makes your knees weaken despite yourself.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he mutters against your skin. “I’ll still have you pinned every time.”
“God, you’re insufferable.”
“Yeah? Funny, you’re the one shaking.”
You scoff, even though he’s right.
His grin sharpens. In a blink, he’s hauling you away from the dresser and onto the bed, a hand flat against your stomach to press you down into the mattress. The air leaves your lungs at the force of it.
“You weigh nothing,” he mutters, almost to himself, like he’s annoyed at how easily you move under his hands.
“You’re such a caveman,” you hiss, squirming, though the heat pooling low in your stomach betrays you.
He leans down until his mouth is at your ear. “And you love it.”
You kick at him in defiance, catching his thigh, but he only laughs, low and gravelly. When you writhe again, his hand fists in the fabric of your top. You open your mouth to snap at him.
And then he tears.
The rip is loud in the quiet room, fabric splitting down the middle like paper. You gasp, half outrage, half something else entirely.
“Are you serious?” you snap, shoving at him again.
He drops the shredded fabric onto the floor like it’s nothing, eyes dark as they rake over you. “Shouldn’t get in fights you can’t win.”
His body presses heavier into yours, his hand spreading wide at your hip, fingers digging in like he could hold you there forever.
Your voice comes ragged against his mouth. “You’re not even good at this. You’re just-” His palm slides up your bare side, thumb brushing under your bra, and you choke on your next insult.
“Just what?” he asks, grinning against your lips. “Go on.”
You bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him groan.
“Just an arrogant asshole who thinks brute force counts as skill.”
He growls low in his throat, and in the next instant you’re flipped onto your stomach, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just enough so his mouth can brush your ear.
“Still talking,” he murmurs, gravel rough. “Guess I’ll have to shut you up another way.”
You twist under him anyway, forcing yourself onto your back.
“Go on then.”
That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes against yours again, brutal and hungry, like he’s trying to consume every last insult you’ve ever thrown at him. Your hands claw at his undershirt, tugging until he helps rip it over his head, tossing it aside without looking. His body is solid heat and muscle; you feel every inch of that size difference, every ounce of strength.
You shove at him out of sheer stubbornness, even though he doesn’t budge. “God, you’re heavy.”
He smiles against your neck, teeth grazing skin. “Good. Means you’ll stay where I put you.”
Your bra joins the ruined shirt on the floor in seconds, his rough fingers making quick work of the clasp. He palms your breast hard, like he’s testing how much you can take, and when you arch into it with a bitten-back moan, his laugh is low and pleased. “Knew it. You love this.”
“Go to hell,” you gasp, even as your nails dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer.
His mouth trails lower, hot, open-mouthed kisses down your chest, tongue flicking until you’re arching helplessly under him. You curse him again, weaker this time, and he chuckles against your skin.
By the time he shoves your shorts and underwear down in one rough motion, you’re already trembling with how much you want him. He catches the way your thighs press together, smirks, and spreads them apart with both hands, easy as parting curtains.
“Still gonna tell me you don’t want this?”
You glare at him, but your voice betrays you with the catch in it. “You’re so difficult.”
He drags two fingers down your centre, slow, deliberate, making you gasp. “Yeah? But you’re soaking for me anyway.”
Your answer is a broken sound that turns into a sharp intake when he pushes inside without warning, his thumb finding your clit instantly. The rhythm is merciless, fingers curling deep until you’re clenching around him, unable to hold back the moans spilling from your mouth.
“Louder than you were on the radio today,” he mutters, eyes fixed on your face. “Finally admitting I’ve got you beat.”
“Not-” you bite your lip, trying to hold the words together as your body bucks against his hand. “Not a chance.”
His laugh is dark. He pulls out his fingers and replaces them with his cock in one rough thrust, stretching you so suddenly your nails claw the sheets. He swallows your cry with another kiss, his pace brutal from the start, fucking into you like he’s trying to prove a point.
Every push drives you deeper into the mattress, your body no match for his. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your thigh to spread you wider. “Look at you,” he growls, pounding into you harder. “All mouth until I get you like this.”
Your head tips back, hair sticking to sweaty skin, breathless curses spilling between gasps. “Fuck, you’re- god, you’re so-”
He smirks, chest slick against yours. “Big? Yeah. That’s the point.”
You try to bite back another retort, but he shifts his angle just right, and your voice breaks on a cry. The smug look on his face tells you he felt it.
“You’re close,” he says, low and sure, like he owns it. “Admit it.”
You shake your head, but the rhythm of his thrusts makes a liar out of you, every nerve screaming as the coil tightens. Your bratty protest dies in your throat, replaced with a moan that tears through you as you come hard, clenching around him.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down. His pace grows rougher, chasing his own release, and you’re still shaking when he groans against your neck, hips snapping deep one last time before he comes undone inside you.
The silence after is loud. The air feels heavy with sweat and sex, your heartbeat still drumming in your ears as you shove weakly at his chest again.
“Get off me,” you mutter, breathless, even though your arms are jelly and your legs are still trembling.
He doesn’t budge, just shifts enough to look down at you, his hair sticking to his forehead, chest still heaving. “Why? You planning to kick me out already?”
“Yes.” You glare at him, even though your lips are swollen from his kisses and your voice cracks halfway through the word. “This was a mistake.”
He huffs a laugh, low and smug. “You keep saying that like you didn’t just come so hard you almost bit my shoulder off.”
Heat rises in your face, but you scowl harder, trying to cover it. “Don’t flatter yourself. That was just-”
He cuts you off with a raised eyebrow, then shifts his weight enough to slide out of you, slow, deliberate. You gasp at the sensitivity, at how wrecked your body feels, and he notices it instantly, the way your hips jerk, the way your thighs clamp tight.
His smirk softens into something else. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
You try to sit up, but your body gives out halfway, and you flop back onto the sheets with a frustrated groan. “Fuck off.”
Instead of gloating, he leans over the side of the bed, grabs one of the discarded towels, and presses it gently between your thighs. His touch is steady, efficient, and it makes you squirm for an entirely different reason.
“I can do it myself,” you snap, reaching for the towel.
“Sure you can.” He doesn’t let go. His eyes flick to yours, calm and unyielding, and for once there’s no teasing in his tone. “But you’re shaking so hard you can barely sit up. Relax.”
The command is so firm, so matter-of-fact, that you actually freeze. For the first time all night, he isn’t smirking, isn’t trying to win. He’s just…taking care of you, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Your throat tightens, and you hate that it does. “I don’t need you looking after me.”
He wipes you clean anyway, ignoring your half-hearted squirming. “Didn’t ask if you needed it. You’re getting it.”
You turn your face away, jaw clenched, but the sting in your eyes betrays you. You don’t want him to see how wrung out you feel, how much it means that he’s not bolting for the door.
He tosses the towel aside and shifts back onto the bed, stretching out beside you. His arm comes over your waist like it belongs there, heavy and grounding.
“What the hell are you doing?” you demand, even though your voice wobbles.
“Staying.”
“You’re not- ” You push weakly at his chest, but he catches your wrist easily, pinning it against his side with one big hand.
“Yeah, I am.” His voice is quiet but firm, that gravelly certainty impossible to argue with. “You can go back to hating me in the morning. Tonight, I’m not leaving.”
You bite your lip, torn between shoving him harder and just collapsing into the warmth of his body. Exhaustion wins. Your arm drops back against his chest, and you mutter, “You’re such an arrogant prick.”
“Mm,” he hums, clearly unbothered. “And you’re impossible. We’ll sort it out tomorrow.”
Hope this request turned out good, my inbox is pretty full at the moment, so if you have requested, you can check my masterlist. I've added a list of what I'm working on at the moment and in what order they should be out. <3
