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bleubrri · 2 years ago

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۪۪۫۫ ༄ؘ ˑ ᴀᴅʀᴇɴᴀʟɪɴᴇ — ʜᴀɴᴍᴀ sʜᴜᴊɪ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

༄ؘ ˑ contains: f1 driver!shuji , pit crew manager!reader , endless petnames ( doll / angel / pretty girl / sweetheart etc ) , black coded!fem!sub!reader , vaginal fingering , squirting , cunnilingus , a lil pussy job , v brief mention of anal , jerkin’ off , dacryphilia + overstim if you squint , shuji tuckin’ your cum away for safe keeping<3

༄ؘ ˑ wc: 4k

༄ؘ ˑ a/n: belated bday piece for hanma🤸🏾not proof read as per ͡(ुŏ̥̥̥̥ ‸ ŏ̥̥̥̥) ु

“piece of fucking shit—” the sound of his helmet slamming into the tarmac has hanma’s useless excuse for a pit crew flinching under the racers rage. he’d practically leaped out of his car in his blaze of fury, sweat-sticky bangs clinging to his skin as he beelined into the pits. his attempts at trying to stay remotely calm (every one of that brainless psychologists tricks—count down from 10, five things you can see, four things you can hear or whatever the fuck) are crushed into dust when he catches sight of the crew manager, cigarette bobbing between his lips as he attempts to flirt with a runner 2 decades his junior. and hanma sees red, yanks him back by the collar so harshly that he almost goes spinning onto the track (maybe it’d to him good to take a few laps, shuji’s engine revving behind him just to keep him on his toes—).

“what the fuck?!”

“you’re fired.” hanma spits, tone laced with vitriol.

“what?” he says incredulously, “look, you can’t blame me for not winning. shoddy drivin’ ain’t gonna make up for lost time—“ hanma pulls back his fist, since apparently this idiot has a death wish. kisaki let’s him get one punch in, the satisfying crunch of a broken nose echoing before he catches him by the crook of his elbow. his manager takes in the scene, glancing at the runner who’s still hovering, wide eyed and uncertain (probably a damn apprentice they look so young) and grunting out, “leave.”

“you.” he gestures to his short-tempered racer, “walk it off.”

“whatever.” hanma sniffs, casting a final death-glare to the ex pit crew chief and kicking up shards of rubber as he saunters off.

kisaki ignores the outrage that gets spewed at him when he instructs the crew manager to pack his shit. he’s nursing an electromagnetic headache by the time he slinks into his office, wrapping his knuckles against the desk and calling for his assistant. thick lensed glasses and blue eyes peek from behind the door. “sir?”

“call her.” he says, massaging his temple and contemplating if it’s too early to retire.

nervous eyes dart around the room. “I— sir, she doesn’t—“

“call her.” he repeats with a finality that has his assistant shuddering and slinking towards the phone.

ten.

the smell of burning rubber, astringent and sharp, singes your nostrils and coats the back of your tongue.

nine.

“get ready people! in and out, let’s get this playboy back out there.” your quip earns you a few chuckles as your crew assembles into the positions you’ve calculated to optimise the switch.

eight. seven. six.

maybe you can leech an extra bonus off of that eerily stoic manager for your efforts. the last thing you expected was your college friend calling you in the middle of a well deserved vacation, big wet eyes and pleading tone dripping through the screen in desperate need of a favour. you’d agreed—you supposed you owed it to him for endlessly mooching notes off of him in countless late night study sessions. and your crew were good sports about it (it only took the promise of hosting at your house for new years and supplying booze for upwards of 40 people). one race, you’d said. just to tide them over until they found someone permanent for the grand prix.

five. four.

the plan is solid. everyone, everything’s in place. a flash of colour veers round the bend and your grip on your clipboard tightens.

three.

you can almost see your crew’s fingertips twitching with anticipation.

two.

oh this’ll be a breeze. fun even. maybe you can be on the train home by tomorrow morning; knock out a couple chapters of that book you’ve been meaning to finish. cook some dinner, indulge in that chardonnay gifted from the neighbour.

one.

just one more race.

hanma hasn’t been the first racer to leave the pits in a while. he’s almost always the first one in, having to overcompensate in the laps following half assed pit stops by crews that can barely change a fucking tire. so it’s by instinct alone that he’s preparing his usual schpiel of mumblings. c’mon, come on let’s fucking go—

but his words never get the chance to form. he’s barely eased off the gas—barely blinked before he’s burning rubber and shooting back onto the track.

adrenaline is pounding in his ears, and he vaguely registers the screams of the crowd and frantic commentary from the hosts: i don’t think we’ve seen a pit stop like that in a hot second, ted! no you’re absolutely right, josh, especially not from hanma’s corner! word on the street is he’s looking for a fresh new team ahead of the world grand prix—has the infamous racer finally found his match?

he’s giddy with the rush of an impending win flooding his veins, a smile that’s almost ditzy pulling at his lips until he can feel his gums pressing against his molars. a quick glance in his rears reveals a gaggle of black jumpsuits surrounding a figure dressed in red, the stickers from his sponsors adorning your back and torso.

and when his car gains speed and his knuckles whiten beneath his gloves as he approaches the finish line, hanma decides that he has to have you.

“he’s not here! winner’s lounge is further down!” you shout from around the pencil wedged between your teeth. the pits are deserted, with everyone having retreated to the press corner and vip lounge for drinks after an admittedly impressive win. you figured you’d make the most of the peace and quiet and edit a few designs in the seclusion of the garage, the shutters half shut for some privacy and hanma’s car acting as your only company.

and yet the pair of feet visible through the gap in the bottom of the shutters are suddenly sliding underneath. “hey! he’s not here, dude. it’s crew only, you’re not even supposed to be he—oh.”

you’ve only really seen snippets of him—blurry paparazzi shots of him in dark shades and a hoodie slung over his tall figure—but the riot of black and blonde, the stark characters of sin and punishment, it’s all very telling.

“did you.. need something?”

“jus’ addin’ to the collection.” he says, producing his medal that was shoved into a pocket and dropping it into a tray of similar awards. it’s ridiculous really—a little trinket tray full of medals that people spend their entire careers in pursuit of. and yet here he is, 6 foot gorgeous and acting like he couldn’t care less. you resist the urge to rake over his lean form in the tight jumpsuit that he still wears, suddenly very aware of your own jumpsuit: zipped to your waist with arms bare in nothing but a sports bra (and not even one of your cute ones). you frown at the figures and measurements on the papers in front of you. would it be weird to cover up? or weirder if you don’t? surely he’ll leave in a second anywa—

“watcha doin’?” his chin is practically resting on your shoulder as he leans over you, peering at your post-it scribbles and months long blueprints. he smells good. something spicy and masculine that makes you want to turn your head and press your nose to his pulse. apparently he’s enjoying the way his proximity is affecting you, gold-flecked eyes locking with yours as you stutter out a response.

“ah, just going over some plans. nothing exciting really.”

long fingers graze over the paper obscuring your design. “didn’t know pit crew managers designed engines.” he watches you wring your hands together on your lap, suddenly sheepish.

“it’s just for fun, really. might not be one forever..” you mumble.

“you design formula 1 engines for fun?”

“i guess so.”

“MIT?” he asks as if he can’t already tell and you nod.

the hum that rumbles in his chest jumps over your skin and burns goosebumps in its wake. “clever little thing, aren’t you?”

there’s a desert in your mouth. your saliva has to be a fucking mirage because you’re definitely swallowing sand.

“i—“

“pretty too.” he says, tugging on a particularly curly loop of your hair. (it’s short, maybe as short as his, because there’s only so much shampoo a person can go broke from trying to get the smell of gasoline out of hair that grazes your mid-back).

“thanks.” you croak out uncertainly.

“i want you.” he deadpans and you can feel the harsh crunch of grains between your teeth, saharan dust clogging your throat by the mouthful.

“you—what?” you aren’t sure whether hanma’s smile should make you feel excited or uneasy. still, you try not to noticeably clench your thighs together.

“in paris.”

“p-paris?”

he raises a knowing brow as he smirks at your adorable squirming. “i want you there, in paris. for the first race. and every race after that.”

at that, you frown and your answer comes at a speed that surprises you both. “no.” and then, more softly, “i’m… supposed to be on vacation.” you mumble.

he clicks his tongue, dissatisfied. “c’mon sweetheart. it took me one race to figure out you’re the best of the best—you’ve gotta know that by now. and i—“ he starts, lifting your chin from where it’s tucked into your chest, “want the best.”

you step up from your seat a little too fast and slam your pencil down a little too harshly, running a hand over your hair and sighing, “you don’t need me, hanma. you won with a six lap lead today, i think you’ll be fine.” hanma sighs dramatically, walking backwards into the centre of the garage. the distance both calms your nerves and makes you crave something you can’t quite place.

punishment is extended to you, lustrous eyes daring you to deny him. “c’mere.” his hands are slightly warm. palms a little calloused and knuckles sharp when he laces your fingers together and pulls you deeper into the garage, right in front of where his car is parked. admittedly, it’s fucking gorgeous up close—the fleeting glimpses on the speedway don’t do it anywhere near justice. hanma takes advantage of your stunned silence and slots in right behind you, sporting a wicked grin unbeknownst to you when his palms land on your shoulders and he feels you immediately tense under his touch.

“you know why i love racing?” his voice is low and gravelly and travelling straight between your legs. and when his head dips and he whispers over the shell of your ear, you release a shaky breath that you didn’t realise was trapped in your lungs. “adrenaline.” he says. “it builds up. every lap of the track, building and building—“ it’s hard to ignore the way his fingers are sliding further up your skin. “until i cross the finish line with those fuckers miles behind me.” calloused pads ghost over your jaw until hanma’s tilting your gaze upwards. dark and blonde strands have fallen over his eyes, and yet you could swear his pupils look blown, thick lashes more prominent under his half lidded study of you. “you ever feel like that?” it’s phrased as a question, but something in his tone assures you that he knows. “tell me what you felt, today, when we won.” when we won. hanma’s laying it on a little thick, but he has a feeling it’ll all be so, so worth it.

“i—i thought you did well. i was.. proud of my team.” you manage to whisper.

“oh c’mon doll,” the corner of his lips is tilted in a knowing smirk and he leans in closer, “‘s just us, you can drop the modesty.” the subtle heat of sin is suddenly gliding over your waist.

“i—“ you can’t fucking speak, his left hand settling over the skin of your stomach and toying with the zip that sits below your navel. “c’mon angel, you can trust me.”

“i felt it.. i felt it too.” you blurt out. “adrenaline—when you turned the corner. w-when you crossed the finish line. felt like i fucking won.” you’re spewing words out between heavy breaths and he rewards you for it, tracing the lace that lines your panties, the seam that connects your inner thigh to your heated cunt, before tensing the fabric against the plush mound of your pussy. he explores your covered folds through the thin barrier, tracing the peaks and valleys he finds while dragging your panties in steady strokes against you, drool-worthy friction scathing across your weeping cunt. pink flashes from between his teeth as hanma runs his tongue over his lips and you get the sudden insatiable urge to suck on it. to chart the course of his mouth until you get lost between his teeth, under his tongue and down his throat.

“i knew it.” he smiles like he’s proud, “only reason i got such a lead was ‘cause you know how to manage those nobodies.”

did he mean your team? “t-they’re not nobod-“

“they’re nothing.” he insists, “but you, angel face,” he continues, wrenching your panties aside and delighting in the sticky mess that he finds there, “oh you’re everything.”

the moan that escapes you when hanma immediately plunges two lithe fingers past the tight rings of your entrance is swallowed into his mouth when he captures your lips with his. he’s got sharp canines that dig into the plush of your lower lip as he parts them at the seam and licks into your mouth. you’re as sweet as he thought you’d be: he laves over your spit-slick tongue like it’s his favourite piece of candy, swears your teeth have to be rocks of sugar with the way his tastebuds light up at the taste of you.

the stretch from his fingers is tapering into a dull throbbing as he glides the pads of his digits along the satiny walls of your cunt, subtly grinding the hardening tent at his crotch against the curve of your ass. one of your hands slinks upwards and slithers around his nape. blunt nails scratch at the shorter hair there, jolts of electricity shooting to the base of his spine and sparking delicious heat in his gut. your fingers can’t seem to decide what they want, torn between tugging at the soft locks of his crown and burying themselves there to push him closer. either way, the feeling has him growling against your mouth and writhing his fingers until he’s knuckle deep inside you and coated in your slick. when he crooks his fingers, angling them to press into the fleshy bundle of nerves at your centre, you whimper beneath him, arching into his touch and clenching around his digits like a fucking diver grasping at a gem on the depths of the seabed.

heated breaths fan over puffy lips as you pull back to come up for air. it proves pointless—any trace of oxygen punched from your chest when hanma cups your entire pussy and grinds the heel of his palm into the throbbing nub of your clit. your head falls limp against his chest, drawn out moans and little sniffles pulling his attention from the feast between your legs. his gaze is met with damp lashes and an almost imperceptible wobble of your lip. somehow the prospect of your tears has his dick twitching with excitement and threatening to burst through his clothes. he fantasises about having you sprawled out beneath him, tasting salt on you lips and feeling wet trails down your cheeks. maybe mascara would stain your cheeks, inky tracks that worsen with each snap of his hips, sheathing his cock further into the gooey depths of your heat. it’s a tangible possibility, one that has him sporting an erection that could shatter glass. “shit—you cryin’ pretty girl?” he mutters before trailing kisses along the length of your jaw.

“ngh! ‘s so—‘s so good, hanma.” you’re mewling, the increasing pace of his fingers thrusting into you twisting your throat until rapid breaths are being puffed from your lips and the coil in your stomach pulls taut.

“shuji.” he says simply, latching onto your neck and sucking a bruise into the column of your throat.

you can feel your arousal dripping down your inner thighs and stringing his fingers together. between the involuntary grinding against his clothed dick and the searing kisses on your skin, you’re trying to move through the fog of desire that’s clouding your brain; a warning of you about to crash over the edge almost making its way off your tongue before hanma’s shuffling forward, spinning you to face him and pushing you down until you’re sprawled out on the thin hood of his car. his fingers slow their ministrations a fraction and yet never leave their rightful place, nestled against your g-spot. there really isn’t a lot of space on the car, though you suppose it doesn’t matter, ogling him with misty heart-eyes as hanma’s towering form slots over you. the forearm of his free hand slams against the glossy paint job right next to your head, his long legs spread wide to give him the perfect leverage to grind his dick into the edge of the car and relentlessly swirl his digits into the mess of your cunt. and when he feels the telltale squeeze of your walls, he practically rips your jumpsuit down your legs to get a flawless view of the rivets of fluid that spew from around his fingers.

“fuck yeah, good fuckin’ girl.” he’s groaning as his body shifts down and retracts his fingers, sucking swollen, leaking flesh into the rapturous heat of his mouth. “thats it,” he drawls, his drawn out words sending vibrations across the sensitive lips of your pussy. “more, c’mon doll, give me more.” your hands fly into his hair as your spine arches under his expert tongue, swirling and licking up the length of your slit, the pointed tip of his nose pressing into your clit with a pressure that pushes more essence from you as he drinks you down for what seems like forever. “hm, you wanna keep this pretty pussy all to yourself? got a feelin’ this cute little clit’s gonna become my good luck charm.” he’s taken to tracing his initials into the perk cluster of nerves with the tip of his tongue, soaked fingers trailing every inch of your exposed flesh as your hips buck and grind, trying to get more and more friction from his face. your skin is puffy and glistening in a sheen of spit and slick under the dimmed lights of the garage. and you’ve got a cute little rim too, one that twitches when his touch ghosts anywhere remotely near it and it has him dying to fuck your ass until you’re screaming for him.

when your thighs mindlessly inch closer together, caging in his head, punishment is quick to slam one back down, his thumb working to spread you further and his head pushing further into your core. with the endorphins of your high mellowing into a pleasurable buzz, you’re suddenly aware of the sensitivity between your legs and the desperate movement of hanma’s hips.

“s-shuji—“ you call, carting your fingers through his hair. the image of him surfacing is a lewd one: wild eyes that drip with desire, slick coating the bottom half of his face with droplets littering everywhere from his collar to his forehead, a sheen of sweat on this hairline that has the hair there sticking together.

you steal his mouth for yourself, moaning at the taste of your release and his sweet breath pairing together along your tongue. the firm grasp of your fingers beginning to squeeze the bulge of his cock has him bucking into your hand and nipping at the flesh of your lip between groans. “shit—“ he breathes, reaching for the zipper of his jumpsuit and stripping down to his boxers in the space of a few hazy blinks. saliva pools in your mouth at the sight of sinewy musculature, dark hairs along the base of his navel stark against the pale expanse of his torso. beauty marks pepper his sleek abs and you get the desire to sink your teeth into the lean muscle of his thighs when they flex under his movements. it gets better when he frees his cock. a pretty thing; thick and long—his length has you clenching around air and worrying for your cervix. his head is flushed a deep crimson that almost looks painful, and you’d kill to have it shoved into the sleeve of your throat. you’re reaching for him, eyeing the throbbing veins that twist along the ridges of his shaft with a lustful gaze, but he pushes you down with one hand and wraps a tight fist around his girth with the other.

“not today, sweetheart.” he says, pumping his length and squeezing below the sensitive head of his cock, thumbing at his slit as a pearly coat of pre spreads along his shaft.

“what?” you’re looking up at him with doe-eyes through wet lashes, a sweet pout on your pretty lips. “you’re not.. you’re not gonna fuck me?” you mumble it like you’re embarrassed, as if you didn’t just squirt into his mouth and hump his face like a bitch in heat. hanma sighs, letting his dick slap against his stomach and pulling you to the edge of the car by the crook of your knees. you yelp, hands landing onto the hood (and the puddle of slick beneath you). he slides your panties down and takes off your jumpsuit from where it’s pooled around your legs, leaving your sex gorgeously exposed. his hand wraps around his erection, delivering a wet slap with the head of his cock directly over your clit. he watches with delight as a few more dewy drops spew from your slit, the way your face contorts in pleasure and a broken moan escapes you. he continues, does it over and over again, occasionally letting his length glide between the drenched lips of your cunt.

“i’ll fuck every pretty little hole you have to offer dollface.” he smiles as he cups your chin, his knees digging into the harsh metal of the cars hood, caging your body beneath him as he frantically strokes himself. “i’ll fuck you in toronto. in cape town, in tokyo.” he lists as his free hand slides down your torso and he begins to draw sticky circles above your slit. “i’ll fuck you in paris, first.”

his digits dip back inside you, his thumb keeping steady pressure on your clit as his other hand twists along his shaft. “for now, let’s give you a real one. yeah?” you want to argue that your first orgasm felt pretty goddamn real, but your answer comes in the form of your eyes slipping back, your hand clutching onto his wrist, unsure if you want to push him away from your oversensitive hole or keep him sheathed there until you physically can’t cum anymore.

“please, please shuji i’m—mmph fuck, fuck—‘m gonna cum.” oh he knows you are. the silky feeling of your cream between his fingers is enough for the frayed rope in his stomach to snap, milky ropes of his seed spurting from his dick and landing across your pretty cunt in a lecherous slew of arousal. curses are grunted from between his lips, his fist tightening round his cock to milk every drop of his cum onto your messy little hole. each sticky glob of his seed dripping onto you has your pussy clenching around air, pulsing with aftershocks and the desperate desire to have shuji’s cum stuffing you full, flooding your cunt until syrupy strings of it leak from your slit and claim you from the inside out.

silently, he tucks himself back into his boxers and slinks your shaky legs into your discarded underwear, the mixture of your cum and his immediately dampening the fabric. hanma grins, pressing an open-mouthed kiss over the damp spot that has you shuddering out a whimper. he levels his head with yours, a fucked-out smile gracing your lips that he can’t help but press a kiss against too.

“so.” he says.

“so..?”

“paris.”

you giggle, airy and breathless and entirely too fucking infatuating. faux contemplation is laced in the hum that you sing, locks of his hair between your fingers keeping you tethered here and barely stopping you from floating up into orbit. your heads in the clouds, but shuji’s lips are a whisper away, kiss-puffed and begging you to come back to them. “paris.” you say, and before the last syllable can evaporate into the air, shuji’s mouth is slotting against your own so perfectly that you wonder how you’ll ever be able to kiss anyone but him again.

#: @wh0reforlevi

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