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𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── you always knew oliver aiku was a bad influence. but just how bad, exactly? let's just say that if your parents ever looked out the window and happened to peep inside oliver's idle sports car, someone is about to get murdered tonight.

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── you're now reading . . . 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐔𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊 + 𝐒𝐄𝐌𝐈-𝐏𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐄𝐗 with oliver aiku

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── fem!reader, perv!oliver, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, sex in a car, fwb!oliver, repressed feelings, oliver is a jackass, language

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ─── for the anons who once asked me many moons ago abt oliver corrupting us—this one's for you 🖤

⇤flip back to the pervtober masterlist

“Oli, we can’t do this.”

Your whimpers were lost in the scruff of his neck, a breathy moan released from the tight confines of your lips into the heat of his Porsche’s interior. 

“Mhm.” 

Honestly, if it wasn't for a soft spot you had for Oliver Aiku, you would've stabbed him.

Many men tried to get you in this position, but they could never succeed. 

You were a headstrong woman; tenacious, a hard worker and a corporate climber through and through. You had dated boys who thought the peak of communication was Snapchat streaks and “you up?” texts. But, you had never dated a man like Oliver.

In your defence, ‘dated’ seemed to be a stretch. 

Oliver was a wild ride for sure. 

Tall, handsome, pockets lined full with a pro-athlete salary, he was every girl's wet dream. 

After years in the media industry, you learned to differentiate the bad apples and genuinely lost ones. You have encountered influencers, moguls and celebrities under the scrutiny of your analytical and roaming eye. However, Oliver was an enigma to you. 

Though friendly and approachable to everyone else, you couldn’t help but feel there was a part of him he tried to hide from the world. A part which shredded through football fields and tore men’s hopes and dreams from their white-knuckled clutches. 

Many people had been destroyed by Oliver’s sheer force, both on the field and off of it if his playboy status was anything to go by. And you would be damned if you were going to be one of them. 

“Oli,” you muttered, a little firmer this time. 

The rough strip of his tongue teased your sensitive earlobe and you hissed, flinching from the sudden stimulation. 

“Oliver.” 

“What?” 

He sounded a little pissed off. You may be younger than the girls he was used to, but you were experienced enough from your years networking under intense strain and pressure to figure out when you were on the losing end of a potential relationship. 

With Oliver, it was a constant push and pull. As you moved forward, he pulled back. And for whatever reason, when he decided to reach out, you would hesitate to let him back in.

Anyone would decide that such a relationship—if it could be even called that—was doomed from the beginning.

But, Oliver and you never did have a conventional relationship. 

He saw you as a plaything, and you regarded him as a little bit of fun to unwind after a hectic week. It was a mutual agreement based on a sudden spark of crazy chemistry which neither of you wanted to solidify. 

Those large, rough hands which were used to causing destruction on the field, were parting your thighs softly, reaching for the soft promise of pleasure in between them.

In other circumstances, you would let Oliver have his way with you. But today, you were determined to put up a flimsy boundary—one he was desperate to break. 

“Oliver, my house is just a few feet away.” 

True to your words, the place you rested your head for every night was in the form of your parent’s modest two storey home right in the heart of downtown Tokyo. 

Lace curtains iced its domestic eggshell white walls, keeping you safe in the veil of night and away from prying eyes. But, the thrill laid in the fact that anyone who pulled apart those flimsy curtains could catch a look of you in such a compromising position. The engine of his idle car thrummed underneath your thighs, and you wished you had worn a longer skirt to combat his straying touches. 

If there was one thing Oliver reminded you of, it was a hurricane. His determination and stubbornness pushed him to where he was today—rising high in the world's eye. 

It was one of the traits you admire about him—and one which would change your morals forever. 

“I can’t,” you murmured in a cross between a hitched breath and a soft moan. “Oliver—”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head off. Just let me feel you.”

Those unique dual-tone eyes flashed sincerely under the waning street lamp light. There were times when Oliver’s simple touches and presence could push out the nagging thoughts in your mind, and there were instances when it drew up red flags in your periphery like a race day warning. 

Like speeding down the highway without a seatbelt on, you were sure kissing someone else would never be as enthralling as kissing Oliver Aiku. 

The scruff of his sparse five-o-clock shadow and moustache rubbed on the soft skin of your chin. You tasted the beer he drank for dinner, and a little bit of your own fruity lip gloss in between the curls of his tongue. 

Everything about Oliver was enticing; how he kissed, how he fucked, how he made you feel like you were the only girl in his world when you knew that was the furthest from the reality. He was also attentive when he wasn’t a huge prick. Out of the men you fooled around with, Oliver remembered exactly what you liked and he wasn’t afraid to push those lines. 

His hand was between your thighs again, this time pushing your skirt up inch by agonising inch. You didn’t fight him, too dizzy and weak with lust. He used two thick fingers to pry apart the seat of your panties, already sticky with arousal and ready for the taking. 

“So perfect,” he whispered into your neck. “How're you so perfect for me?” 

Over time, you had to tell yourself it was just words from a man who wanted to lure you into bed and they didn’t mean a thing.

But sometimes, you forgot. You forgot that this wasn’t real, that Oliver doesn’t actually love you. 

It didn’t help that his kisses felt like coming home at the end of a hard day; though already complicated as it was, whatever emotion you both harboured for each other could never be said out loud. 

He tipped your head towards him again, to catch your lips in a languid, teasing kiss that was more tongue than lips. The taste of him sent a thrill down your spine, settling right into your core. 

“Can I feel you, baby? Can I touch you here?” He stroked the soft flesh of your inner thigh with his thumb, locking eyes with you in the half-light. 

They brought you down a spiral; into a light purple and a hazel green tide which tried to rip apart your resolve. 

You were half out of your mind when you nodded, giving your consent with a shaky little sigh. 

He immediately pounced onto that opportunity like a panther to your jugular. 

Using his strength, Oliver dragged you onto his lap, where you fit against his edges snuggly. Those plush lips descended upon yours again, and he kissed away your troubles and worries, only determined to bring towards the brink of giving everything up for him.

Like a riptide, it was no use holding him back. 

Oliver had fucked you in shady motels and even in his practice locker room, but this was new territory. The both of you were within reach of your parents who had no idea of your budding situationship with the famous footballer. 

At the reminder of them, you broke the kiss off with a gasp, pinning your wide eyes onto his half-mast ones.

“Oli, how tinted are these windows?” 

“Really tinted,” he murmured without a shred of hesitation. Despite yourself, you believed him. 

You let him kiss down your neck, bite on your collarbones and pull you back in for more sloppy kisses. Unlike other men, Oliver wasn’t jumping into the main event. 

He took his time to prep you, slipping two fingers through your folds and gathering the slick there to rub along your entire entrance and back hole. Though his movements were jerky, he was still gentle with you—peppering smooches down the bridge of your nose and jaw.

If you were a weaker girl, you were sure your heart would melt into your ruined panties just for Oliver Aiku. 

He hummed, feeling you slowly ease yourself up and down his two fingers, fucking yourself on those static digits.

The first time he met you, Oliver was sure you were an upstuck, prudish type of girl. You weren’t exactly his flavour of woman, but where would the fun be without a challenge? 

He spent weeks pursuing you, doing the cheesy lame boyfriend shit people like Isagi would do for some girl he met two weeks ago. 

But, Oli’s goal was simple: Make someone else who wasn’t his type be into him.

Though you were right here with him, the task felt impossible. It was hard to get a woman who already had everything to take a chance on him. Your life was perfect—great job, great friends, supportive parents.

What could a man like him offer besides sending you to additional therapy sessions on your insurance’s dime? 

Under all the layers of his cocky playboy persona, Oliver knew he was a wreck waiting to implode. He never felt good enough to warrant a spot on Japan’s football team. He was insecure and lacked control in every part of his life except his dating one. 

It was why he went after more soft-willed girls than you.

And why the sight of you undulating your hips over his fingers nearly sent him into overdrive. 

“Fuck,” he breathed out. “You’re really something, huh, Y/N. Look at you—getting yourself off on your own. Good girl.”

Something about his tone and that endearment made both your heart and pussy throb.

“Oli,” you sniffled, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. Oliver had barely touched you—he had fondled, kissed and fingered you—yet, you were already dripping for him. 

Such eagerness made your cheeks burn, and you hiccuped more of your moans back, afraid to let him hear.

But, Oliver—as attentive and controlling as he was—could sniff your shame from a mile away. He nudged your face up to look into his, those soft, dual-toned eyes edged with a ring of steel in them that cut through your flimsy bleats. 

“Let go for me,” he urged, brushing the pads of his fingers down your soft cheek, and you lost yourself in his unique eyes and handsome face again. “Don’t be afraid to show your real self to me, angel.”

Again, something in you broke. 

The last flimsy excuse, your remaining shred of dignity… all for you to finally hiccup: “Oliver, please fuck me.” 

That was all the begging he needed. 

Oliver slid his pants and boxers down, far enough for his cock to spring free and leave a smear of pre on your exposed soft belly. Your skirt was around your hips, panties pushed to the side, and that was how he took you. 

The stretch burned, but it was a satisfactory one. Your thighs ached and tears were smarting in your eyes. 

Oliver was bigger than most guys and you weren’t used to taking him without a soft bed and a little more prep work. 

But, you held onto his shoulders, every bit of your skin feeling like it was on fire from trying to hold back your moans. You didn’t want anyone to hear, or for random people to suspect; even when the car frame started to shake or the windows began to fog up. 

This was your tryst with Oliver Aiku; your dirty little secret. 

He pulled you close to kiss you again, and this time, those large hands moved to the front of your shirt, kneading your breasts with an eager vigour. You let him lift the hem up, untuck your bra cups and bathe your slowly stiffening nipples with soft kitten licks. 

Oliver guided your hips to grind down on his cock, while he suckled and tongued your buds to stiffness. The filthy squelch of your pussy coating his length with her excitement and the smack of his lips and tongue turning your nipples into fleshy diamonds echoed through the car. You were lightheaded and felt like someone had spiked your system with alcohol.

The sleek lines of his Porsche’s interior were swimming in your eyes, and you felt like you could faint from the excitement. 

Your internal pressure ticked up a notch when one large palm of his wrapped around your neck, stopping your breath in your throat. If there was one thing you were sure Oliver was made for, it was to drive you insane.

He squeezed down on you, while intermittently fucking into you with clean, sharp thrusts. He kept a consistent pattern—squeeze, fuck, let you breathe, squeeze, fuck…

“Oli!” you wheezed in between those breaths he gifted you, your swimming eyes breaking and tears running down your cheeks. “Oliver…”

“Cum for me,” he coaxed, slipping his thumb in between your lips where you sucked on the tip with what he thought was almost love. He retracted his thumb, glossy with your spit and notched it right on your windpipe, putting pressure.

Oliver watched the ecstasy, fear and lust flash across your expressions, one melange of an erotic sight he would remember forever. 

“Let yourself go, baby,” he urged, squeezing down on your throat, while you felt his abs undulate against the soft planes of your belly—a tell-tale sign he was going to cum. A pinch appeared in his brow, and sweat bulleted down his forehead. 

“G’na—fuck—you’re so tight,” he nearly gasped that last part out. “Pussy so perfect for me. Go on then, give ‘em a show… show everyone how you’re creaming just for me, sweetheart.” 

Just as you were approaching your high where white light was flooding behind your closed lids, Oliver pressed his damp lips to your ear, his whisper cutting through the fog and bringing your climax crashing down like an implosion.

“The windows aren’t actually tinted, baby… everyone just saw you fucking my cock so good.”

Your eyes rolled back into your head, manicured nails stabbing into his shoulders. Despite every fibre of your being yelling at you to stop and hop out from his lap, something darker and sultrier begged you to stay—to give into this ruin. 

Those voices warred and clashed with each other for a few seconds, which felt like an eternity as you were stretched out on another plane of pleasure no one could touch. Your ribs expanded, your spine arched and your toes curled and—

“Oliver!” 

With everything you had, you came for him. 

All the voices in your head stopped; replaced by the chanting of his name over and over again. 

Like he was a prayer and you were the repentant sinner, you sobbed out his name, holding onto his neck like a lifeline and slowly bucking your hips up and down, prolonging the almost cruel pleasure.

Oliver came around the same time you did, with a grunt and his fingers clawing into the doughy flesh of your hips. 

You sagged against him, and through a lapse of judgement, his lips found your temple, leaving a small peck on the sweaty skin.

Oliver held you like you were meant to be cradled. You couldn’t think about anything that occurred within these past few minutes; your mind was on a fever high and your body was melted to his like hot wax pooling into a holder. 

“You okay?” His deep voice rumbled under your cheek.

You nodded, too exhausted to speak.

“Can you walk?” 

Flexing your thighs, you offered another pathetic nod.

“Do you want to stay here for a bit or go?”

You should probably go. After all, it was encroaching a tender territory you dared not ventured through. He felt too good, too comfortable to leave, but you ignored the screaming in your bones when you forced yourself off his lap and back into the passenger seat.

Adjusting your panties, skirt and shirt, you flashed him a tight smile, one which he echoed with an uncertain grin.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke, and it felt like you were leaving a movie just before the good part came on. 

But, you had already seen multiple films like these before, starring numerous women this great actor before you had duped and jilted. 

You weren’t interested in entering his rotating roster of desperate girls waiting to be picked, so you strengthen your resolve and put your dignity back in the driving seat.

“Bye, Oliver.”

He hummed. “Bye, Y/N. Goodnight.” 

Oliver didn’t offer to see you again, and you didn’t bother mentioning it.

Sometime next week, the both of you would fall back into this toxic cycle—either you would call him up drunk out of your mind or he would get pissed off during his training and call you after to let off some steam. Rinse and repeat. 

Life was predictable like that with Oliver. You didn’t want to disturb the peace.

You got out of his car, adjusting your skirt one more time. Usually, you would never turn back to give him a second glance—out of sight, out of mind.

But, this time, something compelled you to turn around, and when you did, you gasped out loud; nearly running towards his retreating car to smack the roof, the hood or even the lying man behind the wheel. 

Through those crystal clear windows which were obviously not heavily tinted like he promised, Oliver shot you a smirk and a wave, leaving you stewing in both horror and an inexplicable desire to fuck that smug look off his stupidly handsome face as the reality sank in. 

You had fucked Oliver Aiku right in front of your parents, and judging from the silent house behind you and the lack of a usual warm vibe, you were positive they were going to rip through you a new one.

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