daimus

[daimus]

Please put your age in your bio or I’ll block you if you interact with me!

[daimus]

looking for Heaven, found the devil in me

In the beginning of your marriage, Kaiser never touches you. He only tells Ness how to do it.

wc — 1.6k

tags — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, fingering, medieval au I guess, Lord! Kaiser, Knight! Ness, title from shake it out by Florence and the Machine

You had not known you were leaving home for the last time when you said goodbye. You suspect this was intentional. They knew you wouldn’t have gone otherwise. 

The woods are eerily silent around you. Patches of old snow, half melted into pools of crystalline and liquid silver, dot the still landscape. Turn itself feels sluggish and frozen. 

They have sent you to the very edge of the world. 

You jolt when quick, nimble fingers do the laces of your cloak tighter. He chucks you under the chin briskly when he’s finished, a flash of affection, there and then gone. 

“It’s cold, miss,” Ness says. “You need to wear your furs.” 

You didn’t even notice him behind you. He’s like another creature of the woods. His eerily quiet footsteps are a sign he belongs. You, on the other hand, are an outsider, and nature wants you to know it. 

“Maybe we should head back inside,” Ness muses. “Kaiser will be home soon.” 

You say nothing, but let him guide you back to the castle. His arm is warm around you, a shelter from the storm. 

Ness feeds you soup in the kitchen while you wait for your husband. You hadn’t expected him, this sweet, bubbly knight, more like a handmaiden than a manservant. He spoons broth into your waiting mouth and dabs at your mouth with a napkin, cooing at you to “be careful, it’s hot.” 

The fire is roaring and you’re sleepy from nothing. Ever since you got to Kaiser’s manor, you’ve had a shortage of work to do. Lesser nobles like you are only separated from peasants in name. That’s why your family was so delighted when the offer for your hand came from the North, even though it meant you would be going so far away. 

You still don’t know why it was you. 

The door bangs open. 

Ness runs over to help Kaiser shed his coats and boots, running a familiar hand over him with a quickness. You still don’t understand their relationship, their strange closeness. They haven’t taken the oath of blood brothers, but they seem closer than even the knights that are sworn to each other. Despite his lordship, Kaiser seems content to let Ness handle everything: his property, his taxes, even his wife. 

There’s a level of trust you’re not sure you could ever achieve with another human being, but Ness makes it so easy you can almost imagine it. Yes, if it was anyone, it would be Ness. 

“Wife,” Kaiser beckons. “You won’t welcome me?” 

You push your chair back hurriedly and follow in Ness’s eager footsteps. He laughs, gentle, and strokes a hand over your hair - quick, as he does everything. You barely notice it. 

Fleet-footed, your grandmother would call him. He moves like a startled fawn, always with a jolting start, yet he doesn’t seem like prey. Or at the very least, you know he’s not the bottom of the food chain. 

You are. 

You keep your chin tucked down, face turned away. You’re not attempting to be demure, you really don’t know how to act. No one trained you in your duties before they sent you up here to be buried by snow. The only teacher you have is Ness. 

He would be a better wife than you are, and he’s close to Kaiser - you don’t know why your husband didn’t just marry him instead. It would be so much less work than procuring you and dragging you back to the North, just for Ness to explain how to cook and budget to you in the solarium during daylight hours. 

And at night, he teaches you something else. 

“Don’t be scared,” Ness coos, nudging your legs apart. 

He’s nestled with you in the sheets. It's almost like being in a cocoon, tucked in those thick blankets and soft wool. The North doesn't use silks. They don't trap heat well enough.

You clutch at his arms for support, frightened but trusting. Kaiser sits in an armchair at the foot of the bed. There's a watchfulness to his waiting that makes it seem purposeful.

You suspect your husband isn’t of as few words as he makes it seem. Rather, he wants to frighten you. His reticence makes him hard to predict. You can’t tell what will please him, relying on Ness for clues. 

Ness presses a kiss to your cheek, peppering you all over with soft, butterfly brushes of his nose, before he tucks you under his chin. You like the way he touches you. It’s soothing, skin to skin. And he’s warm. 

You’re always cold in this freezing, bitter land. It’s inhospitable. 

Ness arranges you so that your legs are hooked over his. Your fingers release their death grip on his biceps so you can shove your skirt, which has gotten rucked up, down. 

You hold it there in place, trembling from embarrassment. It feels like you’re a zoo animal on display. There are too many eyes on you, and Kaiser is still silent. 

Ness rubs his cheek against yours. “Shh, shh,” he hums. “Don’t be scared. Would I hurt you, pretty? My liege lord’s wife? Would I?” 

You shake your head, bumping into his nose. He’s too close, all tangled up in you. Your limbs are strung out against him. 

Reluctantly, you let go of your skirt, drawing your hands back up. You don’t know what else to hold on to now. 

“Good girl,” Kaiser finally says, watching you retreat. “Let Ness take care of you.” 

You squirm at his words, feeling something thicken in your stomach. You want to press your thighs together, but Ness’s legs are holding you open. 

They talk, for a moment, over your head like you’re not there. They’re discussing what to do with you, while you grow meeker and meeker in Ness’s grip. He pets your hair idly while Kaiser makes dirty suggestions involving tongue and teeth. 

Ness’s hand slips under your skirt.

You jolt up against him, but it doesn’t seem to hurt him. He toys with the white lace of your undergarments while Kaiser switches the topic to, unbelievably, farming. You’re not quite following the thread of the conversation. 

“Yes,” Ness says agreeably as his fingers slip under the soft white fabric. “I’ll look into it.” 

The first graze along your clit could almost be an accident. He acts like it too, shushing you with soft kisses against your temple when you make a complaining noise, an apology murmured against your hair. But then he keeps doing it, purposefully drilling his fingers against your clit, watching you whimper and whine helplessly in his lap. 

“What is it?” Kaiser asks you, a smile playing on his lips. “What do you want, my wife?” 

You shake your head. 

“Nothing?” He shrugs. “You heard her, Ness.” 

The conversations turns away from you again. You bury your face in Ness’s shoulder and shut your eyes as he keeps playing with you, his fingers slipping through now wet folds as he tap-tap-taps at you insistently, the sensation too little to get you anywhere, but too much to ignore. 

He dips below, gathering slick from where you’re leaking, and returns to trace tight little circles on your clit. You gasp, your core tightening as your legs kick out. 

Ness stops talking to adjust you once more. “Behave,” he chided you lightly, amused. “A lady doesn’t interrupt conversations.” 

“Yes, my lord,” you whisper.

“I’m not-“

“Very good,” Kaiser says. “You should address Ness as you address me. He is, like you, mine after all.” 

Ness kisses your cheek. “Look what a gift you are,” he murmurs, his voice darkening. “Look what you do for me. Can I reward her, Kaiser?” 

Kaiser frowns. 

Ness revokes it immediately. “Of course, of course. I’m sorry. I’ll wait for your permission.” 

Your head drops back against Ness’s chest, trying to control yourself, trying to breathe evenly through bursts of pleasure. It’s not enough. There’s a hot itch under your skin. Something in you clamors for more like a trapped animal, gnawing and biting and unwilling to give you a moment of respite. 

“Ness,” you start. He shakes his head. 

“Kaiser, please.” He looks like a predator and a king and your lord, the master of all that dwells within this manor, including you. “Please, I’m so-“ 

“So?” He says smoothly, laying a heavy hand on your ankle. 

“So-“ 

You choke on it, your face burning with embarrassment. You can’t say it. You weren’t raised with their refined manners but you were still raised in a noble lady’s house. 

“Mercy, my lord,” Ness intercedes for you. “Look at the poor thing, she’s trembling.” 

“She needs to learn to ask for what she wants,” Kaiser says hungrily. 

“Listen,” Ness says, and they both fall silent. The squelch of Ness’s fingers is audible. He toys with you, slipping one inside. Your spine seizes, stiffening instantly as you clench down on him. “She’s so wet,” he hisses. 

“Fine,” Kaiser says. “What do you say, my sweet?” 

“Thank you, my lord, Kaiser-“ your words break on a moan. “Ness! Thank you!” 

Your voice turns garbled as Ness presses a second finger into you. His thumb applies steady pressure to your clit as he pumps his hand slowly. Something is building inside of you. 

You cling to him, the shelter in the storm. In desperation, your animal brain remembers that he is safety and harbor and fire, everything comforting. 

“Cum for me, dear one,” Ness says, watching your face hungrily. “I want to see it.” 

Kaiser says nothing, but you can feel his hand tightening around your leg. 

You break against him, shaking through it. It feels like fear, if fear was addictive. Heat courses through your veins, desire pools between your legs, and Ness works you through your orgasm on steady fingers until you’re keening, but you never tell him to stop. 

Only Kaiser can call him off. 

“Enough,” Kaiser says, rising from his seat. “My turn.” 

[daimus]

this isagi movie couch sex wip... where you initiate sex with him and he's asking you what you need from him when he pulls away from the relentless kisses (knowing exactly what it is and where to touch you and where to start, like always — but because he likes hearing you say it so much... feels like he gets his praise this way of knowing you well) and then short circuiting really bad when you whine “i don't know… i want you inside right now, but you know… i can't take it right now.” ... >_<

[daimus]

people have done this before, but not us

You’ve known Oliver since you were best friends with his little sister in elementary school. Somehow, it never occurred to you that he’s also just a man with desires. 

wc — 4.9k

tags — MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, dry humping, grinding, Oliver Aiku sex tutor lol, childhood friends, inexperienced reader to the point of disbelief, best friend’s older brother but it’s less relevant than I thought it was going to be bc I didn’t feel like making up a whole new character for his sister, title from during the impossible age of everyone by Ada Limon (sorry for using it like this)

“He said you’re off limits,” Bachira says. 

“How did you get in my room?” 

Bachira’s laying on his stomach on the edge of your bed, his legs dangling off the edge. He’s kicking them like a toddler, cute almost, but his eyes are shrewd. 

“Oli said that his friend is coming to watch, but we can’t talk to her, and normally he doesn’t mind sharing, so I was like huh, she must be special to him. So I had to come see you for myself, right?”

“Uh huh,” you say, not really keeping up. There’s a tinge of annoyance building in you too, for more reasons than one. 

“So I thought about it! And the only place they would’ve kept you is-“ 

“Help!” You scream at the top of your lungs. “There’s a strange guy in my room! Help me!” 

Bachira bolts up, reaching for you, but you squirm away. “Stop,” he hisses, alarmed, but it’s too late. 

The door flies open, revealing Oliver, completely unamused. 

“Your friend is stuck up,” Bachira whines, but he doesn’t really seem angry, just mildly inconvenienced that his plan didn’t work. 

“I told you not to even look at her,” Oliver scolds. “You Blue Lock boys couldn’t listen to directions if it killed you.” 

“If it killed me-“

“Just go,” Oliver groans. “Now.” 

When it’s just the two of you, Oliver looks different. The transformation happens in seconds, so quick you wouldn’t know it was there unless you knew to look for it. It’s nothing so obvious as an expression, just the slightest shift in the line of his lips, a certain ease to the heft of his shoulders. 

He comes and sits next to you on your bed, where you’re blotting at the wet spot you think Bachira might’ve drooled into it. How long was he in here? Enough to take a nap? 

“I’m sorry.” 

You sniff with an air of haughtiness, but really you’re only mildly annoyed. You just want him to pay attention to you, and he will if he thinks you’re upset. He always does. “I thought Blue Lock would have better security.” 

“We don’t have any security, actually.” 

“What? But you guys are famous now.” 

He shrugs. “Ego rented out the whole hotel for Blue Lock and friends and family. There’s security outside to keep people from getting in. But inside? Nothing. I think he’s insane, personally. No telling what those boys will get up to. I was a teenager once, I would know.” 

“Talking like a grandpa already,” you say with a laugh. 

“You little-“ He pushes you down into the sheets, messing with your hair. “I’ll show you a grandpa.” 

“I think he drooled on my bed,” you frown. “Where am I going to sleep tonight?”

“We can share my room,” he says easily, casually. “Like we used to.” 

But we used to was over ten years ago. 

Oliver is gone when you wake up, which he warned you he was going to be. He offered to make breakfast, but you told him it was impossible to wake up at the same time as his insane footballer schedule, so instead you trickle into the cafeteria with the other aforementioned friends and family. No Blue Lock boys - they’ve been ready for hours. 

When you try to unlock the stadium doors with your priority pass, you find you can’t. The light flashes red over and over again - you’re beginning to feel embarrassed. 

“Fucking - work, goddamnit,” you hiss under your breath as the lock emits a loud buzzing noise for what feels like the twentieth time. 

“Here.” He’s your age, white and green hair, sleepy eyes. “Let me.” 

He introduces himself to you as Otoya. It’s a very memorable experience, since he also gives you his phone number, his Instagram, and his room number. Just in case, you know. 

You can practically hear Oliver’s voice in your head, telling you to stay away from him, except it’s not in your head, and he’s walking up, warning Ootoya not to mess with you. 

“Are you following me?” 

This feels like a reasonable assumption to make, but he rolls his eyes at you. Then he says, “Of course I’m following you, you idiot. Did you listen to anything I said last night? This is a facility full of hormonal teenage boys - my sister would kill me if I let anything happen to you.” 

His sister. Right. 

Otoya looks between the two of you. “Sorry, Oliver. Didn’t know she was yours.” 

You want to jump in with a protestation because first of all, you’re not, and secondly, that feels demeaning, but Oliver pulls you into his side in a way that makes it clear you’re under his protection. He just tucks you into the space beneath his arm like a mother hen, folding you away until you’re barely visible behind him.

“Well, she is,” Oliver says. 

It does something funny to you, hearing him call you his. 

It’s almost a pity that Oliver invited you, because you don’t really care about football. At this point, you can’t even really be bothered to pretend to care either, except for the really important matches, the ones where Oliver’s eyes sparkle and you can tell he’s actually invested in who he’s up against. Otherwise, football is a job like any other. People don’t get it. They’re always begging you for tickets to games, but you’ve been friends for so long that, well, it’s like being excited about a big project at your friend’s company. Yay! Profit! 

As far as you can tell, the match goes smoothly. It’s the after party that you have to worry about. 

Otoya makes a beeline for you as soon as you slip through the door, which really shows the amount of authority that Oliver has in here. 

“Fancy seeing you again,” he says cheerfully. 

“I think everyone’s here,” your response is dry. Oliver did tell you to be careful around him, after all - although he said the same thing about every other man in here that isn’t him. Overprotective much? 

Your standoffishness doesn’t bother Otoya. 

“Come on, don’t be like that. I don’t know what Oliver’s told you, but I’m not a bad guy.” 

“Right,” you don’t even look up from your phone. This is awkward. You don’t know anyone here. 

“Oliver’s worse, I would say.” Your head snaps up. “Oh, that got your attention.” 

You can’t resist it. Oliver’s your favorite thing to talk about. “How so?” 

“Let’s just say that if you like Oliver-“ 

“I don’t-“

“You should stay away from him for tonight. For your own good. He has a bad habit he has to indulge with a different girl every night. Just hang out with me instead,” he says with a rakish smile. 

“You’re just trying to get me to spend time with you.” 

“I mean yeah, but it’s true. Oliver’s…Oliver. You know?”

“No?” 

“No,” says Oliver. “She doesn’t. Because she doesn’t believe whatever ridiculous ideas you’re putting in her head.” 

“Oliver!” You brighten up and snuggle into him. He wraps a warm arm around your shoulders, radiating heat all the way through your body. 

“I’m ridiculous? You’re a stalker, man - how many times have you interrupted us already?”

“Only twice, and there won’t be a third time. Go find some other girl to bother. I mean it, Otoya.” He squeezes your shoulders. “This one’s mine.” 

The second time, it doesn’t feel as nice. He only says it when he wants people to leave you alone. He doesn’t mean to condescend, but the way he acts sometimes makes you wonder if he ever really understood that you grew up with him, or if he always sees the little girl from his childhood when he looks at you. He only claims you to make other people leave you alone. 

He sighs with relief when Otoya finally slips past the two of you, grumbling under his breath. 

“What were you talking about?” 

“You mean, what did he say about you?”

He breaks into a crooked smile and hands you a glass of water off a nearby table. “Caught me.” 

“He just implied that you’re a flirt.”

“Just? Or did he make it sound like I’ve been slutting it up in the NEL?”

“I hate the way people talk about you.”

He softens. “It’s not…it’s not wrong.” 

You turn to him, grabbing his face in your hands. “It is,” you insist fervently. “I know you’re not like that. You’re good, Oliver.”

You’re both liars, but it’s a game you like to play. You like to believe that he’s good and he likes to pretend he’s good for you. 

He’s always loved the way you grew up worshipping him. 

“Want to get out of here?”

You nod. 

You’re his little sister’s best friend. You used to idolize him. He was your knight in shining armor, your schoolyard savior. He walked you home after late club meetings and bought you ice cream at the convenience store when you thought $5 was a fortune. 

You love him, but you can’t tell if you love the idea of him or the man himself more. Oliver doesn’t seem to mind himself. In fact, he feeds into your fantasies. 

You know you’re the only girl he won’t fuck. 

On the tiny couch in his room, only slightly more furnished than everyone else’s due to his coveted title as captain, Oliver settles in next to you, momentarily bending down to sweep your legs into his lap. It’s so casual and so fast you don’t even register it. His thumb swoops comforting circles over the jut of your ankle, but his hand feels almost like a brace with the way it’s positioned, locking you down. 

You squirm a little to see how much give your makeshift anklet will allow you, but he playfully smacks your calf and says, low and throaty, with the rasp of a growl underneath his tone, “Settle down.” 

You stiffen like a log. He laughs and runs a hand up and down over your leg, smoothing imaginary wrinkles in the fabric. “Not like that, idiot.” 

Cute like a little sister. Cute like a kid. For Oliver, you’re all the warmth of home and domesticity. You could never bear to take that away from him, no matter how corrupted you’ve become, like every other greedy adult, sin burning like coals in your stomach and loins. You want to let him think you don’t know desire. 

You fall asleep on the couch like that, his warmth bleeding into you everywhere. 

The morning after, he makes you instant coffee as he tidies up his suitcase. You’ll be leaving together. He’s taking you home. He insisted. 

“Oliver,” you start. He hums to show you he’s listening. “Why do you fuck?”

He chokes. “Excuse me?”

“Is it like a medical condition? Like your dick will fall off if you don’t sleep with someone every night?” 

He walks over and kisses the top of your head. “You’re so cute,” he says fondly. “And ridiculous. And naïve. Don’t ask anyone else that, okay?”

“I’m not stupid.” 

“I do it because I want to. And it’s not every night, it’s just when I want to feel good.” 

“How good?”

He flicks your cheek. “This is some bold questioning, young lady.” 

Your cheeks are warm. Despite the fact that Oliver is obviously a sexual person, to the point where all his teammates know, he’s a curiously desexualized person in your head. You’ve just never thought of him that way, always separated the warm, sheltering bordering on smothering presence in your life from that. 

But now you go home with your face on fire, trying too hard not to think about what he looks like when he’s fucking into a tight little hole. What he sounds like when he’s close. 

Stop avoiding me. 

Shame burns through you at the text a few days later. You know he knows, because how could he not catch on? You’ve always been latched on to his every word, running to your phone when you get the tell tale notification, and now you lets hours pass between replies. 

You better be coming to dinner with us later. 

Dinner with the Aikus is always an affair, more so now that his little sister has gone off to college in another country. It’s in their blood, the itch to start over, be someone new in someplace new. You’d grown apart by then, but you still cried seeing her off. Oliver let you bury your face in his shoulder and soak his shirt wet with tears. 

Years ago, you’d never imagined, even in your wildest dreams, that you’d be closer to him than her, but some things change. 

And some things don’t. 

The Aiku family car is still always stuffed with random things, momentous from childhood, Oliver’s old soccer ball, some miscellaneous donations left over from cleaning out his sister’s room. They’re apologetic that there’s no space for you to sit, but you can just sit on Oliver’s lap, can’t you? Just like the old days, Mr. and Mrs. Aiku laugh to themselves in the front, reminiscing while you press your legs together and try very hard not to pant disgustingly lewdly into Oliver’s ear. 

He has a hand on your hip, the other on your thigh. Is it just you or does this feel- the car hits a bump and Oliver’s grip tightens, steadying you. 

It’s just you. A wave of shame washes over you at how obscene you are, lusting after Oliver when he’s just trying to keep you safe. 

“Comfortable?” He murmurs, pressing his cheek against your shoulder briefly. He’s a tactile person, always soothing with a touch or a kiss. 

You can’t say no, so you settle for a strangled ‘mm-hm,’ but you can’t get settled. You keep shifting on his lap, trying not to give away how bothered you are. Every time your mind drifts, you think about Oliver’s hand creeping up your leg and- 

You wriggle again. 

“Stop that,” he says. His voice is stern. “Don’t make me hold you down.” 

“Sorry,” you squeak. He sounds weird. Strangled. 

You feel something hard pressing against the underside of your leg and try to adjust again. Oliver hisses and pulls you against him, his arms like a straitjacket. 

“I said stop,” he hisses in your ear. 

The realization dawns on you like ice down your back. 

He’s hard. 

You can feel it through his pants. 

When you get to the restaurant, you practically jump off of him. He discreetly adjusts his cock in his trousers and runs off to the bathroom. By the time he returns, Mrs. Aiku has given up on waiting and already ordered for him. 

They’re a close family. She knows him. And, she says fondly, a hand over yours, she knows you. 

It’s nice to be loved like that. 

You’re sitting on the steps outside their house, waiting for Oliver to grab his coat to drive you home, when he sits down next to you. “Just give me a second,” he says. “Let’s not go yet.” 

You lean his head on his shoulder. It’s surprisingly easy to act like nothing ever happened in the car. Your body naturally relaxes around him. 

But even with all your defenses down, Oliver doesn’t take advantage of them, when you know for a fact that he would pounce on some other girl. 

Does he think you’re ugly? Or too inexperienced? 

Well, one of those you can fix. 

“You don’t know how to kiss, do you?” Says the stranger. His lips pull in a smile and you’re aware that he’s laughing at you. 

You don’t know why you ever thought you could do this without Oliver, not when he’s spoiled you your whole life. You’re too used to being pampered to strike out on your own. 

In his apartment, a mug of hot tea warms your palms. You’re not going to drink it, it’s just nice to have. You trace the contours of a cartoon face, some gift you brought back from it when you visited his sister abroad, and let him scold you. 

You deserve it, you think, for being such an idiot about this. But Oliver always reduces you into stupidity.

“Why,” Oliver looks exasperated, “did you let some random guy you don’t even like kiss you?” 

You didn’t cry when you were at the cafe and the guy you met on some dating app was publicly laughing at your inexperience, your sloppy way of kissing, but for some reason, Oliver’s sharp tone makes tears well up in your eyes. It’s not like you expected him to be on your side - you knew he was going to tease you at the very least - but you’ve had a bad day and it hurts. 

You don’t want to be chastised right now, you want to be cuddled.  

“I’m sorry,” he softens. “I’m not being fair. I’m sorry, baby, I’m not blaming you, don’t cry. It’s not your fault.” 

Your lip trembles as you try uselessly to stay composed. You want him to hold you and tell you everything will be alright. 

He does something similar, but not quite. 

“Could’ve just asked me,” he jokes. Then he reaches over and grips your chin, tugging your head around a little. “Pay attention. I see your expression. I’m being serious, you should’ve asked me. I would’ve treated you right, not some random guy.” 

“Right,” you roll your eyes. Oliver has never been interested in you, which is why you had to find someone else in the first place. 

He forces you to look at him again by his hold on your face, not letting you hide from him. Your face burns with embarrassment, staring dead into his eyes. He looks horribly sincere and it cuts through you like a knife. 

“When have I ever lied to you?” His voice is soft in a way it only gets for you. “Come on, baby. I’ll show you how to kiss. I’d rather it be me than some random.” 

“Really?”

“Just think about it like practice, okay?” 

He guides you to his couch, familiar for your platonic movie nights and cuddles, but this time, he tugs you down into his lap. You collapse onto him with a startled ‘oof,’ as he wraps his arms around your waist and nuzzles into your hair. 

“Just practice, okay?” He reiterates, as if he needs you to confirm. 

“Uh-huh,” your voice shakes. He’s so close, and so warm, and he smells incredible, woody and spicy and masculine. He laughs under his breath, laughing more when you kick him. 

“Stop,” you plead, “I don’t know how! Don’t make fun of me…” 

He rests his cheek against yours as your voice tapers off. “I’m not laughing at you, honey,” he coos, “don’t be upset with me. You’re just so cute.” 

You hit him again. 

“So-“ He grabs your chin between two fingers and jerks you around a little, watching the way you struggle to keep up with him. “Eager. Like a puppy. You don’t know how to clean up your own messes yet, right, baby?” 

He kisses your pout away. “Ah-ah,” he murmurs. “There you go again. Match my pace.” 

But you want more and you let him know it, trying to slip your way into his mouth so you can suck on his tongue again. It feels good in a way that makes you a little ashamed of yourself, wet in your panties from a little kissing. You can imagine how you look from his perspective, drooling into his mouth, panting and messy with saliva smeared across your lips. 

You know you shouldn’t be acting like this, but this sloppy kissing only makes you burn hotter. The back of your neck is flushed with desire. You almost feel scalded by wanting, feeling the hardness of his body pressed up against yours, the strength of his thighs underneath your legs, the iron grip of his fingers, toying at first with the edge of your shirt, brushing against your skin in fleeting butterfly kisses, before finally giving in and branding you, digging into your soft skin. 

Losing control like this is something you’re not used to, but you’re so desperate you can’t help yourself. You’re scared he can hear the sticky slide of your thighs against each other even though you know it’s just your imagination. Even if logically you understand this to be an impossibility, feeling so good you can’t control yourself has you throbbing. Your cunt feels like a second pulse between your legs, drooling pitifully with want. 

He pulls back again to your discontent. You can practically visualize steam rising off your heated body with the way you melt against him, more of a vessel for desire than a real girl. 

“Slow down,” he murmurs, pressing a chaste, close mouthed kiss to your lips against your cries for more. His hands skim your sides lightly, fleeting touches that disappear and reappear. “It’ll feel better if you let it build.” 

But you’re so feverish you can’t think, reduced to nothing but exposed nerve endings that need touch, need him. He moans into your mouth, finally letting you suck on his tongue again. His free hand comes up to wipe at the drool that’s dripping out of one corner of your lips, popping his thumb into his mouth to lap it away. 

You can’t help your teary eyed face or the sniffles, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He angles his head so he can kiss you harder. You hate to admit it, but he’s right. Letting it slowly build makes this so much hotter, his hands in your hair, lightly scratching your scalp as he kisses you like he’s starving. You suck in air through your nose desperately, still feeling short of breath and almost high as he presses your body into his like he could eat you alive. 

It doesn’t feel like kissing anymore. It feels like he’s trying to erase what makes you you and him him, to break down everything the two of you are until you can become one full being. 

You so distracted you don’t even notice what you’re doing until he bounces his leg a little, helping you grind against him. 

That sends shock jolting down your spine like an ice bath. He wraps his arm around you, locking you down in what might as well be a steel cage for how helpless you are against him, preventing you from clambering off his lap. 

“It’s okay,” he coos. “Aw, baby, my baby, don’t look so upset, nothing’s wrong. You’re just a little excited, that’s all,” and he drags you back down so he can bounce his leg for you again, watching the way you gasp and droop against his arm for support. He’s practically holding you up, his arm stiff behind your back as he lets you grind almost mindlessly against his thigh. 

“There you go,” he murmurs, “don’t stop, it’s okay.” 

His voice is syrupy sweet, almost condescending - no, definitely condescending, like he can get you off better than you can. 

And you believe it, trying to stop yourself, even though it feels so good that you can’t keep yourself from humping his leg even as your brain tries to scream at you to stop, that this is too far past ‘just practice.’ 

He lets you grind on his thigh like that for a while before you notice, too focused on chasing your own pleasure to be fully aware of anything else. You can feel him hard under you, accentuated by the fact that he’s obviously trying to subtly shift your weight off his dick directly so you don’t notice. You settle in, watching him with wide, innocent eyes. He exhales softly, trying to control the rasp in his voice as he politely asks you to get off him. He knows he’s caught. 

“Who’s excited now?” You laugh softly. A thought strikes you. He shivers as you blow cool air into his ear, his head tipped back, throat exposed. You can see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. 

“You minx,” he mutters against you, a complaint accentuated by nipping your lower lip. “I didn’t make fun of you.” 

“Your loss,” you shrug. “It’s so fun,” and you bear your weight down against him again until he whines, straining up against you. That feels good enough that you have to grip his shoulder again for purchase, feeling his heat press up against the sticky mess of your panties. 

“Stop, you have to get off,” he chokes out. “I’m not going to- Please, I’m going to-“ 

“Why?” You frown. “I want to.” 

“Come on baby,” he says. “You’re going to make me cum in my pants. Get off.” 

You roll your hips down against him again and again, shuddering as you feel yourself leak more. He jolts against you, straining against his jeans. You can see a wet spot where you’ve pressed against him. 

“Yes-s-s,” your voice is staccato in delivery. “Please.” 

He grips your waist so hard you can’t move. You can feel your skin bruising under his fingers, surprising yourself with how much you want it. 

“Don’t do this,” he says softly. “I’ll take advantage of you.” 

“You’re killing the mood,” you snap back. “If you don’t, I’ll find someone who-“ 

It’s an empty threat, but his eyes narrow. He says nothing, just dips his head to your neck. The first graze of his tongue across your skin makes you jerk with surprise, but then it’s warm and wet and pleasurable and a little painful. Each brush of his lips brings an electric shock with it that feels heady. 

He’s trying to distract you. It’s working. 

“Inside,” you whimper. “Please? Please?” 

You sound pathetic. You sound desperate. You can’t help it, can’t even make a more convincing argument with all the blood in your brain migrating somewhere else. 

“No,” he groans. “Fine, just stay- just like this.” 

His hands move your hips until you’re grinding with him, rocking down into each thrust upwards. It builds and builds, a pressurized heat in your stomach that feels almost like fear, until you swear your whole body is thrumming with a force that you can’t explain. 

Oliver’s relentless, each thrust matching the way he drags you down until your clit hits the fly of his jeans, the friction sweet. “F-fuck,” he grunts. “You feel so good, you’re so pretty, so good for me.” 

You nod helplessly, riding the motion of his arms and legs, letting him do all the work. He shows you how to do it. He’s always led the way you for you, let you hide in his shadow as he was brave. 

He smells so good. You don’t know why this, of all things, is the only coherent thought in your head. 

You can’t speak, can barely breathe, robbed of anything but this steady, building pressure inside of you, beautiful and thorned and dangerous. You don’t know what’s going to happen when it breaks, but you your blood feels like it’s been spiked. 

He makes it first, yelping as his hips stutter against you, then falter. You can feel his cock twitching under you, but he doesn’t move.  

“Oliver?” Your voice is too loud in the silence. You’re almost annoyed by the interruption - you were so close. Your brain wants to go back to pleasurable mush, that fuzzy, colorful, sparking world of satisfaction. 

“Give me a second,” he gasps. “I think I just came in my pants.”

You tilt your head in a way you know he’ll find cute and grind experimentally down. 

He grabs your waist immediately. “You little brat,” he says, more amused than angry. “Stop that, I’m sensitive.” 

You pout. “What about me?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he says. “Of course I’ll take care of you.” 

Your panties are translucent, outlining the contours of your pussy. Oliver groans and presses his fingers up against the wet fabric, playing with you through it until you squeal and snap your thighs shut around his hand. He runs a soothing hand over the soft flesh of your outer thigh, shifts the soaked gusset aside so he can press in deeper, and keeps going until you’re whining and sobbing and making all sorts of noises that sound more at home from an animal than a person, but he doesn’t seem disgusted. If anything, it spurs him on, trying to coax you into completely breaking down. 

You slump forward against him, spent, and he turns his head a little so he can brush your hair over one shoulder and press a brief, soft kiss against your neck. His fingers toy idly with the hem of your now destroyed panties, occasionally brushing against your clit in a way that sends a painfully pleasurable zing up your spine. 

“Should I give you a taste of your own medicine?” 

You shiver and shake your head, still wondering even as you deny it if you can take more, but he laughs against you, husky and low. 

“I know baby, I know. No more.” 

[daimus]

sera, 20

@seravphs 18+ blog | MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | put your age in your bio or I block