i, sr archivald Duke the III, formally request a fanmade piece of fiction which would include oliver from fpe. I would like it to be spicy. transmale reader who is insecure. please get back to this in a timely manner and inform me if my request cannot be taken care of. good day.
summary. Oliver doesn’t care if you’re ashamed of your body; he’ll make sure you know just how much he enjoys ruining you anyway.
a/n. thank you for the request!! i hope i was able to fulfill it :3
The train rocked beneath you, the dim glow of the overhead light casting flickering shadows across the cramped compartment. Your back pressed against the cold wall as Oliver stood before you, one gloved hand braced beside your head, the other idly twirling his cane between his fingers.
"You look nervous," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. "How adorable."
Your stomach twisted. You weren't sure if it was from the way his eyes raked over you—mocking, analyzing, drinking you in like something to be toyed with—or from the slow realization that you had nowhere to run.
He tilted his head, studying you like an insect pinned beneath glass. "You're always so quiet around me," he mused. "It's endearing, really. Makes it so much easier to read you." His voice dipped, his smirk widening. "So much easier to pull you apart."
Your breath hitched, and that was all the confirmation he needed.
A sharp, gloved finger traced along your jaw, slow, deliberate, as if savoring the reaction. You flinched at first, but Oliver only laughed at that, his breath fanning against your cheek.
"Skittish little thing," he purred, pressing in just enough for you to feel the heat of his body against yours. "Tell me, is it because of this?" His fingers trailed downward, lingering just at the collar of your shirt, toying with the fabric. "Or this?" The way his hand ghosted over your chest, barely touching, yet still making your breath hitch.
He knew. Of course, he knew.
Your body tensed, shame curling hot in your gut. You wanted to shove him away, to run, but his touch was calculated—just light enough to make you question whether you wanted him to stop.
"You're holding your breath," Oliver pointed out, his voice feather-light, teasing. "How precious. What are you afraid of, hmm?" His lips curled into a smirk, eyes flickering to yours. "That I'll see you for what you really are?"
Your stomach twisted, your throat tightening with something that felt dangerously close to humiliation.
Oliver only laughed—low, breathy, like he'd just heard the most delightful joke. "Oh, I do love how easy you are to fluster," he sighed. His hand trailed lower, fingers grazing over the curve of your waist, pressing just enough to make you shiver. "If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you like this."
You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
Oliver, of course, saw right through you.
"Aww, don't go all shy on me now," he cooed, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "You do like it, don’t you?" His gloved fingers caught your chin, tilting your head up to force you to meet his gaze. "Go on, say it."
Your breath came quick, uneven. You couldn't.
But your silence was all the answer he needed.
Oliver grinned, leaning in just enough that your lips nearly brushed. "Good boy."
And then, just as quickly as he'd cornered you, he pulled away, smoothing down his vest as if nothing had happened at all.
"Try not to look so tempting next time, darling," he mused, his smirk sharp as ever. "Unless, of course, you want me to break you."
Then he was gone, leaving you breathless, trembling, and aching for something you weren’t sure you should want.