fever
|| oliver aiku x reader || M/18+ || step dad oliver || wc: 1.6 || ao3 ||
Your mother remarries. You aren't sure how to feel about your stepfather.
minors, antis and ageless blogs dni
notes: aaaah this one was a comm for beloved @rabbbitseason!!! weird, affectionate stepfather oliver... sighs dreamily. pleaseeee mind the tags on this one!! pseudo incest crazy style, no smut but Clearly oliver is going through something.
CWs: dark content, gender neutral reader, step father oliver, pseudo incest, light infantilization, sick fic (a little), oliver is implied to be 40s, reader is implied to be in their 20s
You’re really not sure what to think of your stepdad.
He’s like— fine. Your mother likes him, and he seems to treat her well enough. You were living with her when the two married, and subsequently, you moved into his big, stupidly large mansion that he really had no business living alone in. This part of your new stepdad is very nice.
Your bedroom has an east-facing balcony. The tub in your en suite bathroom could easily fit three people. There’s a fucking spiral staircase down to a wine cellar that’s the size of your old apartment in its entirety.
And, the best part, a large pool out back. Perfect for the hottest summer on record that you’re currently in the midst of. You’ve been greatly enjoying laying out in the sun and occasionally dipping your toes in for a quick swim.
Your stepdad likes to join you.
It’s a little weird. Extra weird, because your mom hasn’t been around lately. A new job, business trips, making bank that she doesn’t need to make anymore because her new husband is a retired professional athlete and has such an asinine amount of money in his pocket that whatever she makes is paltry by comparison. It’s the thought that counts. You hope she retires early now, at least.
But that leaves you at home, with your stepdad. Oliver.
(You’re an adult, he’s not really your dad. You don’t need a dad, you’ve been doing fine without for quite some time, thank you very much.)
So, it’s cloying and uncomfortable when Oliver asserts that he is, even when you think he means it playfully.
He invites you grocery shopping just so he can walk you around the store like you’re in grade school and not a recent college graduate. He holds your hand when you cross the parking lot and doesn’t let go until he’s opening the car door for you. He always buckles your seatbelt for you, too. You can’t even count the number of times that you’ve told him to fucking quit it—
But he never does, he always just responds with the same thing.
“Oh, it’s alright. There’s nothing wrong with letting me take care of you a bit, is there?”
It makes a weird heat curl in your belly.
It doesn’t help that Oliver is hot.
Like, not just in the salt-and-pepper, silver fox kind of way, but really hot. It makes sense, given that he was a professional athlete with a bit of a modeling career, prior to his retirement (or so your research says). He has a strong jaw, cut, and always keeps stubble on his chin and cheeks in a way that’s straddling scruffy and attractive. He dresses well at home, linens and expensive-looking lounge clothes in the mornings (well, lounge pants. The guy is allergic to wearing a shirt before 10 AM.)
Your friends made horrific comments when your mother got married. They teased and jeered about your ‘new dilf-y stepdad’ and you did threaten murder more than once— but they’re not— ugh, they’re not wrong.
Oliver is also nice. You’re reticent to admit this. But he is, in fact, very nice. You’re a full adult, yet he put you up without question. You haven’t paid a single bill since moving in with him. Not food, car, or even your cellphone bill. He slips cash into your purse whenever he finds it open, left unattended.
He’s actually kind.
He always waits up for you on the nights you go into the city to dance and drink. He checks in on you throughout the evening, comes when you hail him, and takes you to procure whatever drunken munchie you desire. He gets a little soft-eyed when he cracks a condensation-covered water bottle for you to chug when he picks you up from the bar, still drunk.
He sits with you during breakfast. Compliments whatever atrocity you attempt to make in his lavish kitchen, never mind how the marble countertops will need a comically thorough wipedown from the mess you make. Oliver will help, he always does, he makes a point to. He’ll put a hand on the small of your back, slip by (maybe just a little too close), and stretch over the top of his kitchen island to clean up any warzone you leave behind.
It stirs something in you. It makes you feel dirty and weird, and you wish it would just go away.
...
You get sick in the middle of winter. Oliver is gone for some soccer club reunion, and your mother is overseas. That leaves you, rotting, in your bed with every curtain in your room drawn tightly shut. The only light is from a star light in the corner, washing your room in oscillating blue ripples. It’s like you're underwater. With how high your fever is, you might as well be. You hate being sick, you hate being sick alone, even if that’s what you’re used to.
You shove your face into your pillow and wheeze.
Your ears ring, but you’re pretty sure you hear someone downstairs. Maybe. There’s a documentary playing on your TV in the corner, and that could be the source of the noise. It doesn’t seem important enough to worry about.
Everything is blurry, all sticking together. Your head pounds, and your mouth is too dry and too wet all at once. Chills wrack your body, and the pajamas and duvet you’re hiding under do nothing to dull them. You whimper, maybe.
Your mattress dips down.
There’s a chilled hand that brushes over the barest bit of your exposed cheek. You flinch away from it, your body aching with the motion.
“Hey, sweetheart.” It’s Oliver, his voice a coo that soothes something animal and helpless in your heart. “Not feeling well?”
You shake your head, not wanting to speak.
He hums, another coo, a few more words maybe, and he’s tugging the duvet down to your collarbones. The back of his hand is laid over your forehead. He clicks his tongue.
“You’re burning up,” Oliver says, voice a few degrees more gentle. “Poor thing.”
“Hurts,” you croak out.
“Oh, baby.” His voice sounds distorted— good. The tone he’s using rolls down your spine, chasing off the chill more than anything you’ve tried. With a great amount of effort, you crack your eyes open. They’re so dry, everything fucking hurts. And Oliver is looking down at you with an expression of unfettered concern. Maybe something else, too, but you’re too fever-addled to identify what else lies there.
He pets your cheek, rubs under your eye. “You’re in rough shape, aren’t you?”
“Mhm.” You lean into his touch, basking in it.
Oliver's face is so soft, in the lighting of the room, gazing down at you. His touch drifts from your face down to your jaw, then to your neck. His fingers catch on the old layer of sweat there.
“You’re a bit of a mess,” he says sweetly, voice still a little rough somehow.
“D-Don’t say it like that…”
“It’s alright,” Oliver laughs, squeezing your shoulder. He’s still petting you, touch drifting under the straps of your tank top. It’s weird for him to be touching you so much, but it feels nice. You don’t want him to stop. “I’ll make something quick for you downstairs and get some medicine, okay? Have you taken anything?”
You shake your head.
Oliver looks so incredibly fond. Too fond, even, as his touch drifts to your chest. He walks his fingers over your bare sternum.
“I’ll take care of you,” he tells you. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”
It’s not, you want to say, but you can’t make yourself. He feels too nice.
Oliver draws away, probably back to the kitchen to make you some warm soup or something homey. His absence makes you feel untethered. You whine in the back of your throat.
He pauses at the door; your vision blurs.
“Don’t go,” you say, all soft and weak and breaking.
Oliver idles there for a moment. You hear something that must him swallowing. Then, he’s returning to your bedside, running a hand through your hair.
“A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt,” Oliver says. It doesn’t sound like he’s talking to you, more like himself.
With a herculean amount of effort, you scoot a few inches in on your bed. Looking up at him with your undoubtedly bloodshot eyes, you whine again. Please.
Oliver stalls, waits by your bedside, before sliding next to you. He smells like the expensive cologne he always wears and the detergent you got him to use. He’s warm, so fucking warm. You glue yourself to his side.
He shifts so your cheek is against his chest, near the exposed bit of pecs from his partially unbuttoned shirt. His arm loops around your waist, hikes you closer so you’re more draped over him than not.
You settle, closing your eyes, it hurts less that way. He strokes down your side, hand slipping beneath the bottom of your flimsy top.
“God,” he laughs under his breath, breathes through his teeth. “You make this so hard, you know what?”
You sniffle, confused.
“I make what hard?”
Oliver squeezes you and nuzzles his nose into your hair. Inhales. Exhales, all slow like a syrup that you can feel down your burning throat.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart.” He presses his lips to your forehead and lingers. It makes something curl in your guts, hotter than your fever, and a little scary. “I've got you, okay?”
“Okay.” You concede. It’s easy to.
You curl around him, breathing from your mouth with dry, cracking lips, a low doze finding you easily. He’s so warm, so comfortable. It’s fine that he impresses so much on you; it’s not bad, is it?
It can’t be if it feels this good.
