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fairyysoup · 9 months ago

Text

easy living

pairing: eric (a quiet place: day one) x fem!reader

summary: You ran into Eric on accident. Now you're facing the end of the world together. How do you get to know someone when you can't make a sound?

tags: smut, oral (f receiving), dry humping, piv sex, silent fucking, angst, hurt/comfort, survival, discussions of trauma, slight suicidal ideation by reader, words of affirmation as a love language, stay silent or die (obviously), strangers to lovers, apocalyptic, the cheesiest ending bc it's me writing, billie holiday lyrics bc it's also me writing

a/n: here it is, the silent fucking fic i promised y'all a year ago when this movie was announced. it was supposed to be like 1-2k words of plain smut but then I got too into the theory of what one does when you can't show affection through words and I genuinely discovered a tidbit of trauma I didn't know I had while writing it so I will be talking to a therapist about it, and also I'm literally out here baring my soul lol.

i also want to thank @bigtiddythanos @raraeavesmoriendi and @maximoffwxnda for supporting me throughout this writing process <3 this fic literally would not have been finished or published without y'all

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

The rain has ended. Morose, you stare up at the ceiling, wondering when you’ll get something close to free reign with your voice again.

Of course the world had to end while you were at fucking Whole Foods.

You’ll miss certain things. Things you always took for granted, that you never even considered made a lot of noise until now. Typing on the computer. Making stir fry. Microwaving a burrito at 3am. Lighting a match, washing your face. Taking a shower.

And other things, too, that are more obvious, like singing while making cookies. Slurping the bottom of a milkshake. You’ll never be able to have a pet bird. You’ll never be able to see another concert again, and damn it if you didn’t really want those Glastonbury tickets a month ago. But it all just seems trivial, now. You don’t see why you shouldn’t just lay here on the couch forever.

On the other side of the coffee table there’s a gentle shuffling. Eric rouses as quietly as he can; at the very least, your apartment creates a hospitable enough environment that he isn’t startled awake. It’s so silent in the apartment that you can hear the slight shift in his intake of breath, the rustle of the pillow as he turns his head to look at you.

You want to look at him, but you fear that you’ll end up wanting to talk. So, you say nothing. You do nothing. You stare at the white paint on the ceiling and you wonder whether it would be better to get on one of the boats headed out into the water, or to move inland, away from people, away from sound. There has to be somewhere far enough away from the city that the… creatures won’t go, right?

Eric waves his hand in your periphery, so that you have no choice but to acknowledge that you know he’s awake. You have no choice but to turn your head and look into the depths of his eyes, and feel all the pain of the last 48 hours return to you. You’d been able to talk last night, just enough, in time with the rain and the thunder– enough to learn that he has family across the world.

You can’t imagine knowing that somewhere, across an ocean and half a world away, your parents may or may not be dead. No way to contact them, no way to know what’s become of them. You can’t even begin to fathom the fear that he’s feeling, as much as you’re despairing.

Eric’s big eyes tell you everything. Sadness and fear, and trying to grasp at the smallest hint of normalcy he can get. He blinks at you, and mouths, You okay?

No, you’re definitely not okay. Things are not okay. Things are broken and can’t be fixed. Things will never be the same again. He knows that, as much as you know that. But you nod anyway, even though you feel your heart beat a little bit slower than usual, like it wants to just go ahead and give up already. Tears prick at your eyes, and you have to close them before you let on that you’re lying.

Eric knows you’re lying, of course. How could anyone be okay, in this kind of situation? But he waits until you open your eyes, and then he mouths, Coffee?

You let out a small sigh of relief, and a smile that’s indescribably warm crosses your face. Even though he can’t make a sound, he knows exactly what to say.

You don’t have a coffee maker that doesn’t also make a ton of noise. But through some kind of witchcraft, Eric quietly empties two k-cups into a glass measuring cup and boils a soup pot full of water on the stove, and suddenly you have hot coffee in front of you.

On a notepad left on the counter, you write, Wish I had some tea for you.

Eric’s lips turn up at the edges, and he takes the pen from you. You’re able to doctor your coffee for about one second before he slides the notepad back to you.

Bloody American.

Your ensuing huff of a laugh is enough to make him turn pink around the ears, and he turns to place the dirty measuring cup into the sink. He reaches for the faucet, but then thinks better of it. You’ll have to figure out how to wash the dishes later.

You both drink your coffee in silence on the couch. You never considered yourself uncomfortable with silence; you’ve lived alone, you’ve gone for weeks without uttering a word before. But it’s so difficult to be sitting next to someone– someone you feel you could really get to like– and not be able to say a word. To make a sound, laugh or cry or snort or grunt.

You’ll never be able to know what Eric’s laugh sounds like, or listen to his favorite song with him, or watch some stupid rerun of Friends with him while ignoring your responsibilities. He’s right there next to you, he’s risked his life to save you once already, and yet he’s so far away. You’ll never get to know him in all the ways you want to. Will you ever really know him at all?

He’d created a diversion when one of the fucking things had you trapped in a corner, between a dumpster and a brick wall. He chucked a rock at a car and set off an alarm, and then ran with you down an alleyway, his arm wrapped tight around your waist. Eric looked so sad, following you like a lost puppy. He was fucking drenched, too, so you know he’d probably been through one hell of a morning. And then the rain started, and the creatures were confused and… well, you weren’t just gonna leave him, scared and alone.

You, too, were scared and alone.

Eric’s hand appears to brush away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek, betraying your internal monologue. You look to him with puffy eyes, and he pulls his hand away, suddenly unsure of whether you’re okay with such an intimate gesture.

Your coffee cup meets the table with a quiet tap. You’re slow to move, but you scoot towards him, his arm still outstretched towards you, his eyes wide. Eric has the prettiest eyes in the world, you think. You want to tell him so.

But you’re a little too choked up to form words, anyways. Your forehead meets Eric’s shoulder, and his arm comes around you before you can huff the first silent sob that brims up. He coos softly into your hair, so softly that you can barely hear it, but it conveys enough. It does enough.

The world is fucked. Your life is fucked. You have tunnel vision and you can only see things getting worse from here on; the only good thing you know anymore is holding you and caressing your head so gently that it pushes your tears out for you.

You’ll never get to see a movie in a theater, and smell the stale popcorn again. You’ll never drive down the highway with the wind in your hair. You’ll never ride a roller coaster or sing karaoke. You’ll never go to a club and have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger in a bathroom.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” You whisper, so faintly that it’s barely above a breath, your lips pressed to the shell of his ear. “To try to exist in a world where you have to pretend like you don’t exist?”

Eric pauses, holding you to him. You can see the wheels turning in his head, while he tries to figure out what to say. Then he turns his face to put his lips against your ear, the same way you’d done to him.

“I think it’s worth it to try to survive.” His breath tickles your skin when he whispers, “So survive with me, yeah?”

You nod solemnly, your tears threatening to rise up again. “I can’t stand not talking to you.” It’s so hard to keep your voice from cracking, from rising above the merest hint of a whisper, directly to him and no one or nothing else.

Eric takes it in stride. “You are talking to me.” He pulls back and bats his eyelashes, and you think, he oughta fucking know what that does to me.

“Not like this,” you breathe to him, because that’s really what it is– it’s a breath. A sigh. A gust of air and nothing else, barely anything that registers on your vocal chords. Your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. His hand, tightening on the middle of your back, holding you there. “I want to talk– I want to get to know you.”

“Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Eric turns his head. His forehead nudges yours at the temple, and you swear you see a flash of a smile on his face. “What do you want to know?”

His forefinger traces up and down, up and down, a gentle pattern that keeps you grounded. You bite your lip, trying to keep from letting the sounds come out too loud. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Easy Living. Billie Holiday.”

“You’re kidding.” You’re blushing, hot in the cheeks. You’re imagining it; slow dancing in the kitchen with him while oldies plays on the radio. You didn’t think such an innocent question would send you spiraling like this, but it hurts worse to know that it will probably never happen.

“Absolutely not.”

“Somehow… I can’t picture you listening to jazz.”

“Picture it all you want,” he whispers. Eric swallows, and continues, “My granddad used to have these records, and we used to play them on Christmas. But when– when he died, the records went missing. I couldn’t find the song until a couple years ago,” he explains, and his voice cracks just slightly into a murmur.

You both freeze. You wait for the sound of creatures coming down the hallway, busting down the walls… nothing happens. You let out a breath, and you pull his face closer to yours. His eyes flick over your face, and you put your lips against his ear.

“You have to be so quiet. Can you do that for me?” Eric nods in your hands. “I wish we could do anything but this. I wish that we could have met in better circumstances. I wish… I wish I had known you before all of this. I think we would have had a lot of fun. But if this is the only way I can get to know you, and hear your voice now, I’ll take it.” You’re nodding as well now, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “I’m telling you this because I don’t know how long we have. Together, I mean. And I don’t want to waste it passing notes. Okay?”

“Okay.” He sounds clipped. His hand fidgets on your back, and you pull away to find him misty-eyed, his brows turned up. He fishes for words that don’t come, and then he nods. “Okay.”

Neither of you move. The atmosphere around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing in on all sides. Eric’s hand slides up your back and to your face, and you remember that you’re still holding his. You’re near sitting in his lap with how close you’ve become, and the realization of that feels like a punch to the gut.

You think you should pull away. You don’t.

Eric’s thumb traces a gentle arc across your bottom lip. It’s so featherlight it’s barely there– his eyes are honed in on your mouth, clearly lost in thought. You’d let him stay there as long as he wants, but you want every minute you can get. “Eric–”

He closes the gap and kisses you. The way you’d said his name– or not said it, rather, you sort of mouthed it against his thumb– had done the job you wanted it to. It feels like this was the obvious conclusion to the system you’d worked out, the close proximity and your shared fears. He’s scared, he said as much last night. You’re scared, you said so just now.

Nowhere to go, nothing else to do except be right here, living. Alive, together. Kissing Eric, and him pulling you close by the waist, so that you do swing your leg and seat yourself in his lap. And as much as you love talking, and it breaks your heart that you can’t jabber at him, there are some things you just can’t put into words. Like the way that his hand on the back of your neck lights you up inside, or that you can’t think of anything other than all the areas where his skin is touching yours, and how you suddenly wish there was way more of them.

It’s stupid how much you like him already, really. You can feel your nonexistent friends clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, saying, “One day? That’s all it takes? You find some guy at the end of the world and you fall in love in 24 hours?” And they’d be right– maybe it’s not love. Not yet, anyways. But you could see it easily becoming that. And that fact scares you even more.

Your hands find Eric’s chest and the frantic beating of his heart tells you nearly the same thing. You break the kiss, trying to quietly catch your breath without gasping like you’re half-drowning. It’s harder than you expected.

“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Eric whispers. And just like that you’re falling again, faster this time, like he’s just melted your wings right off and sent you plummeting.

You struggle to keep from gasping aloud when he kisses your jaw, just beneath your ear. It’s the lightest touch but you swear it burns, sears your skin.

Your hands find the back of the couch, twitchy fingers digging in to keep you steady. Your mouth finds his again, his tongue tasting of coffee, and Eric kisses you a bit harder now, a bit sloppier.

Breaking away, you open your eyes to find his wide, starstruck, his mouth hanging open like he’s been shocked beyond belief. You didn’t honestly intend for this to happen– you wanted to talk. But somehow this seems better, more appropriate.

How do you get your feelings across when talking isn’t really an option? When innocent attraction becomes… whatever this is?

You press a single finger to his plush lips, signaling exactly what you mean without a word. Quiet.

Eric purses his lips, kisses your finger without breaking eye contact. His pupils are blown out so far that the barest hint of golden brown surrounds them, glinting in the sunlight from the window.

You lean forward, until your mouth touches his ear. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Eric,” you whisper to him, and your teeth latch onto his earlobe to tug gently. You can’t help it– you grind your hips down into his lap, without even thinking of doing it. “You’re so pretty.”

Eric whimpers. It’s a soft sound, hollow in the back of his throat, but it’s still too loud for the world that you’re in. You clamp your hand down over his mouth, and his breath comes out sharp and hot over your knuckles as he tries to regain composure.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask him, whispering gently in his ear. Against you, he shakes his head no. “Want me to keep going?” Eric nods his head yes.

He’s shaking under you, his fingertips digging into your lower back like he can’t hold onto you hard enough. At the thought, your pulse pounds, blood positively humming through your veins.

You nuzzle his cheek, and give him the sweetest kiss you can while your hand is still clamped over his mouth insistently. “You have to be. Fucking. Silent. Do you understand?” He nods. “We can’t make a sound. Okay?”

Eric nods again, and keeps nodding until you let him go. If the rain was still pouring like earlier, you could tell him how much you want him, too. How you don’t want to be mean, you just don’t want to get hurt. This is a bad idea, all things considered. But Eric slides his hand down and cups your ass to lift you up a bit, and the words bad and idea suddenly fucking vanish from your vocabulary.

You stand long enough to kick off your sweats, your day old panties going down with them. You hadn’t dressed to be sexy yesterday, you dressed to get groceries. You don’t necessarily want Eric to see your faded cotton underwear with the stretched out elastic and multiple frayed holes. You don’t think it would add to your sex appeal right now.

He doesn’t notice the lack of a strip tease– he’s already taking you by the hips, not even waiting for you to shuck your t-shirt. He pulls until you’re stood in front of him, and then hooks your leg over his shoulder.

So. Eric doesn’t need to be asked to go down on you, he just does. The gentleman. His hands are firm on your ass as he nuzzles into the patch of hair between your legs, and the precarious balancing act makes you snatch onto the back of the couch again.

His tongue glides through the folds of your pussy slowly, methodically. You aren’t sure if he wants to take his time, or if he’s going slow so that he doesn’t make too much noise when doing it, but he latches onto your clit and sucks agonizingly softly, like he knows he should do it harder but won’t risk making you moan.

It’s so gentle, and it builds. Pretty soon, you’re having a tough time keeping your whimpers in, even when he’s basically just teasing you, flicking his tongue over your clit with even the barest pressure. Your head has fallen back on your shoulders, your hand now clasped over your own mouth to stifle your sighs.

Then, Eric’s hand glides up to splay across your lower back, and he sucks long and hard at your clit, and your hand squeezes murderously at the back of the couch while you ride out your orgasm on his tongue.

Knees buckling, you collapse into Eric’s lap. He has a doe-eyed look on his face that’s way too innocent after what he just did to you. With panting breath and shaking hands, you cup his rosy cheeks in your palms, shaking your head in disbelief.

Eric’s brows tilt in worry, like he did something wrong. He opens his mouth, but you put your fingers against his lips to silence him, and lean forward to breathe, “You’re too sweet for me, Eric.”

He traces his fingers lightly up your spine, and turns his head. “Maybe one day I won’t have to be sweet. Maybe then I can really fuck you.”

The sound of his whispering voice in your ear makes you shiver, your lust reaching a boiling point. The idea of him really fucking you– that this isn’t even him as normal, that he’s having to hold so much back– makes you burn hot all at once. That this isn’t something he’s planning on doing once. That there’s a ‘one day’ that he sees in the future with you in it.

With a nod, your breath catches in your throat. You find your way to his mouth again, kissing him desperately. You can taste yourself lingering on his lips, and your hips rock forward against his again.

Eric inhales sharply, stifling his own moan. You guess you have to take it just as slowly as he did, ease him into it. You work your hand beneath his unbuttoned fly and palm him, keeping your touch gentle against his hot skin. He shakes, his hands laid out against your spine, his eyes sparkling when he looks up at you.

You push your forehead against his as you sink onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his size. His breath stutters as he tries to keep quiet, small puffs of air spilling out and meeting your electrified skin. You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, rocking your hips just barely, settling into his lap.

This is more intimate than you can ever remember being with anyone, but right now it just feels right. Maybe it could be cathartic to fuck like a couple of animals in the face of doom, but Eric pulls your body flush against his, one strong forearm around your waist, and his nose nudges yours, and you think this is better. This is what you both need. Closeness. Sweetness.

There isn’t a lot of movement– you can’t risk it. You and Eric seem to be in agreement on that, because as soon as you start trying to move in earnest, he just pulls you back to him, his arm around your waist and his hand petting the back of your head.

Eric rocks his hips up into yours slowly, deeply, and it’s the depth of it and the slow sensuality that keeps you floating. Your clit catches on the patch of hair at the base of his cock each time you roll your hips with him, and you have to kiss him to keep from keening aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind it.

You know he’s close when he tucks his face against your neck, his arm tightening around you. “Feels so fucking good,” comes his whine in your ear, and you gently shush him, your hand resting on the back of his head to keep him muffled against your shoulder. You want so badly to look at his face when he cums, but there’s that pesky issue of staying alive, and that hinges on whether or not he can keep quiet when he does.

To his credit, he bites your shoulder and only whimpers a little bit. It’s just a squeak, but really, he could have been much louder about it, and then you would have both been in trouble. Imagine having to run for your life with your pants down.

Ever the gentleman, he keeps you there even after he’s spent and sensitive, his hand clamped down on your thigh to prevent you from moving. His thumb finds your clit, and he lifts his head to watch you, his hooded eyes trained on your face as he brings you to the edge and over it again. He watches the way your brows tilt up, the way you struggle to keep your own eyes open, and the silent moan that threatens to break past your parted lips.

Eric claps his hand down over your mouth before it can. Your eyes fly open, your cunt clenches down around him, and he bares his teeth as you cum hard. It’s cyclical, comes in waves as he continues to stroke you through it, as he keeps his hand clamped down on your mouth to keep you quiet.

To keep you quiet.

Feverish and exhausted, you come down with your chest against his, Eric’s head flopped back onto the backrest of the couch. Your knees fucking hurt and you have yet to get off of him, and you sort of dread the moment when you have to. But this means your mouth is positioned right next to Eric’s ear, and you’re nothing if not a talker.

“Eric?” you whisper, and he turns his head just enough to let you know he heard you. “I’m glad that I met you when I did. Even if it’s terrible timing, I’m glad we met.”

A sweet, tired smile flits across Eric’s beautiful face. He nudges his nose against your temple. “I’m glad, too.”

You shift off of him, and he squeezes your thigh just at the same time as he scrunches his face. He’s such a trooper about it, you kiss his cheek as you go, leaning over to grab a pair of earphones from the coffee table.

You hand one ear bud to him, watching as confusion crosses his face. He watches you type on your phone as he tucks the bud into his ear, and you the other.

On low volume, you listen to the soft piano and saxophone intro to an old jazz standard. Eric grins, his hand finding your cheek before he pulls you in for a kiss.

And then, Billie Holiday’s voice plays for only you two to hear.

Living for you is easy living, It’s easy to live when you’re in love And I’m so in love, There’s nothing in life but you.

#eric a quiet place day one #eric a quiet place x reader #a quiet place day one #roses*#eric x reader #eric a quiet place day one x you #eric a quiet place x you #eric a quiet place day one x reader #eric fan fiction #eric x you #joseph quinn

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heartthrobin · 8 months ago

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the hate game (1)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 13.3k

warnings: enemies to lovers, so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, super grumpy!oliver, oliver's scottish accent (it's a warning in itself), alcohol consumption, super! duper! cheesy! (sorry not sorry)

an: just survived the worst two weeks of my life, but the fic is finally here! this fic was originally a full 50 chapter fic i had planned for wattpad like three years ago but i found my draft for it recently and decided it needed a revival. so enjoy it, and don't forget to comment and repost to support your favourite writers :)

summary: the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.

part two/final part

Movies, as is their premise, glamourise plenty of things - high school, politics, tiny Greek islands - but none more than the classic sucker-punch.

The teeth-crunching, blood-spitting moment where skin meets skin in a satisfying thump that sends an unsuspecting victim to the floor. Music plays and the hero grins, grabbing the girl round the waist: dipping low to kiss her.

What’s consistently (conveniently) left out is how bloody painful it is to be on the sending end of that fist.

The first, and only, time you’d ever punched someone was in second year.

It had seemed like a great idea in the moment, quickly succeeded by the mind-numbing pain that shot up your arm where knuckle met face.

You’d aimed for his jaw, but as it turns out: in addition to painful, punching someone wasn’t a particularly accurate sport for a beginner and your slippery skin found a round-tipped nose instead.

A collective gasp and a month’s worth of detention waited for you on the other side of your act of rage.

And sure, while afternoons in Snape’s classroom every Friday sucked: it was all worth it.

Every purple knuckle that throbbed with the slightest brush, the points lost to Hufflepuff, the pages and pages of Hogwarts Does Not Condon Physical Violence you’d been forced to write was worth seeing the trickle of blood running down from Oliver Wood’s nose.

To see that smug fucking look wiped clean from his face. To watch how he doubled over in pain, grappling onto his friend for balance.

“Tyler fancying you? Any bloke would rather snog a goblin.”

His little comment had earned him a broken nose.

It had been the start of a five year long feud.

It’s the reason - now - why the ground is racing up to meet you, the nose of your broomstick pressed down towards it and wind whipping so hard against your face it draws tears. You knock into the ground, catching yourself on wobbly legs. A few feet away, Oliver Wood has done the same.

He’s marching towards you with the same ferocity that’s curdling in your chest:

“Tha’s blatching and you know it!” His accent is ringing, thick and blistering with heat like it always is when he talks to you. At you, rather.

The accusation is crystal clear, and loud despite the echoing din of the quidditch stands above. From the field where you're parked, you can hear the chatter and the cheers and the boos all conglomerating into a fuzzy uproar.

There’s still twelve brooms floating in the air, spewing irritated shouts from players in both yellow and red:

Just let it go, Wood!

Come on, Cap, can we just finish the match please!

You promptly ignore them. Oliver follows suit.

“What?” You scoff, face hot as a kettle on a lit stove. “As if Laurel and Hardy haven’t been elbowing my girls all game!”

It goes without saying that you’re referring to Gryffindor’s red-head twin-set of beaters.

“Bullshit.” He seethes, it’s purposefully quiet enough that McGonagall’s approaching figure doesn’t pick it up.

She, unlike yourself, is less patient and knobby vein-webbed hands come out to knock you both against your chests: widening the gap to a safe enough distance between the opposing captains.

“You two are exhausting.” And she sounds it too. Her glasses tremble at the edge of her nose, sun shining down on her aged face. "If one more match this season is interrupted because you two can't control your tempers, you will both be stripped of captainship and you will not fly until you graduate. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

But Oliver isn't looking at her. His eyes are focused on yours over her cloaked shoulder.

He's taking the predictable route of not replying first.

"Crystal clear, Professor." You resign to speaking first, skewing a grin at his anger-sewn face.

It’s another long boring moment before he cuts his gaze from yours, kicks up a patch of grass and grits through his teeth.

“Yes, professor.”

As can be imagined, things between you and Oliver Wood have been tense since the day he’d hobbled up to the hospital wing with a palm over his face and blood dripping down over his already red tie.

But with age, came ferocity, and what started as passing glares in the corridor melted into anger-drowned faces and sharp words flung with intent to scar.

Things got infinitely worse when you were elected captain of the Hufflepuff quidditch team in the same year Oliver was made captain for Gryffindor. It stoked the already sizzling embers that made moments around him warm and stuffy and hard to breathe.

The murky history swirled with what should be friendly competition, instead frothing into a bubbling pot of annoyed teammates and exasperated teachers and more sessions of detention than you would have ever had if you'd never met the son of a bitch that is Oliver Wood.

It's what puts you in situations like the ones you find yourself in the middle of before you even know how you got yourself there.

"You two," Professor Burbage had never held you in particularly high favour. It was just your luck that Oliver received the same courtesy. "One more word out of either of you and I will be seeing both of you this afternoon for detention in my classroom."

It was even unluckier that she'd sat you two barely three wizards away from one another and one fly-away comment had blown out into another heat-filled exchange. It always does.

"But professor--" you try.

"Right then. I'll see you both at five o' clock."

Oliver sighs, hands running up over his head between chestnut locks: "Fucking perfect. Thanks, big-mouth."

"Would you like to make it two days, Mr Wood?"

He huffs like an angry dog, tightening the grip on his writing-feather but says nothing else.

The end of the lesson doesn't come soon enough and when it does, Oliver is first out of his seat. You're grateful for it.

Cherry bumps you in the shoulder where she throws her bag over it. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

You grin, despite the sunken feeling hollowing your chest with the acknowledgment that you're gonna be spending yet another afternoon at the mercy of an under-paid staff member alongside the hothead that was the Gryffindor captain.

"Come on, that wasn't my fault and you know it."

Her tight red curls dance when she shakes her head. They match her blood red tie. "Somehow it never is."

To your dismay, but not surprise, Enzo shares Cherry's views when he waltzes into step beside you in the corridor between Muggle Studies and Divination. His arm drapes over your shoulders and his tall frame shakes when he laughs.

"You know," his voice is thick and gravelly. "You two are gonna have to fuck it out eventually."

You roll your eyes, shoving him off you with a chuckle. The sentiment isn't anything new. "Oh, shut up."

The day folds blurrily between classes and lunch and greenhouse visits that by the time you look up it's just about five o clock.

Burbage's office door stares down at you.

The corridor is ghostly all the way behind you and it's emptiness means it's easy to make out Oliver's heavy footsteps down the stone floor. They're not slow, in an arrogant strut, neither quick like he has somewhere to be.

He trudges. Like the weight of the world is strapping him to invisible pins in the floor. It's easy to figure that your existence doesn't lighten his load any.

You don't turn. He simply falls into place beside you, keeping a good foot distance between your tightened shoulders.

The door opens.

Charity Burbage is insufferable in the way that she forces you and Oliver to sit almost on top of each other behind a scratched up desk where she can watch you under the curtain of her ratty blond hair.

You inch the chair dramatically away from Oliver's.

She's set a stack of pages by him and a wet stamp. "Stamp these and sign the date."

Additionally, she's dropped a stack of envelopes under your nose. "Tuck and seal. When you're done, you can leave."

You eye the papers. There must be hundreds.

To Whom It May Concern,

Hogwarts would like to remind all parents and guardians that the third-years will require prior permission before being allowed to visit the nearby village of Hogsmeade--

You jump when Oliver's elbow knocks yours (more violently than what was really necessary). He holds the first page out to you silently, face dripping with impatience.

When you take the page, his thumb brushes yours.

The paper is delicate in your fingers where you fold it. You tuck and seal, and by the time you've set it aside Oliver is offering the next page to you again.

His thumb brushes yours for a second time.

You find that it does for every letter that's passed on.

It's hard not to watch him out the corner of your eye. Oliver has this dark brown, nearly black, hair that's thick and almost too long and untamed all over. It's matched by bushy eyebrows and speckled freckles over the bridge of his nose.

If you didn't hate him as much as you did, you might think he was pretty. You might think that anyway.

Time stretches until the sun is setting the classroom afire with golden light and it's boredom that causes it, or possibly a desire to hear his voice at such tight quarters, but you speak.

"You know," it's soft enough that Burbage doesn't look up from her Witch Weekly magazine. "Even if - in some act of God - Scotland qualifies for the semi-finals, Luxembourg is gonna flatten them. I mean, think about it unemotionally, Wood: they have Luca Schmit as seeker. It's really a no brainer--"

"Are y’really just stupid or are you purposefully trynna start another argument?" His gaze flickers up to eye Burbage's desk warily, she still doesn't react.

Maybe it's both. After all, the subject of the Quidditch World Cup had been what put you both there in the first place.

You shrug, unfazed by his scathing remark.

"I'm just trying to make conversation."

"Well don't."

His hand brushes yours again.

Every second Friday, generally at the tail-end of lunch, Hooch's grey barn owl swoops low over your head and drops a smaller-than-average white envelope right into your mashed potatoes. Cherry yelps in surprise every time.

Then you watch the bird drop the same over the Gryffindor, Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables.

Good afternoon,

Reminder of Captain's meeting this afternoon in my office. Six o' clock, don't be late.

Regards,

Madam Hooch.

The letter says the same thing it has since you became captain and it's a wonder you still take the effort to break the seal on the envelope.

But come six o' clock, you're traipsing towards the west end of the castle. Lavender streaks caress the sky under the last impression of sunlight through the ornate stone arch of the corridor windows and an autumn chill creeps up your arms where your sweater isn't thick enough.

Hooch's office is in a quiet alcove, nearly impossible to find if you didn't know where to look, and the lamps are lit. Beyond the door, you can hear voices: you grin.

The door creaks noisily where you push it open. Inside it's cramped and cluttered with shelves of quidditch equipment - broken brooms, punctured quaffles and loose kits draping every open surface - but it's warm and smells like leather and is maybe your favourite little room in the whole castle.

The quidditch legend herself, Rolanda Hooch, has her legs kicked up on her desk and the boys are standing ahead of it locked in animated chatter.

She's laughing at something they said, and smiles when you enter.

"Sorry I'm late, coach."

It's nothing new and she waves you in with a smile. "Come in, poppet."

"Merlin," Marcus' shoulder finds yours and the force of the bump nearly sends you off your feet. "You'd be late to your own funeral hey, Puffers?"

You laugh, shoving him back with as much force as you can muster against the giant brute that is Slytherin captain Marcus Flint. It barely nudges him but he barks out a laugh, rough like tractor tires over crumbly concrete.

"I'm worth the wait." You quip back, leaning around Marcus to wink at Roger Davies. "Isn't that right, Rodger?"

He flirts back, "Always, sweetheart."

Roger is the antithesis of Marcus: all pale skin, blue eyes and short blonde hair. Easy on the eyes.

Oliver lingers just behind him, the tallest of the captains. You catch his eye, face slipping into something more serious, and nod. "Hey, Wood."

He nods in return, curt like how a ministry wizard's might be.

"Right," Hooch sits up straight in her high-back chair. "There are just a couple things we need to get through tonight, we won't be long."

The dynamic between the captains would be easy, if not for Oliver.

You're the only girl and that made for tough beginnings. Marcus is naturally brash and brutish, but - as you found - easy to impress with a couple showy tricks on the broom. A single promise to show him how to pull off a Woollongong Shimmy had him eating out your hand: the favour of a couple Slytherins was generally hard to buy and invaluable to a plushy Hufflepuff such as yourself.

Roger popped out the womb with a wink at the nurse. Impeccably charming and impossibly negotiable. Beyond being slightly dim, it was hard to say a bad thing about the Ravenclaw captain

On the other hand, Oliver was … well, Oliver.

Hooch tapped the sharp end of a writing feather rhythmically at a spot on her desk, eyes roving her clipboard.

"Next week we're doing a clean up of the supply room down by the pitch. I've set you each up on days, the whole team needs to be down to help unless they're excused by a teacher: I want a written letter."

She offers a piece of parchment without looking up.

"As you all know, it's the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game next week."

You bump your elbow to Marcus'. He looks down and grins a mouthful of crooked teeth before turning to Roger. "Ready, pretty boy?"

Roger rolls crystal blue eyes, but he's smiling too. "Bring it on, tough-shit."

"Oy," Hooch interrupts them with a cool sigh, "The last thing, you all submitted your autumn practice requests for the pitch: Roger, Marcus, you have the days you want--"

They nod. Your shoulders stiffen.

"--Oliver, Y/n. You both want Wednesday afternoons. Monday afternoon is open, I'll let you two decide between each other who is gonna move their practice. I want a decision before tomorrow night."

Marcus is sniggering under his breath. The edges of your mouth sink into a frown, of course he wants the same day as me.

You can feel the heat of Oliver's eyes on the side of your face. You don't indulge him, keeping your gaze settled on Hooch's face.

"We'll figure it out, coach."

"Unlikely." Roger's quip is barely a whisper but you catch it.

"Alright." Hooch doesn't. "You're dismissed, go get some dinner kids."

The office door bounces back off the stone wall where Marcus tosses it carelessly open, echoing all the way down the empty corridor.

Frosty air chases over your face and the boys start down towards the Great Hall. Roger is complaining about a potions essay he hasn't started and Marcus is shrugging him off with a suggestion that includes something along the vein of blackmailing a sixth year into doing it for him but you can't focus long enough to follow.

"Oliver." Irritation is prickling at the surface of your skin. It flares into an almost rash when he stops walking, glancing over his shoulder with an unconcerned expression. "Who's giving Wednesday up?"

His arms fold against his chest. You're working extremely hard not to look down where his biceps stretch the seams on his Hogwarts jumper. "Well, you obviously."

Marcus barks another laugh, he calls down the corridor: "We'll see you kids at dinner."

"Yeah, don't kill each other! It's only practice!"

You huff in disbelief, unconcerned with the running commentary.

"Uh," you mirror Oliver by folding your own arms. "no it's not. Come on, we can negotiate like civil people can't we?"

Thick caterpillar eyebrows disappear beyond the overgrowth hiding his forehead. "Negotiate? I'm the one who wasted three hours of my life in detention last week thanks to your big fat mouth. Wednesday is mine."

"That was a joint effort, twat." You can feel where your throat is flush with rising anger. It wires your jaw tight. "Are you really so bloody difficult that we can't even come to a simple agreement?"

"Difficult?" His arms have shifted from his chest to perch against his hips. "Just because I'm not giving you what you want? Cry me a fucking river, darling. Sorry Puffers, but I'm not your precious Marcus or Roger. I'm not gonna fold just cause you bat yer pretty little eyelashes at me."

Pretty?

You blink in surprise. It's brushed quickly aside for more pressing matters. Your hands scrunch into fists at your side:

"Well. I'm not giving it up. I want Wednesday."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

Oliver collapses loudly into the open spot at the Gryffindor dining table. His callousness knocks Archie's goblet of pumpkin juice across the shiny wooden surface between dishes of sausages and peas and roast potatoes.

"Bloody hell, what's got you in a mood?" He's patting down the table with a serviette, transforming it into a orange lump under his palm.

Shaking his head, as if it would joggle the thought of you loose, Oliver stabs a chicken drumstick from the top of a nearby pile with his fork. He doesn't respond.

"Wait, let me guess." Archie presses the elbows of his red jumper into the still wet surface beside his plate. "Something to do with your little Hufflepuff sweetheart?"

Oliver grunted around a mouthful, looking annoyed. "Not mine and not a sweetheart. A fucking brat."

Archie seems to find something funny, leaning back on the bench with a haughty laugh. "Right. What she do this time?"

"Wants the pitch the same day as me for practice." He's mumbling around a mouthful of chicken, tipping forward to shove a spoon teetering with peas alongside it. "Refuses to give in, despite the fact that she put me in detention last week with Burbage."

Shifting to the edge of his seat, Archie leans around Oliver's frame to find your figure across the Hall at the yellow-lined table. He nods, seemingly finding you. "Yeah, she don't look too happy either."

"I don't care."

Oliver is trying very hard not to give into the itch to look back.

"Whatever," Archie's gaze finds his again. "in better news ... I spoke to the twins just before dinner. They're still on for tomorrow."

He's twitching in his seat, eyebrows dancing and grinning around his words like a kid who's found a matchbox.

Right. The twins.

Specifically, Daisy and Delilah Dawson: two Ravenclaw sisters a year below Oliver.

They're peng, Archie had reasoned, you need a little fling to get your mind off quidditch. You're too strung up, mate.

And sure, they were, but Oliver had more important things to do than gallivant across Hogsmeade attached to the hip of some sixth year who just wants to earn her I Kissed The Quidditch Captain! badge.

He'd groaned and whined and glowered at the prospect. Was it petulant? Naturally, but spending five sickles on subpar hot chocolate and making false conversation with some Ravenclaw was a waste of precious time in Oliver's humble opinion.

His priorities are, as they've always been, crystal clear in his mind.

1. Win Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup 2. Refer to point (1)

There was little wiggle room for the introduction of girls into any spot on that list.

You're the only one who came almost close to the tight list. Only because if there had to be a third priority, "shove winning the cup in Hufflepuff's face" might just crack it. He thought about you significantly more than any other girl in the castle and maybe that might mean something if he thought about too long about it, but fortunately, he refused to.

Regardless, Archie was adamant and more than a little pathetic when he mentioned that Daisy only agreed to see him if he had a date for Delilah. It was all settled very quickly.

And it's in this show of loyalty to his dearest friend that Oliver finds himself walking the cobblestone path down into Hogsmeade on a crisp Saturday morning.

The little village is bustling with students - it normally is - and the crowd has him knocking shoulders with Delilah who's walking in step beside him.

He's uncomfortable to find that she's staring dreamily up at the underside of his jaw.

On Oliver's other side: Archie is talking Daisy's ear off, making another pitiful attempt at holding her hand. He doesn't quite manage it and Oliver can't tell whether it's because she genuinely doesn't notice or she just can't be arsed.

"So," Delilah's voice is light and sweet. Delicate. "You mentioned that you take Arithmancy? I've heard it's tough."

Oliver nods airily. "Yeah ... yeah, it's difficult."

He tightens his jacket closer over his frame. The wind is whipping between their bodies and he thinks that maybe she didn't hear him over it's howling if her confused expression is anything to go by. He finds he's not bothered enough to repeat it.

The entrance of Madam Puddifoot's comes into view at the end of the walkway.

Oliver’s relieved. It's freezing out here and maybe he'll be more in the mood for flirtatious conversation once he's gotten some food in his stomach (Archie had insisted they skip breakfast: we have to order something to eat, so we can sit longer).

There's a jingle of a bell overhead when Archie pushes the door open, standing awkwardly aside to let the ladies in first.

Inside the shop, it's more than busy: powdery blue walls barely visible beyond the sea of Hogwarts couples crammed around tiny circle tables and waiters in red uniform knocking the back of their chairs with wobbling trays.

There's music coming from ... somewhere, it sounds like The Weird Sisters and at the sound, Oliver can't imagine how this morning could possibly go any worse.

Oh wait, yes he can.

You could be sitting at a table right by the door across a too-small-table knocking knees with some Slytherin prick. Like you are right there right now.

Delilah tugs on his wrist, it's gentle and he almost doesn't feel where he's being lead between tables towards an open booth across the room. He falls unceremoniously down against the torn leather, eyes never leaving your table.

You haven't noticed his presence, he knows because your lips are stretching around a giggle he can't hear but can already imagine. You don't smile around him, that's for sure.

Oliver's stomach is frothing and bubbling and he's trying really hard to tune back in where Archie's knocking a menu into his hand.

Of course you're there. To ruin his mood and his day, because you're just bloody perfect at it.

"So, am I seeing you girls at the Quidditch match on Saturday?" Archie's voice carries somewhere over his head.

Delilah laughs. Or maybe it's Daisy, Oliver doesn't look.

"Maybe," she says, "Depends if Oliver's gonna be there. You're gonna be there, right?"

He feels a hand nudge at his forearm. Definitely Delilah.

His gaze floats back over the table to offer a fraction of eye contact, he nods. "Oh, uh ... yeah. Sure, definitely."

Archie saves him by speaking again and your table finds Oliver's attention just in time for him to watch the boy sitting across from you swipe away a smudge of hot chocolate over your cheek. You smile, looking bashful and a little bit flushed.

A suffocating, searing heat rushes from the soles of Oliver's feet up between his every organ and over every tendril of hair on his head. His jaw tightens.

Of course he recognises the pratt across you.

Ryo Yoshida.

Every girl in the castle's wet dream, if the rumours he's heard are anything to go by. With his fucking sleek black hair and his Japanese accent that had witches flocking to him in the dozens.

He doesn't wonder why you're here with him.

Oliver is a proud man, but even he could admit that you're beautiful. Albeit reluctantly.

With your wide wet eyes that make him a little sick in a way that turns his stomach warm and the way you do your hair and those fucking dangly earrings that clink when you loose your cool on him.

That's without even mentioning the sound of your laugh - the one he only ever overhears - and your legs in the school uniform skirt and the way you look when you're diving on your broom under the light of a sunny day.

Alright, maybe he couldn't admit to all of it ... but you were okay.

Okay enough to crack a date with Ryo Yoshida or any other schmuck in the castle if you wanted.

"Anything good to eat here, Oliver?"

He pretends he doesn't hear her at first, but the kick at his shin under the table is harder to ignore.

Archie is glaring at him across the table. Dude, don't fuck this up for me.

Oliver's eyes find Delilah. She's scooted up close under his elbow and, to be fair to the poor girl, she was pretty too. Red lipstick smeared across her smiling lips, painted nails edging closer to his arm and perfectly styled hair sitting over her shoulder.

He nods, reaching for the menu: "Yeah. Actually, last time I had the Merlin Meal and it was pretty good."

She perks up, cherry red smile widening at his reply. "Oh, I thought that looked good!"

Training his eyes on the menu, Oliver wills himself not to look back at you. You're already souring his mood and you haven't even said a bloody word.

It's just what you do. What you do to him: infuriating him with the threat of an argument around any and every corner.

The waiter comes by and Oliver finds himself generous enough to gift Delilah with an arm draped over the back of her seat. She giggles and he pretends he doesn't notice when she mouths something that looked suspiciously like 'he's so hot' to her sister across the table.

Archie seems pleased too. Daisy has granted him, finally, her hand and his arm bends at an awkward angle to maintain the grip in hers under the table. He's positively beaming.

But despite Oliver’s best efforts to stay engaged, he still catches himself - only when it's too late - and his eyes are already glued to watching the way your jeans are hugging your thighs where you shift in your seat.

Your table is sat by the door. The chime of the bell calls for his gaze every time it tolls and every time he finds you let off a violent shiver in your seat as the autumn crisp rolls over your shoulders.

The door shuts again and you still.

Oliver can feel where the tips of his ears are burning red and his bones are itching: Ryo’s black suede coat is hanging over the back of his chair.

You’re still talking - hands rubbing together, fighting for warmth - he’s leaned over with his chin in palm to listen and his jacket sits unused behind his shoulders while you fucking shiver in the breeze.

It’s pathetic, really. He’s not sure whether he’s referring to himself or you: but Oliver is still looking and you’re still shaking like a leaf and he’s halfway to flipping tables to get to you and just give you his own fucking coat so you’ll stop shaking and stop annoying him—

“Oliver was just telling me about wanting to join the Hogwarts Choir.” He turns again to find Archie waiting with an expectant face, it's laced in a little bit of smugness: caught you. "Weren't you, mate?"

When he looks back you’re gone.

There's a short pile of sickles abandoned on the table and he hopes that Ryo at least had the good sense to pay for your drink after forcing you to sit in the freezing cold.

He shakes the thought off. Who cares.

In fact, he hopes you catch a cold.

The day passes like swimming through molasses: slow and sticky and exhausting.

It's nearly seven when Oliver presses a sympathy kiss into Delilah's cheek - Daisy allows for no such thing from Archie - and the two sisters skip off down the west wing corridor with a wiggle of their fingers over their shoulders at the boys.

"I think that went well." Archie's grinning, hands on his hip and glasses edging down his brown nose.

It's the first thing that genuinely brings a jolt of life out of Oliver all day. He teeters back on his heels, hands gripping his stomach where he laughs. Laughs like a madman.

"I think you need to get yer fucking head checked, mate."

The tail end of his outburst is simmering down, now barely a breathy chuckle, when a voice washes over him from down the other end of the corridor. "Wood!"

He'd recognise that voice anywhere. From the dead of sleep or the depth of the ocean.

He's slow when he turns on his heel, the remnants of his smile dripping all the way off the edge of his jaw until he's nearly frowning.

You're jogging, scarf bouncing at your shoulder with the movement, and coming to a stop right under his chin.

"What?"

There's a sharp edge to his tone - there always is - but he really hopes you haven't noticed how the syllable wobbled at the end. Now that you're right beneath his frame and not across the room, it's harder to ignore the lashes kissing at the corner of your eyes. You're wearing lip gloss and he knows it's for Ryo.

His stomach is churning and your face is twisting into something he is struggling to recognise.

"I--" your hands wring, eyes flickering behind to where Archie's watching curiously (you wave awkwardly). "You ... you can have Wednesday."

It's not what Oliver is anticipating. He almost takes a full step back in surprise.

"Why?"

Your eyes roll in a comfortably familiar way, "Because Hooch wants an answer tonight and one of us had to be the bigger person."

His brow tightens, eyes roving down the stitching of your sweater. It's cute. He's quiet.

"You not gonna argue?" You throw your words quickly, snatching them back before he can answer: "Perfect. I'll send her an owl before bed."

You're marching back down the corridor before he has chance to say anything else and he's watching your retreating figure with the hope - that he’s not gonna address - you’re not going to cozy up somewhere in the Slytherin dorm room.

“Well.” Archie’s running a hand over his thick black curls. “That was unexpected.”

Oliver huffs. “It’s been a weird day.”

An uneasy air has settled over Hogwarts.

It came in like a storm front, drifting in on the wind that dropped the article at the door of the castle.

The same copy of The Daily Prophet has been doing the rounds between dormitories and class rooms all week: Sirius Black, Azkaban’s most infamous prisoner and recent escapee, has been sighted in Dufftown by an astute Muggle, The Daily Prophet reports.

Dufftown. A barely twenty minute ride by carriage from Hogwarts bridge.

It’s got the castle on edge, it’s got you on edge. Creeping around the castle like Sirius Black is gonna jump out from around any corner.

Dumbledore stationing dementors at the edges of the castle was the tipping point for the cold drip of trickling fear in your chest that's become easy to ignore in daylight - when Cherry and Enzo are flittering around you between classes - but in moments like these, like now, when you’re on the tail end of a quidditch practice, grow like a poisonous black vine up around every nerve in your body. A Monday night, the team’s kit weighing heavy in your arms - broomstick tucked precariously in the bend of one elbow - and following the siren call of the dormitory showers.

You’d promised the team you’d get them to the house elves before the upcoming match on Saturday. The match against Gryffindor.

But for tonight, they’re gonna live in a pile at the end of your bed.

You’re exhausted: calves burning, sweat sticking loose hairs to your forehead and probably smelling like wet socks and broomstick polish.

The touch of night is suffocating the flicker of the corridor lamps. It’s long past the recently set curfew and you know that if McGonagall finds you out you’re likely in deep enough trouble to get you off Saturday’s match roster.

Despite the prospect, you don’t dwell on it. You find you’re more worried about escaped Azkaban convicts: the echo of your own footsteps setting you further on edge.

You’ve craned your neck over your shoulder enough times to form a knot there. Each time you’re relieved to find that Sirius Black hasn’t crept up behind you.

Suddenly, the squeak of your boots against the stone floor are un-alone.

Someone is marching and right in your direction. Your heart bangs wildly on the inside of your ribcage - blood turning to an icy slurry in your veins, but you don’t move.

The corner is sharp when the figure turns into the corridor you stand and the scream is halfway out your throat when your eyes find his face.

Absent is the matted black hair and sunken eyes you’re anticipating. Instead, warm brown rings reflect the fire of the lit torches.

Your broomstick clutters to the floor, warm relief flooding down to your fingertips. “Fucking hell, Wood.”

He looks just as surprised as you. Only for a moment, though, before his gaze is tightening in annoyance again.

“I thought you were Sirius Black.“

“Well that’s stupid isn’t it.”

You huff, shifting the weight of the team’s robes precariously between your arms: squatting to try scoop up your broomstick off the floor again. You’re halfway successful when it clatters loudly back against the stone floor.

“What are you even doin’ out here so late? You know curfew is passed, don’t you?” His voice curls with something that might be mistaken for concern if you didn’t know who you were talking to.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You’re reaching down again. A robe on the top of the pile slips off, landing beside the broomstick.

“Aye right. Whatever, goodnight.”

He’s brushing past you.

In a movement neither of you anticipated, driven by the fear shooting up your spine again, your hand finds his wrist. “Wait—“

Oliver freezes: eyes dropping to where you’re connected. You rip your hand back, as if scalded.

“I …” the words mash and wrestle at the back of your throat. “Could …”

You glance down the darkened corridor awaiting you in the journey back to your dorm before meeting his face again. It’s unreadable.

His brow scrunches. “Yes?"

"Could you want me to walk my common room?”

Embarrassment sears at your cheeks. On a normal day, you’d sooner go dancing naked under the Whomping Willow before asking Oliver Wood a favour but that was before the image of Sirius Black swum behind your eyes everywhere you looked.

Oliver would be fairly useless if faced with the criminal, naturally, but at least you wouldn’t die alone.

“Please?” Your voice is quiet and you think it’s the gentlest word you’ve ever said to him.

There’s a long stretch of quiet. His eyes flicker between your face and the broomstick on the floor. It’s quickly stretching past the blurring boundaries of an appropriate time for consideration.

You’re practically melting in embarrassment now, electing to make the decision for him.

“Never mind.” You squat again, successful this time in sticking the broomstick back under your arm. The dropped robe is more difficult but you manage to replace it. “Forget I asked.”

Oliver’s moving before you’re stood straight up again. He’s reaching for your broomstick, you instinctively yank it back but he sticks you with a firm look and his thumb is unexpectedly soft where it caresses over your knuckle wrapped around the handle.

Your grip loosens and he perches the broomstick over his shoulder with ease. He surprises you again by taking half the load of laundry in your arms into his own.

“C’mon, before someone catches us out here. I’m not doing any more detention because of you.”

He’s already three feet ahead when blood rushes down to your legs, prompting them to chase after his figure. The movement is easier, lightened by Oliver’s surprise act of kindness.

You fall into step beside him, half-tempted to comment on his willingness to share your burden, but knowing him, one wrong word and he’d dump it all back into your arms.

It’s quiet.

You don’t make a move to talk and Oliver doesn’t look your way. It dawns on you that Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction and you’re still deciding whether to feel guilty or flattered over the fact when Oliver speaks.

“Why’re you out here alone?”

You look, met with the side of his face: it’s still like he hadn’t said anything at all. There’s a tugging instinct to snap at him.

Why do you care?

But his tone is perceptibly gentle enough that you think maybe, just this once, it won’t end in an argument. You test the tepid waters.

“Uh …” your head knocks sideways, tilted as you speak. “I let the team come up early while I sorted the quaffles in the sports closet by the pitch. Didn’t want them walking up in the dark.”

You’re tempted to mention that it was his team last week that left it in such a mess. You don’t.

"And now you’re walking in the dark yourself? Smart move, princess."

Your breath hitches.

It’s not the first time he’s called you that. Princess. A couple times over the years, usually in the heat of a spiraling argument, but never so benign. While still ungentle, the tone is soft enough that it rings in your ears.

You choose not to succumb to the antagonization of his reply. Humming, you shrug. "Rather me than them."

His eyes flicker, almost barely, to the high apple of your cheek. You notice in the corner of your eye how his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something.

He seemingly decides otherwise because he focuses his eyes ahead of him and stays silent.

The overhanging ceiling art is sloping down, air going sticky with the scents of the kitchen the further you go: it’s the trademark of the approaching Hufflepuff common room.

Another two turns and it will be the end of your little journey with Oliver Wood.

"‘M surprised Ryo didn’t walk you up."

You're more surprised than you've been since finding him, eyes widening in confusion. He grants you another look out the side of his eye.

"How do you know about that?"

Oliver shrugs, shifting your broomstick to the other shoulder.

"The whole world saw your little date down at Madam Puddifoot's the other day."

Of course. Word travels faster through seventh year than a new Firebolt.

"Yeah. Well." You hum. "That's not gonna be happening again anytime soon.”

It had all been good and well. The rush of having Ryo Yoshida, Hogwart's most eligible bachelor, ask you out and - to be fair - the date had been fine. Ryo was funny and made good conversation but nothing near thrilling enough to daydream over and you'd allowed yourself to brush over a couple red flags because of it, until Cherry came bursting into your dormitory less than a day after your date relaying how he'd caught her between classes to ask her out to the same spot.

"Why's that?"

You're confused now, why Oliver cares or how he'd become curious enough to actually ask. You're even more confused as to why you decide to answer him. You shrug, "He asked Cherry out the very next day. She said no, obviously, but that was enough to let the whole thing go."

You expect him to say something malicious, quip something spiteful about What you did you think would happen? You're nowhere near in his league.

He doesn't.

"He's an idiot."

Not for the first time in the last five minutes, you're not sure what to say. You think this is the longest a conversation has gone without an argument. You sigh, "Yeah."

The stack-up of barrels comes into view. You dig into you the deep pocket on the inside of your robe, emerging with your wand.

Oliver stops, eyes flickering between the barrels and his shining black boots.

You step ahead, tapping the barrels in the rhythm that's become second-nature and the entryway opens.

Turning to him, you offer out an arm and he sets the robes back into your hands. The awkwardness is stifling. He leans forward, tucking the broomstick under your arm, hand wavering to make sure it doesn't fall again. The gesture makes the hold in your knees wobbly.

He nods. "Right. Goodnight."

You nod back, so quickly that you hear your earrings jingle. "Yeah, g'night."

Oliver turns, marching back the way you came and you watch him: biting your bottom lip so hard you're half expecting to draw blood.

"Thank you!" It leaps from your mouth before you have you moment to let it marinate on your tongue. You wince immediately.

He pauses, turning halfway on his heel. He smiles, it's not wide enough for teeth, but definitely wide enough to have your heart falling through your stomach. He nods again and then he's gone.

Saturday arrives gloomy and dripping.

It makes for good quidditch conditions, but the chill in the air is still hard to ignore when you step out into mushy grass under stadium lights. The roar of the crowd nearly deafens you, but it'll only take a couple minutes in the air for it to burn down to a soft hum.

In the middle of the stadium floor: Hooch is standing with a whistle to her lips, her figure blurred by the drizzle. Oliver stands beside her, and behind you, your team is clambering onto their brooms and rising into the air with the freshly washed kit over their backs.

You go to walk, but the icy glance Oliver is sending your way convinces you into a jog. He's always impatient before a game, itchy, antsy.

"On time as usual." Hooch hums when you land beside her.

"Got the whole bloody school waiting on her." Oliver mutters but Hooch shrugs him off, pulling the game coin out from inside her robes.

"Perfect." She positions it so we can see, "Gryffindor?"

Oliver straightens out, chest swelling: "Heads."

Hooch nods and before you can suck in another breath, the coin is in the air. She catches it with a skilled hand, flipping and revealing it to the set of captains.

"Hufflepuff, first ball!" She shouts loud enough that the floating players can hear. They nod, some groaning.

The coach turns back on the captains, "I want a fair game kids, no fighting."

"Me and Ollie? Fight?" You smile, "Never, coach."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Yes, coach."

Suddenly you're above the pitch, sucking in breaths of wet air and struck with that familiar feeling like you could conquer the world on just your broomstick.

The quaffle flies and you stoop to catch it, twisting around Alicia Spinnet to snatch the ball before she's even noticed you're there.

Rain pelts on heads and the game goes on.

Oliver is shouting like a madman from his place in front of the goals behind you - you’ve long learnt to drown it out. He does it half to annoy his own team and half to distract yours.

You're spinning, flying, swooping and - as you predicted - the crowd has become a distant call, a blurring sight of yellow and red.

An hour passes and the game is already halfway into the next when there's a rise in the crowd. It's not the normal yells and whoops and hollers, but you still don't look up: you're calling over to Jane and Wyatt, your beaters.

“Get between the twins, and stay there!”

Below, Harry Potter and your own seeker, Cedric Diggory, are flying in circles around each other. The call of Cedric's name is on the tip of your tongue when there’s another ripple of sound off the crowd and this one draws your eyes. It’s there for a second before you find the army of figures descending on the pitch.

Your breath catches in your throat, freezing solid so you can’t swallow.

The dementors are even more ghostly this close. You'd never seen so many.

A darkness is permeating the air, the sight of the supporters in the stand dissipating into black. They’re floating in from every corner, drifting at a pace that’s too fast for you to make a move in any direction.

There’s a scream and your gaze finds the body falling through the sky: it’s Harry.

The ground is racing up to meet him and adrenaline drives your hand to tip your broom, to chase after his quickly disappearing shape when a blurry figure blocks your way.

Someone yells your name but you don’t hear it.

You’d never imagined examining a dementor, much less this up close, but even if you had: nothing your imagination could conjure up would ever come close to the harrowing darkness of its empty eye-sockets.

Its silhouette spreads over every corner of your vision, black like night and blocking the view of the sky. Your nose is so close you could tip forward and meet it's silken cloak.

A cold washes over your body like you've never felt, like you're freezing over: ice creeping up your fingertips, shoulders and face.

Your brain looses all grip on thought, replaced with a seeping dread. It barely acknowledges where a scabbed, decomposing hand is reaching out to you.

Charcoal fingertips brush your cheek when you're tugged back, all the way off your broomstick.

There's not even a last coherent thought to panic when you're engulfed in a warm chest, a hand stabilising around your waist onto a new broomstick. It dips and the green grass is reaching up to you.

The new heat engulfs you through to your bones. You grasp blindly for the expanse of a thick veined neck, wrapping yourself around him.

Digging your face into his shoulder, it takes one glance at the scarlet robes to know who it is. Oliver's panting, one hand holding you against him while the other steers the broomstick down to the floor.

You're trembling, no thought occupying any space beyond Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver--

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?"

The voice is distant, said against your temple but echoing as if from the end of a long corridor. You don't register where hot tears are wetting your cheeks, erupting over your face without being called.

His words prompt you closer: a tight arm furling over his shoulders and wrapping around him like a vine around an old tree.

"O-Oliver ..."

The hand over your waist tightens. "Sh ... it's fine. You're fine."

The broomstick lands shakily, Oliver's boots squelching into muddy grass. You barely realise you're back on ground when another hand is tugging you off, but you cling tighter to the sweaty red neck: shaking your wet face against his well-pressed robes.

"C'mon, princess ..." His calloused hands pry you from him, gently like you're a piece of china sitting on the very edge of a high shelf. "It's Pomfrey, she's gonna look after you."

You think you feel a kiss press into your hairline before you're being scooped up into a new set of arms. Madam Pomfrey is warm too, smelling like antiseptic and maple syrup.

There's another swell of noise erupting from the supporters above and you're being lead away.

Oliver watches your figure, slumped against the school nurse until you've disappeared into the medical tent.

His heart is going wild, slamming against the walls of his ribcage. Beside him his hands are shaking and he's sucking in thick gulps of air, he finds it still isn't enough oxygen.

There's another splatter where Angelina has landed a few feet behind him. She's panting too, tugging on the edge of his robes and pointing up into the sky.

"Wood!" She's frantic, "They won, Cedric caught the snitch!"

His mouth is dry when he swallows. Rain catches in his eye when he looks up, half the Hufflepuff team is no longer in the sky and the Gryffindors are all on their way down.

"I ..." feeling is returning to his fingertips, "is ... where's Harry?"

Angelina points in the direction of the medical tent. Above, the pitch is engulfed in a bright white light and Oliver catches the wispy end of a shining phoenix chasing between disappearing Dementors. It's a patronus. Dumbledore's, Oliver figures somewhere in his muddy brain.

"Is everyone else okay?"

Angelina nods. Her eyes flicker to the medical tent then back at him. "Is she?"

The image returns to him: the mass of darkness engulfing your figure in the sky. The terror that ripped through him like he was being torn apart from the inside, the whistle of the wind that stung over his ears and how it blocked out his mutterings of please, please, please--

He shakes his head. "She's too tough for her own good. She'll ... she'll be fine."

But it comes out like he's trying to convince himself more than Angelina.

Oliver doesn't see you for a few days.

Two, to be exact, and his skin itches the entire time. A deep itch, like it's coming from his bones.

It's only on Monday evening at dinner, with the Hufflepuff table whooping, that you come strolling back into the light of his eyes.

Your head is down, flushed with all the attention, and when you sit, kids are rising from their seats to tackle you into side hugs. He can tell you're embarrassed but he can't gather himself enough to care: the warm rush of relief flooding his stomach so much so that if he dared open his mouth it would all come rushing out.

You look fine. All limbs attached and smiling, it settles him.

He doesn't snap at Archie when he knocks his shoulder with a "you're staring" and his dinner suddenly looks more appetising when he peels his eyes off your figure down to his plate. He finds that he doesn't care as much as he usually does where Enzo's lanky arm is strung over your shoulder.

The week passes in a flurry.

While you share several classes, Oliver doesn't share a single word with you. It's hard not to notice that you're working very hard not to interact with him.

In Muggle Studies, you arrive late and keep your nose tucked deep into the pages of a textbook he knows you couldn't care less about. You're up and out of the classroom before he's even zipped up his bag. It's the same in Potions and Arithmacy.

While going days without talking to each other is not unusual, this time he can tell it’s on purpose. He pretends that he doesn't care.

The rain has cleared and when Friday arrives the sunset is red and orange and purple, granting Oliver with a rare enchanting view out his bedroom window where it's setting behind the East tower.

It's in this quiet, peaceful moment that Archie comes bouncing in with some news of a party happening in the Ravenclaw dormitory.

He's indifferent but Archie is nothing if not convincing.

"Come on, dude. You're literally a hermit crab." He sighs, falling back against his own poster bed across Oliver's. "There will be girls."

"There's girls everywhere, Arch."

His eyebrows wiggle, "And alcohol."

It takes a bit more pestering and the Weasley twins rushing in after him with the same news (and a far less patient approach) to get him up off his bed.

He digs in his cupboard for the last pair of clean jeans and a somewhat suitable purple jumper, tugging them on with a grumble, before he's being dragged by both arms - a twin on each side - across the castle to the West tower wherein resides the Ravenclaw population.

The common room is bustling with seventh years, he recognises them from all houses, and a table set up to the side with some trays of food. He's barely made himself comfortable when Katie Bell is shoving a red solo cup into his hand:

"It's Angelina's brew." She informs him.

He can believe that. The liquid is strong, burning down his throat followed by the barely there after-taste of pumpkin juice. Oliver downs the whole thing in one go.

The music swells louder and he's three cups of Angelina's concoction deep when you come tumbling through the entrance portal.

You're drunk yourself, he can tell by the way you're giggling and half leaning on Cherry Stretton. Bumping through people, not passing without leaning back to apologise to them tipsily, you head straight into the arms of Angelina and Alicia Spinnet. They smile in surprise, engulfing you in their arms.

Despite his and your long-held rivalry, it had done nothing to stop the rest of his team from sweetening up to you. The twins called you their favourite yellow tie at regular intervals and the girls found you nothing less than endearing. Oliver could lie and say he hated it.

Instead, he wrestles his way to where Katie is situated with more to drink, filling his cup and downing it.

The room is twisting in a flurry of colours and faces and it's the lightest you've felt in almost a week. You giggle against Enzo, his dreads tucked safely back in a bun while Cedric sets a Dragon-Barrel Brandy shot on fire and hands it carefully over.

Enzo's head knocks back, slipping the burning liquid down his throat with a wince. There's a cheer at his accomplishment, and suddenly Cedric's knocking your elbow: "you're next, Cap!"

After the match-gone-wrong, Madam Pomfrey had held you down in the infirmary until Monday morning. You were fed copious amounts of chocolate - in the form of bars and drinks and cakes and ice creams. By Saturday night you were - surely a couple kilograms heavier - and feeling fine, but Pomfrey was nothing if not paranoid:

"That was no light ordeal you went through, dear. I'm not letting you out of my sight until I'm happy with you."

In all honesty, you'd prefer if the whole school forgot it ever happened.

If Pomfrey didn't fret and your friends didn't come by every meal time and your team stopped sending you get better! letters and nobody mentioned it ever again.

More than anyone, you wished Oliver would forget. The ordeal, or maybe just you as a person.

You'd made a stupid decision under the heat of stadium lights and the influence of racing adrenaline, trying to chase for Harry, and he'd made a stupider decision coming to save you from yourself.

When it got quiet in the infirmary past dusk and Harry's shadowy figure was long since snoring in the bed across yours, you could feel Oliver's touch. Could feel it's strong hold wrapped around your waist and the voice against you the back of your neck and the lips at your temple.

You never reminisced long: for with his touch came the writhing, scalding fear burrowing a hole in your chest.

He could tease you, he will tease you.

Oliver had saved you from the clutches of a dementor moments from your soul being sucked out your body and you'd cried in his chest the whole time, refused to let him go in front of the whole school. It was a mortification you would never live down. And if Oliver decided he was going to use it against you, even once, you were sure you'd melt into the floor in shame.

It's what's made the Firewhiskey and Lemon squash concoction Cherry had handed you back in her room so easy to toss back. It stung and steam rose out your mouth where you'd panted for air. There was another ... and another, they went down the same.

The walk across the castle to reach the Ravenclaw Tower had been wobbly and you'd laughed with your friends loud enough to wake up the whole castle you're sure, but it dissolved the fear that clung to your bones. The fear that he was here, lingering between the people in the crowded blue common room.

Now the liquor is fading. Numbing to a dull buzz and you decline Cedric's offer at a burning shot, thinking about how proud you'll be of yourself when you wake up tomorrow morning in bed rather than wrapped around a toilet seat and hauling up guts into the bowl.

The party, not unlike yourself, is dimming.

Students are crawling away into all corners, each with their own excuse. I have a potions essay to do or No, dude, I'm too drunk for this or Flint wants us down at the pitch for drills at eight tomorrow morning, I gotta head to bed.

The crowd, though thinning, is beginning to clump into respective circles across the room. You glance annoyed at the fireplace where the flames crack merrily. Even with your short skirt and thin satin top, the heat of the common room is stifling.

Enzo is on his fourth burning shot, it's lost it's appeal to the crowd but he seems undeterred, knocking Cedric in the shoulder with the empty shot glass motioning: another! You yawn, playing mindlessly with the ruffled sleeve of your shirt.

"Oh no," A harsh tug at your hand draws you from the lure of sleep that's fogging your mind. "The night is young, no yawning!"

Cherry has your wrist in her grip, Enzo's in the other. He blinks blearily down at his friends.

"Huh?"

"Come on," Cherry's brown eyes roll far back in her head. "Fred says they're starting Seven Minutes In Heaven. Let's go join--"

"Seven minutes--?" you laugh between words, "Cher, are you mad?"

She whines, pouting like a kicked dog. "It'll be fun. Besides, when last did you have a good fucking snog? Too long, I say!"

Somehow, you're not only convinced across the room into a spot onto the floor in a circle of a couple others, but a drink has ended up in your hand and its contents quickly down your gullet.

For the nerves, you assure yourself.

Before you know it, Angelina - who's conveniently settled beside you - is topping up your plastic cup with a nearly empty bottle of Daisyroot Draught. "This is the good stuff. Katie stashed it in, her sister works at a brewery."

You smile nervously, nod, and take a tentative sip. The pre-existing buzz in your head convinces you it's not so bad.

In the circle is a couple Gryffindors you recognise, some giggling Slytherin girls, a Ravenclaw you can't name and three members of your quidditch team. There's an open spot on the side you don't take note of.

That is until Archie Kumar is steering a grumpy, visibly drunk Oliver Wood into the open place and collapsing beside him.

Your breath catches in your throat, heart sinking into your stomach like a stone. You're halfway off the floor, suddenly desperate for the loo, when Cherry - on your left side - drags you back down to the floor.

Maybe it's Katie's sister's brew, but you tumble too easily back onto your bum.

"Relax. Just don't look at him, okay?"

You suck in another breath, eyes trained on the white moon outline sewn into the rug. "Yeah ... okay."

It doesn't hold long and when you find the Gryffindor captain again, his gaze is trained on your face. It's stone cold. You gasp quietly and look away.

"Right!" George Weasley is on his feet, setting an empty Firewhisky bottle into the centre. "Who's first?"

Alicia shuffles forward on her knees, the first of the group to move, and the bottle goes spinning. It lands on the Ravenclaw boy. He grins and she does too: Fred wolf-whistles when they stand.

The "heaven" in question is a tall oak cabinet leaning against the back wall of the common room. The pair disappear into its depths and conversation rises again as the circle waits.

You sip your drink in large gulps, trying to hold conversation with Angelina against Oliver's hot gaze that's burning a hole through the side of your face. It's difficult: the Gryffindor girl is so drunk that she's talking with her eyes closed.

Seven minutes later, there's a chorus of "time's up!", Alicia and the boy emerge another ten seconds later. They're rearranging their clothes and Alicia is as scarlet as her quidditch robes. The boy is grinning like the cat who caught the canary. You're suddenly struck with the violent urge to throw up.

The game goes on like that, round after round. Lee Jordan and Jane Emmet (your beater), Katie and Wyatt (your other beater), Cherry and a pretty Slytherin girl you don't know - she's especially chuffed when she returns, red lipstick smeared over her chin.

You're working very hard not to look at Oliver, much less think about him, but it's proving difficult. Every time the bottle takes its spin, your stomach churns.

It had occurred to you during the time that Alicia and that boy were in the closet that there was a very real chance that Oliver could be called up when one of those pretty Slytherins take their turn at the bottle. The thought had made you down the last of your drink and immediately want to vomit it all back up into your cup.

The image of their slender arms curling around his criminally wide-set shoulders, Oliver pushing them back against the inside wall of the grand closet. Would he make noise? Would he sigh or groan against their lips or whisper something about how beautiful they looked tonight in their ears--

"Ollie, you're up mate."

You can't remember who said it, but the words stripped your gaze off Angelina and straight into the pooling brown eyes you'd been avoiding all week long.

He sighed, grumbling under his breath and only with a less-than-gentle nudge from Archie, did he lean up on thighs that flexed unfairly -- bloody hell, stop it! -- and wrap his hand over the neck of the bottle: it went spinning.

The only sound you could hear was the twist of the glass against the woven rug and the hum of your own blood rushing past your ears. It stopped.

"No fucking ways." Enzo cracked from two people down.

A hand landed on your shoulder, shaking you half off your arse: Angelina. "You're up, babe! Go!"

The bottle was pointing irrefutably at your little spot in the circle.

Oliver's face was as white as you'd ever seen it when you dared look up.

"I-I'm not going in with him--" It was the first thing that came to your mind and went spluttering out your mouth.

George was laughing so hard that he'd fallen all the way onto his back. The roar of the group was ear-splitting.

"There's no ways I'm going in with her!"

"Let's end this feud once and for all," Katie bellowed over their heads. "Captain versus captain!"

You're being knocked from all sides, hands crawling under your arms and lifting you off the floor. Across the circle, Oliver is experiencing the same and before you know it: the wooden doors of the cabinet are creaking open.

"Go on!" Lee's finger is piercing your side.

Oliver is beside you but you won't look. You take one last look over your shoulder at Cherry back on the floor, she does nothing but offer a sympathetic shrug and mouths "sorry, dear".

Your hand reaches before Oliver's, flinging the door open with maybe a little too much force. It bangs against the wall behind it.

"Let's get this over with." You mumble, only half concerned that he heard you.

You slouch climbing in, the top is low and the space is even more cramped than what you assumed. To your surprise, Oliver is stepping in after you. He takes his turn at slamming the door, shutting it this time.

It's dark inside, but not enough that you can't see. Light is peaking in through the cracks and he's leaned back against the opposite wall to you.

In the narrow space, your legs are twisting around each other to stand: his one knee situated between yours. In the dimness, he folds his arms and you notice for the first time the jumper he's wearing. The purple one, you recognise it as the one he's had for years. Time has taken its toll where the jumper is clinging to life around his frame, Oliver having grown at least three times wider while the jumper has remained the same size.

"Go on, Wood, give her a kiss!"

The voice is unrecognisable but it knocks your tongue back into your mouth where you'd been ogling at his torso.

His arms are folded, proffering you with a glare that could cut through steel. He makes no visible sign that he'd heard the shout at all. You mirror him, folding your own arms.

"I'm not kissing you."

His head cocks. "Oh, so you're talking to me now?"

You suck in a sharp breath. It's not the response you're anticipating. "What?"

"So we're playing dumb?" He leans just a fraction closer. You can smell the linger of alcohol on his breath, but it doesn't work hard enough to drown out the smell of peppermint that follows him around. "Doesn't suit you, princess."

"I'm not playing anything. I don't know what you're talking about." You double down. It's probably not sustainable but the heat of his body almost against yours and the thrum of liquor in your blood makes the decision for you.

"Y've been avoiding me all week."

"I haven't"

"You're a bad liar."

You swallow hard. Embarrassment is rising again, making your head spin. Oliver's chest is puffed up in anger, you can tell because you've had five years to learn the look like the back of your hand. Except, now - as it has been for a longer time than you care to admit - it's harder to focus on the waves of fury reflecting off of him when his face is just so ... beautiful. Nose scrunched and lips pulled tight into a grimace.

It's what makes you change tactics, you think.

"So what if I was? Why does it matter?"

His arms unfold, eyes rolling so far that his head knocks back against the wood of the cupboard.

"Why?" you press, "Did you miss me, Wood?"

"Maybe I did."

He's looking at you again. For what feels like the hundredth time just tonight, your breath escapes you in a rush and your lungs struggle to grasp back at it. Your face softens without meaning to.

You blink at him.

"You did?" It's a whisper.

His arms are still folded but something clement passes like a shadow over his features.

"No."

His face betrays his words, eyes soft and lip daring to curl up at the edge.

The air in the tight space goes cold. Or maybe it's your blood. It's more likely the look on Oliver's face: like he hasn't just turned your organs to slush. You're all the way sober now.

"I'm not kissing you." You repeat dumbly, but it's gentle.

Merlin, you want to kiss him so fucking badly.

"You mentioned." He's almost, almost, smiling. It's gentle too.

The space between you falls quiet. You're suddenly overly focused on the brush of his knee between yours. His swirling brown eyes catch on the split of light creeping in past the hinge on the door.

It stays like that until your voice creeps nervously out. "I was embarrassed. Am, I am embarrassed."

A thick brow tightens in confusion. "Why?"

You huff, almost annoyed. Your eyes train on a dark spot by your intertwined feet. "Come on, Wood."

"What, about the match?" The alcohol thickens his accent.

Your silence seems to answer his question. The apples of your cheeks are warming again.

"What was I supposed to do, leave you to have you bloody soul sucked out yer body?" His voice is rising, "No, princess, I'm not apologising for that."

It's an outpour that you're not expecting. Oliver's clearly in the mood to shock and surprise tonight.

Your lips tighten around the words that are all fighting for the spot at the tip of your tongue. Silence reigns while they argue, he's still watching you with exasperation set into the lines of his face.

"Princess." You settle.

His expression twists again. "What?"

"You always call me that. Why?" It's a question that you buried long ago. But his proximity, in conjunction with the night you've had, unearths it.

It's his turn to look surprised. He grumbles some indiscernable Scottish blabber before-- "It's because y'are a princess. Spoilt and bratty. Always gets her way."

There's no malice to his response, you find. It draws a chuckle from the depths of your chest.

"Aye, right." You mimic his accent and his quip, one he's used many times at you.

He laughs. It's not a sound you hear often and it's setting your whole nervous system alight like a tangled bunch of christmas lights. His whole body's shaking with it, head resting back against the wood again, and you really do think you might grab him and kiss him -- when the door flies open again: seeping his whole body in yellow light.

Alicia's standing at the opening, grin wide as night is wide and clearly expectant on catching you with your tongues down each other's throats.

If she'd given you another three seconds she just might have.

"Oh." She slumps in disappointment, looking back over her shoulder and shaking her head to the expectant crowd. They groan collectively. "Well, love birds, your time is up."

You'd almost forgotten where you were. Oliver clears his throat, the ghost of his laugh impossible to find on his face, and clambers over your legs out into the common room again. He doesn't pass without brushing his hand over yours.

It's nearly three in the morning when Enzo finally lets up.

His long legs are sprawled across the midnight blue couch in the middle of the common room. Fiona, a lovely Ravenclaw girl you'd met just tonight, shrugs at you: "Don't stress it. He can crash here tonight."

The party is long since dead. Seven Minutes In Heaven had looped another three rounds before everyone had gotten their chance in the dusty cupboard and began to grumble in boredom.

You'd avoided Oliver's eyes the whole time again, sure that if you looked he'd be able to read the fondness on your face.

It wasn't long after that the last of the students dissolved in the direction of their respective bedrooms. With your dear friend in good hands with the Ravenclaws, you loop your arm with Cherry - knocking against her side towards the portal.

You've barely pushed it ajar when she breaks off you, "Hold on, I need to get my Transfig notes from Jacob!"

"Cher, it's three in the morning?"

Alcohol is directing her legs in the opposite direction clumsily, "I'll wake him. If I fail another quiz, Mcgee's gonna have my arse."

She's gone before she catches your call: "I'll find you outside!"

The portal creaks where you shove it open again. The corridor is dimly lit and colder than the common room and a shiver chases up your exposed legs.

"Bloody hell." You run a hand over your forearms.

It's quiet too, and empty besides the Gryffindor captain leaning against the stone wall closest to the entrance you've just emerged from.

"Merlin," your eyes find his. "Not you again."

The flush over your cheeks is warding off the chill.

Oliver shrugs. "Me again."

An awkward silence permeates. Against better judgement, you shuffle forward, leaning against the wall beside him. He doesn't react, arms folded and staring into the inky abyss of the corridor leading out to the rest of the castle.

"Why're you out here?" You ask, tucking your hands between your back and the wall.

"Archie." He huffs out, voice wrapped in annoyance. "He's in there with Penelope. I gave him ten minutes."

Ah, Penelope Clearwater. She'd joined the game in the last round. A good thing too because Oliver's friend was looking more crestfallen as the bottle spun again and again, surpassing him each time. Penelope had taken the last turn, ending up with her hair in every direction and Archie's spectacles leaning half off his face when they emerged from the cupboard.

"You?"

The eddy of average conversation is strange, but you find you like it.

"Cherry." You hum. "Something about quiz notes."

He drops his head back against the wall.

"That what they calling it now?"

It startles you, head tilting to stare up at the side of his face with a grin: "oh, Wood’s got jokes now? I didn’t know it was possible for you to make a joke."

His eyes flutter shut, a twinkle of laughter bubbling out of his frame. Tucking his head down to his chest, he shrugs against his own light chuckle. "I have them. I just don’t share them with you."

You giggle back at him. "Right. Well then you better stop smiling there, someone might walk past and think we’re friends."

He shakes his head, the sound of his snicker fading but leaving behind the imprint of a smile. "Nobody’s gonna think that."

You lean back again, eyes drifting over the low ceiling. Quiet falls again - not uncomfortable - and you let it linger for a moment. A thought tugs on a loose string in your mind, not a new one, but one you’ve carefully buried over time.

It comes falling out your mouth. "You ever think about how it might be ... if things were different?"

The question grants you a look out the side of his eye. "Different?"

"Y’know," you shrug, the very last remains of alcohol are ebbing and unsureness is replacing where it stood. "If we … we had—"

"If you hadn’t suckered me in the bloody nose?" His words are unexpectedly fond.

You laugh at him, "If you hadn’t deserved to be suckered in the bloody nose."

He draws in a long breath, not answering. It prompts you.

"We could have been friends." You whisper, more to your chest than to him really.

But he hears it. "We would never be friends."

It stings sharper than it should. Your shoulders go stiff and the corners of your eyes sting inexplicably, turning the corridor blurry. A dying fire revives in your chest, blistering the cave, reminding you why Oliver Wood has been nothing but a stake in your side since you were thirteen years old.

"Of course. How stupid of me, for a minute I forgot what an absolute arsehole you are." You push off the wall, intent in going to dig out Cherry from the depths of the Ravenclaw dormitory. "Goodnight, Wood."

An arm wraps around your waist, not unlike it'd done a week ago in the air of the quidditch pitch, lurching you into him until you're pressed back against the cool stone of the corridor wall.

Oliver looms over you, crouched so that your nose bumps against his. "Don't sulk, princess."

It all happens at once: his hands grab onto the fat of your hips, digging in there like he really does hate you, and lips crash against yours like maybe he doesn't at all.

He stays there, unmoving for a second that feels a year long.

Where the inside of your brain had been buzzing with runaway threads of thought, ribbons streaking out in all directions: they disappear in a sizzling light. Oliver Wood is kissing me.

You melt against him, tipping up onto your toes and latch onto muscled shoulders. He seemingly takes that as his cue, pressing you closer against his body with his arm - lifting you half off the wall.

He tastes like the remnants of Firewhisky and pumpkin juice, the flavour setting every nerve ending in your body on fire. Lips soft but persistent while his hands grip onto you like you'd dissolve into dust if he didn't.

It's aggressive, but familiar in that way. Oliver is nothing if not hot-blooded and his touch, darting between your hips and your face is turning you tipsy again.

"If you want a friend," It's muffled when he speaks, punctuating his words with hot wet kisses, "go be friends with Ryo."

It's only in this moment, with his desperation mirroring in the glimpses of sugar brown irises you catch where he's fluttering his eyes over your face, that it dawns on you.

"Jealous much?"

He growls lowly and it makes you giggle against him, your hands slithering up into the hairs at the base of his neck. Oliver shakes his head against you, still huffing in disbelief.

"Shut up." It's accent-heavy and bleeds a hole through the bottom of your stomach. "You're such a fucking brat."

"And you're a fucking prick."

He huffs lowly, you press harder to him: solidifying the sentiment. Somehow the bickering makes it all sweeter, like you're dissolving cotton candy against your tongue where his swoops over it.

You'd just about forgotten where you were when a creak echoes down the corridor. Halfway to ignoring it in favour of Oliver's touch, your situation dawns on you in the same moment it does him.

Like you'd both licked the end of a live wire, you and Oliver jolt back a foot, hands diving to your respective sides.

Cherry is standing against the light of the common room behind her, a lanky Archie parked beside her. Their eyes are wide and Cherry's hand is against her jaw in shock.

"Oh my god." She mumbles against it.

Blood is rushing to your face and out the corner of your eye, Oliver is running a hand over the hair that's sticking in all directions from the influence of your fingers.

Cherry is laughing breathily, eyes still wide and white in surprise. "Oh my god."

Archie's eyes are flickering between you and Oliver.

"Sorry to interrupt." He says, a smirk curling onto his features.

It jumpstarts your entire system. You step forward, grabbing Cherry by the arm.

"Well," you nod at Archie and at Oliver, not daring to meet his eyes, "goodnight then."

You march with fervour, half-dragging her in the direction of the Hufflepuff common room until your figure disappears behind the next corridor.

Oliver stands with his hands hanging at his side dumbly. He swipes a finger of his bottom lip, still tasting the strawberry lip gloss you'd left there.

"Can't say I didn't see this coming, mate." A hand claps over his shoulder.

He groans, running both hands over his face, and Archie shakes him lightly.

"So ... how was it?"

With another groan, Oliver shoves Archie's hand off of him. "Bloody hell, Arch."

Archie throws his head of curly black hair back, laughing so loud it bounces off the wall. "That good, huh?"

(part two/final part)

don't forget to comment and repost if you enjoyed :)

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@laurenmckiernan-blog @mooneyswife @meyaareads @buffkittenmuscles @emielry @amora-lilly @maximumride1 @sarcastic-nerd @chanyeolsbeloved @pinkb4t @betty13augustine @toadweed-twinklegaze-silverpuff @bella-rose29 @grimm1992 @mortallytenaciousmoon @alanalanalanalanalanna @amane-enama @sosasi521-blog @head-in-the-clouds222 @she-went-that-way @joeybelle @mahidahi @malenk @lillyys-reposts @m626 @rain-echos @meidl @arwn-yng @hotchberry1245 @avatar-lovergirl011 @silverblur @aphroditesanem0ne @angstywaifu @2-blind-2-see @alanatheblogger @ebklsbxgdsworld @gwnwrites @skskskye @girlqrush @cas-planet @thycia-flowers @badonkadork @malachitecorgi-spicy-account @carter-knight @angelic-destiny25 @nyxm0on @saltistic-dumbass @maddsunn @margflower @curlyblaze @ardrhys8 @carolga @my-beloved-fandoms @leaawrites @ilovelilies @ahead-fullofdreams @perciver4ever @amaliarosewood @iamthejam

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xinganhao · 3 months ago

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🥊 older brother!soonyoung vs. boyfriend!jihoon.

@choco-scoups -> "what do we think about brother's best friend jihoon, but your brother is soonyoung"

ⓘ cussing, good-natured sibling bickering, suggestive joke. headcanons under the cut.

🥊 jihoon's notes on surviving the kwon siblings .ᐟ

The Kwon siblings are sulky as hell. Jihoon had thought that Soonyoung was the king of brooding, but then he met you. If he weren't dating you, he might even be impressed. As it is, though, he can only focus on managing the two of you's moods. Sure, Jihoon is a little biased. He thinks you're cute when you get all pouty; it makes him want to pinch your cheeks and hold you until that frown is gone from your face. When it's Soonyoung, though, he's a lot more exasperated. "You're a grown man, Soon. Get over it," he might grouse— right before turning to a sullen you and asking if you want a kiss.

The Kwon siblings bicker. A lot. Jihoon doesn't have any brothers or sisters of his own, so he spent quite a bit of time worrying if the two of you were normal. He quickly learned that most siblings tend to butt heads, though you and Soonyoung tended to be a little more... over the top than the average pair. One too many times, Jihoon has been caught in between the two of you's screaming matches. His three-step plan to coming out unscathed is to 1) not take sides, 2) only step in if/when physical altercation occurs, and 3) try not to insult either of you. Even if he is inclined to believe that you're right, more often than not.

The Kwon siblings can be clingy. Before he was your boyfriend, Jihoon was Soonyoung's best friend. And so Jihoon had grown used to Soonyoung's insistences for meals out, Soonyoung's need to be responded to lest he thinks it's the end of the world. When it turned out that you were more or less similar, Jihoon could only shake his head and sigh to himself. He should have known what he was getting into. Really, Jihoon has the patience of a saint in balancing your overthinking and Soonyoung's peskiness. It's a whole love language, and Jihoon is fluent.

Soonyoung loves you. It's not something he says often. Call it the tendency of brothers to brush off emotion or downplay their own sentiments. But Soonyoung loves you in a ride-or-die kind of way, in an if-anything-happens-to-you-I-don't-know-what-I'd-do kind of way. Jihoon knows this. He knows it well. When you and Jihoon had started dating, Soonyoung had been fully supportive. He made a couple of 'jabs' here and there— "If you break their heart, I'll never forgive you!"— but Jihoon knew from the look in his best friend's eye, the set in Soonyoung's jaw, that it wasn't that much of a joke. Jihoon knows that Soonyoung trusting him with you is no small thing. He makes sure not to take it for granted.

You love Jihoon. You love Soonyoung. You would never— not in a million lifetimes— choose Jihoon over Soonyoung. Even though you've threatened bodily harm on Soonyoung more times than can be counted; even though Jihoon is everything that you could want and more. Blood runs thicker than water. Jihoon knows that, too. That's why he never makes you choose. He's content to share the spot of 'favorite person' with your brother, the same way that there's no one else in the world that he trusts more than you two.

+ When the three of you are able to get it together long enough to go somewhere without gauging each other's eyes out, it's those moments that Jihoon secretly adores the most. He sometimes falls quiet, letting you and Kwon fill the conversation at the table, and he thinks of the time you forced him to watch that one Disney movie. Looks like the princess was right; Jihoon is spoken for. Everyone he's ever loved is here, within these walls, at this table, and he couldn't be more happy about it.

✉︎ jayyy! i know you said i could "keep this for a while," but when the req features two people on my bias line.. well! (ᗒᗨᗕ)

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

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macgyver2016-bracket · 9 months ago

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Season 2, Episode 22: UFO + Area 51

Riley and Mac are assigned to investigate a mysterious object at Area 51; Riley discovers top secret information on Mac's father, but is unsure if she should give it to Mac.

Season 3, Episode 13: Wilderness + Training + Survival

Mac, Riley and Bozer go on a weekend of survival training, then they run into a violent group of criminals who are searching for a lost crate of money. Jack and Matty go on a road trip to place Ethan and his family in witness protection.

#macgyver 2016 #macgyver 2016 episodes tournament #2x22 UFO + Area 51 #3x13 Wilderness + Training + Survival #Round 1 Match 31 #Round 1

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alygator77 · 9 months ago

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ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony I ch 1 ᰔᩚ

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, slow burn, smut, fluff, bit of angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, some triggers of domestic abuse (emotional abuse but it can be a bit suggestive/interpreted as physical, from naoya not satoru)

ꨄ words: 9.7k

ꨄ a/n. so very excited for this little series :') these topics hit home for me, would love to hear your thoughts, i hope you enjoy ♡

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

♬ playlist

series masterlist ꨄ︎ next chapter →

ch 1 // circumstances and commitments

Red traffic lights always seem to catch you at the worst times.

As your car rolls to a stop, the city around you moves at a pace that feels impossible to match – the early morning rush, cars honking, people hurrying along the sidewalks, all while you’re stuck drumming your fingers anxiously against the steering wheel, the rhythmic beat mirroring your rising frustration.

You glance down at your phone, the glaring digital numbers reminding you of the precious minutes slipping away. Cursing to yourself, your breath hitches as a notification pops up.

Satoru Gojo: Where are you? The meeting is starting soon.

Late for work… again.

Your heart pounds in rhythm with the seconds ticking away, each tick of the clock feeling like a countdown to disaster. Dread coils in your stomach as you anticipate the inevitable reprimand you’ll face from your boss.

Lately, it feels like life is conspiring against you. It all began with your ex-fiancé, Naoya, shattering your trust with his betrayal, leaving you to navigate the tumultuous seas of parenthood alone – his disloyalty forcing you to drop out of school so you can provide for you daughter.

The relentless chaos of single motherhood has become your norm, each day a balancing act on a fraying tightrope.

And now, your unreliable nanny seems determined to sink your already precarious ship, bailing on you last minute yet again, making you late for work as you juggle the impossible of finding a backup babysitter.

The mounting challenges seem endless, yet you forge ahead, driven by the love for your daughter and the need to survive.

You left Naoya without hesitation, determined to carve out a life on your own terms, away from his manipulating deceit.

But single motherhood is an unrelenting storm, and although you filed for child support, the legal process drags on like a cruel joke – two months have passed since you served him papers, and still no court date is in sight.

What’s even more frustrating, Naoya is an attorney himself – he’s playing the system.

Why?

Because he wants to control you in the palm of his hands.

Every day feels like a battle, and this job is your lifeline – you really can’t afford to lose it over some stupid unreliable nanny. Unfortunately, stable full-time daycare is a luxury you can’t afford, leaving you at the mercy of said unreliable nanny.

While better than nothing, she is far from ideal – her chronic lateness and last-minute cancellations only add to your daily chaos. Yet, with no other affordable options, you are left with no choice but to grin and bear it, teetering on the edge of despair but refusing to fall.

You can already picture the scowl etched on your boss’s face the moment you walk through the door, late yet again – his expression stern and unforgiving.

And then there’s Satoru Gojo.

You can almost hear his sarcastic comments and see that infuriating smirk playing on his lips, his eyes dancing with amusement at your misfortune.

Satoru Gojo. The gorgeous and impeccably dressed heir to the Gojo Corporation, is the epitome of wealth and charm. With his striking blue eyes, flawlessly tousled white hair, and an air of effortless confidence, he commands attention the moment he steps into a room.

The Gojo Corporation, a behemoth in the business world, is practically a family of celebrities, their every move scrutinized by the public eye. Although you don’t work directly for Satoru, you often cross paths in the office since you serve as his father’s personal secretary.

Takemi Gojo, the stern and impatient CEO, demands perfection, making your role both challenging and stressful.

As you rush into the sleek, modern lobby of the Gojo Corporation, the sound of your high heels clicking against the polished marble floors echo through the hallway.

The receptionist, Shoko, looks up from her desk, her eyebrows knitting together in concern as you hurry towards her, hair disheveled, a folder clutched in one hand with papers threatening to spill out, and your handbag dangling precariously from the other.

The pristine, high-end surroundings make your disarray all the more glaring, and you can't help but feel a pang of embarrassment.

Though she’s currently on a phone call, Shoko’s concerned look expands, her eyes widening as she silently mouths to you, where have you been?

A defeated sigh escapes your lips as you shake your head, too flustered to explain. She subtly points to the door behind her, indicating where the meeting you’re now fifteen minutes late for, is being held.

With a subtle nod, you hurry past – she mouths, good luck, which does nothing to calm your frazzled nerves.

Opening the door, you are immediately met with a long table full of businessmen, their judging eyes snapping to you the moment the door creaks open. The air is thick with tension, and as you enter, the knots in your stomach tighten with each step taken, cheeks burning under the weight of their scrutiny.

Fuck. You are so embarrassed.

Satoru sits towards the back of the table in an office chair, lazily spinning around in circles while he fidgets with a pen between his fingers – clearly unamused, as usual.

He stops mid-spin and fixes his gaze directly on you, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his lips. His icy blue eyes seem to sparkle with amusement at your disheveled state.

In stark contrast, his father sits beside him, arms crossed, brow furrowed, and lips pursed in a tight line. The fury in his eyes is unmistakable.

Shit. He was pissed.

“G-Good morning,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper as you briskly make your way to your seat. Your hands tremble slightly as you hastily tidy your hair and smooth down your shirt, desperate to appear somewhat presentable.

As you shuffle into your seat and place down your belongings, you can feel Satoru’s eyes on you, scanning you with a wry smile.

His amusement is palpable, and he clearly relishes the sight of you flustered and out of sorts. The way his gaze lingers on you, enjoying your disarray, only adds to your frustration

"Late again, I see,” he hums, his voice dripping with calm, sardonic amusement.

“Quiet,” you hiss at him silently, clearing your throat while you sit up straight – a forced smile across your lips.

Satoru faintly chuckles to himself as his father peers over at you disapprovingly, his stern eyes boring into you with a silent reprimand.

“Right – now that everyone is here, let’s begin,” Takemi Gojo announces, his authoritative voice slicing through the tense atmosphere like a knife.

The moment the conference starts, Satoru can’t help but roll his eyes, a gesture filled with disdain for the mundane proceedings. Leaning back in his seat, he props his elbow on the armrest and rests his chin in his hand, adopting a languid, almost bored posture.

He begins to tap the tip of the pen he was fiddling with against his lips idly, the repetitive motion a clear sign of his disinterest.

Satoru always hated these corporate meetings; they were incredibly tedious and time-consuming, and most of the topics discussed could have easily been handled in a goddamn email.

As his mind begins to wander, he tunes out the monotonous drone of the other men’s voices, his attention inevitably shifting to you, seated right beside him. He finds himself inexplicably drawn to the sight of your crimson cheeks and the slight tremble of your delicate hands.

There's something undeniably endearing about your flustered state that always manages to spark his mischievous side. He relishes the opportunity to give you shit, finding immense pleasure in your reactions.

"You know," he whispers in a slight mocking tone, leaning closer so that only you can hear, "this meeting would’ve gone by so much quicker if you had just been on time."

A shiver rakes down your spine as you feel his breath slightly against your ear.

God, he irked you so much.

Satoru Gojo, with his annoyingly charismatic arrogance, always managed to aggravate the hell out of you. It made your blood boil how he would purposely push your buttons, always knowing exactly how to get under your skin.

Turning your head towards him with a slightly exasperated expression, you shoot him a glare before shaking your head.

“I know,” your hushed voice laced with slight irritation. “You don’t have to remind me.”

Meeting your glare with a cocky grin, Satoru’s eyes glint with amusement, relishing in the way he could rile you up in a few words – it entertained him to no end, his only saving grace from this boring ass meeting.

Tormenting you was certainly a good way to pass the time.

“Oh, I know I don’t have to,” he chuckles lightly, speaking in a soft yet mocking tone, “but where would be the fun in that?”

“Jesus, you are insufferable,” you scoff under your breath, rolling your eyes, the frustration evident in your tone.

A cheeky smile forms on his lips as he leans back in his chair, humored by your irritation.

“Insufferable, huh?” he murmurs, still keeping his voice low with a hint of mischief. “My delicate heart can barely take the sting of your harsh words. Now, is that any way to treat your future boss?”

You raise an eyebrow at him and purse your lips, irritation simmering beneath your calm exterior. Dealing with Takemi Gojo, as strict and demanding as he is, feels like a lesser evil compared to the daily torment of Satoru's antics.

You silently pray that by the time Satoru takes over the business, you'll have moved on to better opportunities. You really don’t want to be stuck as a secretary your entire life – you have dreams of finishing your education and building a better future, but for now, this job is your lifeline.

It is unfortunate you had to halt your studies after leaving Naoya, but providing for your daughter takes precedence over everything, and with money being tight, every decision is a careful balancing act.

Satoru’s eyes glint with a mix of mockery and amusement, a smirk tugging at his lips as he can see the annoyance flickering across your face – it only eggs him on even more. Leaning in closer to you again, his voice drops even lower as he speaks.

"What, you don't think I'll be a good boss?" his tone feigned with mock hurt. "Here I was, imagining you calling me sir every day."

Before you have a moment to respond, your attention is grabbed by the sound of Satoru’s father clearing his throat – you are met with his stone-cold eyes sweeping over you both, the disapproving frown plastered on his lips is a clear indication for you to stop with the chit chatting.

Message received loud and clear.

You shift back in your seat, straightening up as you attempt to refocus on the meeting. Satoru, however, seems entirely unbothered, his lazy smile still fixed in place as he leans back in his chair with a nonchalance that is equal parts irritating and infuriating.

After another grueling hour of corporate ramblings, the meeting finally concludes. Relief washes over you as the businessmen begin to funnel out of the room, their murmured conversations blending into a low hum.

You hurriedly gather your scattered belongings, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere, but just as you reach for your papers, the stern voice of your boss cuts through the noise, freezing you in place.

“Y/n, before you go, a word please?” Takemi’s tone is sharp and commanding, slicing through the ambient chatter like a blade.

“Yes, sir,” you speak softly and timidly, placing your belongings back down as instructed. Your voice wavers slightly, betraying the nerves bubbling just below the surface.

As you glance over at Satoru, he begins to rise from his relaxed position, only for his father to halt his movements with a sharp, "Both of you," as he motions with his hand for Satoru to stay as well.

Satoru huffs in annoyance, his shoulders sagging as he sinks back into the chair, his irritation clear in the crinkle of his brows and the slight downturn of his lips.

“Y/n,” the old man’s tone is serious as he addresses you, his expression furrowed in what appears to be disappointment. The weight of his gaze feels like a heavy burden pressing down on your shoulders. With a nervous gulp, you brace yourself for the reprimand that’s to come.

“This is the third time this week you’ve been late now. Care to explain why that is?”

You can feel Satoru’s smug smirk beside you, his arms crossing casually over his chest as he leans back in his chair. The self-satisfied look on his face only serves to heighten your disdain for him.

God, he aggravates you.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I apologize, sir. I have been experiencing unforeseen issues with my childcare situation.”

The second you mention childcare, Satoru’s eyes soften in astonishment.

You were a mom?

He had no clue – you have always been tight-lipped about your personal life at work. In fact, he had always found you annoyingly professional.

That’s why he takes so much pleasure in pushing your buttons – you’re such a tightass. It’s so much fun to see a different side of you, to crack your uptight façade. This newfound information truly intrigued him, and he finds himself momentarily taken aback.

Takemi raises an eyebrow, his expression unchanged and stoic. "Unforeseen issues, hm? Can you elaborate on that further?" His voice is a blend of curiosity and skepticism, a hint of impatience lacing his words.

"Well, sir..." you exclaim, voice wavering as it’s filled with reluctance. With a subtle pause, you choose your next words carefully. You really didn't want to have to talk about this, but you’re backed into a corner and it appears you have no choice. With a shaky exhale, you proceed.

"My former engagement was recently broken off, so I'm currently a single mother. Unfortunately, my current nanny seems to have issues with punctuality."

Mr. Gojo listens to your explanation with an expressionless face, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processes your words.

The room feels even colder, the silence stretching uncomfortably. Meanwhile, Satoru's eyes dart between his father and you, watching the interaction with a peaked interest.

You, a mom?

This newly discovered knowledge had certainly added a new layer to his perception of you. Part of him feels a little guilty for giving you shit.

Maybe he should go easy on you a little bit?

He thinks to himself, before immediately dismissing that thought as impractical.

Yeah… not happening.

"I understand the situation, and I sympathize," Satoru's father finally responds, his tone devoid of warmth. "However, being late is unacceptable, especially repeatedly." He pauses for a moment, studying your expression intently. "Have you considered alternative childcare arrangements? One that is, perhaps, more reliable and punctual?"

You bite your lip, wrestling with your internal dilemma. Telling him about your financial situation seemed pointless, would these billionaires really understand? It wouldn't change anything, and it might even come across as a feeble excuse.

Daycare costs $500 a week where you live; it’s practically a mortgage on top of all your other expenses just to get by. Besides, you really don’t like people knowing your business. Replying carefully, you try not to give too much away.

“Right… I am looking into other options,” the words feel hallow as they leave your lips, because the truth is, you've already scoured the internet and exhausted all possible options, but to no avail. There are no viable alternatives at the moment – everything is out of your price range.

Satoru's father nods in acknowledgment, his expression still serious and unyielding. "Good," he says, his tone sharp and authoritative. "Please make this a priority, y/n. I need to see an improvement in your attendance. Your tardiness is affecting the productivity of the office, and I cannot tolerate late arrivals for much longer."

With a silent nod, you try to feebly hide the desperation that's clawing at your insides. You’re at your wit's end with childcare, but what can you do? Your boss seems to think you can just magically come up with a solution, but there is none.

“Yes, sir,” you say meekly, your voice barely above a whisper.

The old man shifts his attention to Satoru, who is lost in thought, still observing you intently with an inscrutable expression. His gaze is unwavering, as if he's trying to decipher a complex puzzle.

“As for you, boy,” Takemi's voice cuts through the silence, stern and authoritative.

The abruptness of his tone snaps Satoru out of his reverie. He blinks, his expression shifting to one of mild annoyance as his eyes flicker to his father.

“Let’s have a chat too,” Takemi continues, his eyes narrowing as he addresses his son.

You can feel the intensity of the moment, a palpable shift in the room's dynamics. Takemi's words hang in the air, heavy and demanding. Your heart races as you gather your belongings, sensing that the conversation to follow will be anything but pleasant for Satoru – his father is not known for holding back his opinions. Working beside them both, you’ve observed the passage of many quarrels – they are like fire and ice.

“Y/n, you’re free to go,” Takemi finally says, his voice softening slightly as he dismisses you.

With a quick nod, you turn to leave, your steps hastening towards the door. As you approach the doorframe, you cast one last glance over your shoulder.

Satoru is still watching you, his eyes filled with curiosity and something else he can’t quite place. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the lecture he knows is coming, and turns to his father.

“Yes, sir?” sounding unbothered and slightly bored, Satoru’s voice has a hint of defiance in his tone.

“If you plan on taking over my business, you need to take this more seriously, Satoru – and you need to focus on finding an heir. When are you getting married? I can’t have – ”

Click.

Once the thick wood closes behind you, you can only hear the muffled sound of their voices, steadily escalating.

You stand awkwardly outside for a moment, not wanting to eavesdrop but unable to ignore the growing volume of their shouting. Clearly, the discussion had turned into another one of their disputes.

It’s nothing unusual, but as the voices behind the door grow louder and more intense, you’re left wondering if this may be their worst fight yet. Although you can’t make out all the words being exchanged, Satoru’s voice is sharp and roiled as he responds.

"Married? You're still obsessed …. settling down, old man? I'm not interested … those uptight women you keep throwing at me …. damn boring!"

Sure, their disagreements are quite frequent, but is it your imagination, or are they arguing about...marriage and heirs?

The realization that your job security is hanging by a thread weighs heavily on you, and you can’t help but feel a pang of envy for the seemingly trivial issues that Satoru and his father are arguing about.

Oh, the privileged problems of rich businessmen, you think.

ꨄ

As the day passes by, you find yourself buried in work – answering phone calls, scheduling meetings, filing paperwork – all while trying your best to push the events from earlier this morning to the back of your mind.

The steady hum of office activity buzzes around you, but your thoughts remain a chaotic whirlwind, replaying the tense confrontation with Satoru's father over and over again.

You feel stuck – should you try scouring the internet later tonight for childcare… again? The knot of anxiety in your stomach tightens each time you recall his stern expression and sharp words.

Amidst the flurry of tasks, a reminder pops up on your Outlook, the chime breaking through your concentration like a jarring alarm:

Supply day

You stare at the notification for a moment, a sense of dread settling in. Today, of all days, a sigh escaping your lips.

You grumble to yourself, the sound barely audible over the rhythmic clicking of keyboards and muted conversations around you. You know exactly how this always goes – the supply room is conveniently located right next to Satoru’s office, a perfect setup for his constant interruptions.

You’re going to have to deal with his incessant pestering while placing the order – it’s like he always manages to find any stupid excuse to bother you, and it’s become a rather annoying tradition at this point.

With the supply list clutched in your hands, you ascend the sleek, glass-paneled staircase to the second floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. The brushed steel railing is cool under your touch, and the soft hum of the elevator nearby reminds you of the countless times you've made this journey.

A flicker of hope dances in your mind.

Maybe – just maybe – today will be different, and Satoru won't be waiting for you in front of the supply room like usual. After all, he did have a fierce argument with his father, their worst fight yet in fact, so perhaps he doesn’t feel like pestering you today.

But as you round the corner, the familiar sight of the supply room comes into view, and your heart sinks as you spot him – arms folded, nonchalantly leaning against the doorframe, adorned in his tailored business suit and a smirk already tugging at the corner of his lips.

His presence is as predictable as it is irritating, the very sight of him almost humorous in its inevitability.

Satoru's eyes glisten with mischief as your gaze meets his. His smirk deepens, clearly relishing the reaction he's drawn from you. With a slight huff and roll of your eyes, you make your way towards him.

"Don't you have work to do?"

He grins knowingly, clearly enjoying your exasperated expression as you approach. “Always so grumpy when you see me,” his voice dripping with faux hurt, “is that any way to greet your future boss?” unfolding his arms, he pushes himself off the wall, a sly smile on his face as he towers over you.

His taunting words only serve to exacerbate your frustration, and you roll your eyes yet again. This man really takes too much joy in getting a reaction from you.

“Gojo, you may not have work to do, but I do,” you respond curtly.

"Ah, the dreaded supply duty, huh?" he smirks, feigning concern as he looks down at your clipboard, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Gotta make sure we're fully stocked with the finest pens and staplers possible. You wouldn't want the company to perish, now would you?" he grins playfully as his voice drips with sarcasm.

“Ugh…” you grumble as you brush past him and enter the room – the scent of freshly printed paper and the faint, musty smell of old supplies greets you. A playful hum escapes Satoru’s lips as he follows suit right behind you, hot on your heels.

"You really take this job too seriously, you know that?" he remarks, his tone laced with playful mockery as he leans against the doorframe. “One of these days you're gonna have to learn how to loosen up a bit. Can't be all serious and grumpy all the time."

You feel the embitterment boiling within you – the audacity of this rich billionaire, who’s petty concerns are as simple as marriage and heirs. With a deep exhale, you bite your tongue, attempting to filter your intolerance for him.

“Yeah well, I can’t just do whatever I want like you Gojo. Unlike you, I actually need this job,” your voice is level, but edged with a mix of frustration and determination as you move toward the shelves, your fingers deftly picking out the necessary supplies.

Satoru remains leaned against the doorframe, noticing the tenacity etched on your face as he watches you work.

For a moment, his playful demeanor falters as he processes your words. They clearly make him realize something – the crucial difference between the two of you. You have way more riding on this job than him, he’s only working to please his overbearing father, but you – you have a sense of purpose and strength that goes beyond mere obligation. Unlike the superficial women his father shoves in his face, you seem to have depth, a resilience that intrigues him.

Finally, he breaks the silence with a nonchalant tone.

“So, you’re a mom. Didn’t expect that.”

You glance up from the supply list, slightly taken aback by his sudden shift in demeanor.

“Yeah, I am,” you reply cautiously, not quite sure where this conversation is heading. Your hands pause mid-action as you meet his gaze, scanning his features to gauge his intentions.

His expression is surprisingly sincere, a far cry from his usual teasing demeanor. His eyes, usually glinting with mischief, now hold a hint of curiosity and something else you can’t quite place. A beat of silence passes before he speaks again, his tone noticeably softer than before.

"How old is your kid?"

“She’s two,” your voice is measured as you lift your brow at him, feeling conflicted – you are still guarded, though something about his unexpected interest makes you feel a bit more at ease.

He nods slowly, the image of a little girl popping into his mind, and he can’t help but feel a twinge of curiosity, pity, or maybe even admiration. He’s not quite sure what exactly this feeling is, but it unsettles him.

He never knew his mother, and his father was never affectionate. The thought of you juggling work and motherhood, managing so much on your own, makes him see you in a new light. There's a strength in you that he finds both fascinating and humbling, something he hasn't encountered often in his sheltered world of wealth and privilege.

He leans his head back slightly, looking up at the ceiling, his gaze momentarily distant – he can tell that you’re uncomfortable sharing these details, and he makes a mental note to tread lightly. But there’s also something about your guardedness that piques his curiosity even more. It’s clear that he’s more invested in this conversation than he’d like to admit, a rare occurrence for him.

He lets out a low whistle, his gaze returning to you with a hint of genuine interest, his eyes lacking that usual mischievous glint.

"Wow, two years old," he muses. "That's pretty young. She must keep you busy."

For a moment, you see a flicker of something softer in his eyes, but there’s a part of you that still doesn’t trust it. You nod, focusing on your task, your fingers deftly organizing supplies as you try to maintain a sense of normalcy.

“Yeah, she does. It’s a lot of work.. but she’s worth it,” your voice naturally softens as you think of your daughter's wide, innocent eyes and the way her laughter lights up even your darkest days.

Satoru falls into a brief moment of contemplation, a fleeting moment of thoughtfulness crossing his face as he absorbs your words.

“I can imagine,” he says quietly, almost to himself.

But then, as if snapping back to his usual self, the corners of his mouth lift into a sly grin as he tilts his head to the side, his eyes regaining their playful spark.

“And here I always thought you were just your average workaholic, obsessed with pencils and paper,” he teases, a hint of mischief dancing on his lips, his words dripping with sarcasm as he continues, “Maybe you should bring her in sometime. I bet she’s already better at filing paperwork than you.”

A small smile escapes you despite your attempts to suppress it, betraying your earlier defensiveness. You roll your eyes, unable to resist his playful banter.

“Very funny, Gojo,” you mutter sarcastically, trying to conceal your amusement, but there's a warmth in your voice that wasn't there before.

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself as he watches you, the amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you get back to your oh-so-important supply duty. But don’t think I’m going to stop pestering you anytime soon. Gotta make sure my future secretary is on her top game.”

You raise an eyebrow, but don’t respond, opting instead to continue your task, your hands moving methodically as you sort through the supplies. Despite yourself, you can’t help but feel a bit lighter.

The unexpected shift in his demeanor, the way he showed genuine curiosity about your daughter, caught you off guard. For a brief moment, you saw a different side of him – a side that isn't just the arrogant heir, but someone who might actually care. It’s a fleeting glimpse, but it’s enough to make you wonder if there’s more to Satoru Gojo than meets the eye.

He slowly lifts himself from the doorframe, his movements deliberate and unhurried. Stopping for a moment, he casts a last lingering glance in your direction, a smirk playing on his lips. His voice, exuding that typical mockery, breaks the silence.

“Seriously though, get those supplies ordered before the company crumbles without its precious pens and staplers – oh, can you order the blue ball tipped ones? Those are my favorite.”

Clearly enjoying the exasperated sigh that escapes your lips, Satoru flashes you a playful wink. Shaking your head, you feel a mix of amusement and frustration bubbling up inside you.

You take it back – he’s as obnoxious as ever.

But you are not sure why you are unable to suppress a small smile. And for the first time ever, his playful teasing, while infuriating, also held a strange charm that you can't quite deny.

ꨄ

Rushing through the front doors of Gojo Corporation, your heart pounds with a mix of anxiety and exhaustion.

The early morning sunlight barely filters through the towering glass windows, casting long shadows across the sleek marble floors.

Your unreliable nanny had flaked on you again, forcing you to scramble for a last-minute solution for your daughter. You called everyone possible, your neighbor, your mother, hell even Naoya.

Luckily, your best friend Utahime could step in, but the frantic search had cost you precious time, and now, you were late yet again. Dread gnaws at you, a nagging fear that today will be the day you finally get fired for your tardiness.

Clutching your bag tightly, you weave through the bustling crowd of employees, their polished shoes tapping rhythmically against the floor as they move with purpose. The air is thick with the scent of fresh coffee and the faint hum of conversations. You feel wandering eyes on you and hear the muted whispers following your hurried steps.

"Can you believe Mr. Gojo passed away suddenly?" one employee whispers, their voice barely audible over the din.

"Yeah, heart attack, I heard. It’s going to cause a huge shakeup in the company," another replies, their tone laced with uncertainty.

You freeze in place, the news hitting you like a ton of bricks.

Did you hear them correctly?

Takemi Gojo, the CEO and your boss, had passed away?

You struggle to process it, the shock of the news mingling with the fear of losing your job. You were Takemi’s personal secretary, so…what does this mean for you?

Was Satoru going to take over the company? You should be fine then, right? He wouldn’t fire you… he has always been pestering you, boasting about being your future boss after all.

The thought of his arrogant smirk sends a shiver down your spine, but it also gives you a sliver of hope.

Your steps falter as you reach the door leading to your desk, your fingers trembling as you fumble with your bag for your badge. As you glance around, you can’t help but note the worried expressions on your colleagues' faces, their whispered conversations adding to the sense of unease. The usually bustling office now feels oddly oppressive, the air thick with uncertainty and mourning.

The second you round your desk, one of Takemi’s assistants, Yaga, is waiting for you. His stern expression stands out starkly against the backdrop of worried faces, and his face is etched with lines of fatigue, making him look older than he is. His lips are set in a thin line, and the dark circles under his eyes suggest he hasn’t slept well.

"Y/N, we need to talk," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Oh, okay,” you say timidly.

As you follow him to a nearby office, your heart sinks with each step. The corridor feels longer than usual, every footfall echoing like a drumbeat of impending doom. The walls are adorned with framed certificates and company accolades, a testament to the empire Takemi Gojo built.

"What’s going on?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, the knot in your stomach tightening, a cold sweat forming at the back of your neck. You can barely hear yourself over the pounding of your heart.

Yaga closes the door behind you with a heavy sigh, the sound resonating ominously in the confined space. He looks uncomfortable, his eyes avoiding yours as he gestures for you to sit. The room feels stifling, the air thick with unspoken tension.

"Please, take a seat," he says, his voice softening slightly, though the underlying gravity of the situation remains.

You lower yourself into the chair, your fingers clutching the armrests as if they could anchor you in the storm of uncertainty.

Yaga sits across from you, his posture rigid, hands clasped tightly on the desk. He takes a deep breath before meeting your gaze, his eyes reflecting a mixture of regret and resignation.

"With Mr. Gojo gone, the company is undergoing some restructuring," he begins, choosing his words carefully. "It's been a challenging time for everyone, and difficult decisions have to be made."

His words hang in the air, each one a heavy weight pressing down on your chest. The knot in your stomach tightens further, and you swallow hard, bracing yourself for the inevitable blow.

"Since you were Mr. Gojo's personal secretary, your position is being terminated," he continues, his tone tinged with genuine regret. "We no longer need your services."

A silence envelops the room, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner. The framed accolades on the wall seem to mock you, a stark contrast to the harsh reality you're now facing.

Your heart plummets into a deep abyss, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a boulder. A cold, hollow feeling spreads through your chest, and it’s as if the air has been sucked out of the room.

Your mind races, images of unpaid bills and your daughter's innocent face flashing before your eyes. Panic bubbles up inside you, threatening to spill over.

You can't let this happen.

You think about the sacrifices you've made, the sleepless nights, the constant juggling of responsibilities.

Who would you turn to?

Your family isn’t an option, you don’t really get along with your mother… she has her own set of issues, leaving you with no support system to lean on. There is no one you can reach out to… no one except...

Naoya.

The mere thought of Naoya sends a shiver down your spine.

You promised yourself you’d never go back to that lying cheater. He’s manipulative, always finding ways to twist situations to his advantage.

You remember how he tried to get you to crawl back to him, using your daughter as a bargaining chip.

How he used to make you feel like you were the one at fault for everything, gaslighting you into questioning your own sanity.

When you caught him cheating, he didn’t even apologize. Instead, he blamed you for being too busy with school and your daughter to take care of his needs. He claimed that if you had been a better partner, he wouldn’t have had to look elsewhere.

Even after you left him, he continued to try to control you. He would show up unannounced at your door, demanding to see your daughter, only to criticize your parenting and suggest that she would be better off with him.

Ironic, considering how he wants nothing to do with her. She barely even recognizes his face.

He missed both her birthdays, all her doctors’ appointments – he was never involved in anything. The man can’t even change a diaper.

Being an attorney himself, he has used his legal knowledge to delay the court date for child support, knowing full well that you were struggling to make ends meet. Every time you thought you might be free of his influence, he would find a way to pull you back in.

You can't let yourself fall into his trap again, but what other options do you have?

The thought of begging him for help makes your skin crawl. You can almost hear his smug voice, telling you how you were always too proud for your own good. The humiliation would be unbearable, and you know he would use it to his advantage, tightening his grip on your life even more.

But is there another way out?

Hopelessness claws at your insides, making it hard to breathe. Your daughter deserves better than this. She deserves a stable home and a mother who isn’t constantly worried about how to pay the next bill. You have to find a solution, and fast.

Taking a shaky breath, you struggle to keep your voice steady, the words barely escaping your lips.

"But... I need this job." Desperation laces your tone, each word a plea. "I have a daughter to support. I can't afford to lose this job. Please, there must be something I can do."

Yaga looks at you with a mixture of pity and helplessness.

"I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do. I want you to know that this decision wasn't made lightly," he says gently. "You’ll receive a severance package, but today will be your last day. Please ensure you pack up your things."

The finality of his words feels like a punch to your gut. You nod numbly, not trusting yourself to speak.

As you return to your desk, each step feels heavier than the last as the weight of the moment settles over you like a suffocating blanket.

You begin packing your things, the mundane task giving your hands something to do while your mind spirals.

As you place the last of your personal items into a cardboard box, a sudden realization hits you.

You remember leaving some of your things upstairs in the supply room.

With a heavy sigh, you lift the box and head towards the staircase, your footsteps echoing through the now-quiet hallways, the usual office buzz replaced by an uneasy silence.

The trip feels familiar, but solemn this time. A bittersweet feeling surges through you, knowing that the countless trips you’ve made to the supply room will no longer be interrupted by Satoru’s playful teasing.

Thinking about those interactions now, you feel a pang of confusion.

Why had Yaga been the one to deliver the news?

Was Satoru now the CEO?

If he was, why would he fire you?

The questions swirl in your mind, creating a storm of confusion and anxiety.

As you approach the supply room, the realization that Satoru’s office is right next door makes your heart pound faster.

Just then, you hear raised voices seeping through a crack of his office door. Recognizing Satoru’s distinct tone, laced with anger, you can't help but pause, curiosity getting the better of you.

“What do you mean I have to be married with a child to inherit?” Satoru's voice echoes down the hallway, sharp and incredulous.

The response is muffled, but you can make out the words.

“...stipulation in the will…necessary condition…”

You pause, your heart pounding as you listen. This was clearly a private conversation, but the gravity of Satoru’s words piques your interest. You inch closer, straining to hear more, your breath held in anticipation. Satoru's voice rises again, frustration clear in every syllable.

“This is ridiculous! My father can’t control my life from beyond the grave. How am I supposed to find someone to marry and have a child with on such short notice?”

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you strain to catch every word. The lawyer’s voice is calm, almost rehearsed.

“I understand this is a lot to take in, Mr. Gojo. But the terms are clear. To claim your inheritance, you must fulfill these conditions. Otherwise, the company will pass to the next eligible heir.”

There's a tense pause, followed by the sound of something heavy crashing onto the desk—likely Satoru’s fist. His voice, strained with frustration and anger, echoes through the room.

“Next eligible heir? There is no other heir! My father knew that. This is just his way of trying to control me, even in death.”

The lawyer remains unflappable, his tone steady and professional. “You have a year to fulfill the requirements. Perhaps you should start considering your options.”

You hear the rustling of papers, a clear sign that the lawyer is preparing to leave. You instinctively back away from the door slightly, your mind racing with the implications of what you’ve just overheard.

As the door creaks open, you quickly shuffle into the supply room, your heart pounding. Peeking through the crack, you see the lawyer exiting Satoru’s office, his face a mask of resigned professionalism.

As the lawyer walks away, your mind begins to whirl. The weight of your current situation crashes over you. The thought of losing your job, your only source of income, terrifies you.

Your mind latches onto Satoru’s predicament—needing a wife and child to secure his inheritance.

You fit that description perfectly.

You are a single mother, and marrying Satoru, even if just for show, could solve both of your problems.

But could you do it? Could you really propose such an audacious plan to Satoru Gojo? Your heart races as the idea solidifies in your mind.

It’s this or Naoya.

Desperation gives you the push you need, reminding you of your daughter’s innocent face and her future depending on your next move.

Once the lawyer is out of sight, you take a deep breath and steel yourself. This is your chance—perhaps the only chance—to keep your job and provide a better future for your daughter. The enormity of what you're about to do makes your stomach churn, but you push the fear aside, focusing on the opportunity.

Taking another steadying breath, you knock on the office door and enter.

Satoru's furious gaze snaps to you, a tempest of emotions swirling in his icy blue eyes. Anger is the most prominent, his jaw clenched so tightly that you can see the muscles twitching.

But beneath the fury, there's a raw, palpable hurt. The loss of his father, the sudden pressure of the inheritance stipulation, and the looming uncertainty of his future all collide in his expression.

His normally confident demeanor is fractured, the vulnerability barely masked by his rage. You can see the telltale signs of a sleepless night—dark circles under his eyes, his usually impeccable hair disheveled, and a stiffness in his posture as if he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

“Y/n, not now,” he snaps, his voice strained and sharp, eyes blazing with frustration.

Despite the torrent of emotions flashing across his face, you stand your ground, summoning every ounce of courage you possess.

“Let’s get married,” you blurt out, the words tumbling from your lips before you can second-guess yourself.

The room falls into a deafening silence, the gravity of your proposition hanging heavily in the air.

Satoru’s eyes widen, the anger dissolving into pure shock. His mouth falls open slightly, and he blinks rapidly as if trying to process what he just heard.

“I’m sorry… what did you just say?” he finally manages, his voice a mixture of disbelief and confusion, the tension in the room palpable.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of your bold declaration. You can see the gears turning in his mind, the initial shock giving way to contemplation. His eyebrows draw together, and he tilts his head slightly, studying your face as if searching for any hint of a joke. The intensity of his gaze makes your pulse quicken.

“Let’s get married,” you repeat, this time with more conviction. “You need a wife and a child to fulfill the stipulation in the will, I fit those criteria. We can help each other. It would be mutually beneficial. You get to keep your inheritance, and I get to keep my job.”

He continues to stare at you, his eyes flickering with a myriad of emotions—confusion, curiosity, and a hint of something softer, perhaps hope.

“You’re serious?” he finally asks, his voice quieter now.

“Yes,” you reply firmly. “Think about it. You wouldn’t have to worry about finding someone else, and it solves both of our problems. It’s a win-win.”

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. A faint, incredulous smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he lets out a huff of a chuckle.

“Well, I didn’t expect to be proposed to on the day of my father’s death,” he says, his voice heavy with irony but still managing to inject a touch of humor despite the emotional weight he's carrying. “And I have to say, this is probably the least romantic proposal ever.”

You take a deep breath, meeting his gaze steadily. “This isn’t about romance, Satoru. This is strictly business. No emotions attached.”

Satoru's expression shifts, the playful sarcasm replaced by genuine contemplation. He leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples as he processes the gravity of your proposal.

“And you’re okay with this?” he asks, his tone a blend of skepticism and intrigue. “A fake marriage? Living a lie?”

You nod, your resolve unwavering. “I need this job, Gojo. For my daughter, I’m willing to do whatever it takes. Besides, it’s not like we’d have to pretend forever. Just long enough to satisfy the will’s requirements.”

Satoru leans forward, his eyes narrowing as he studies you intently. “Okay, but what about the press? This is going to be highly publicized and scrutinized. They’re going to make things difficult. Do you think you can really handle it? The media, the constant scrutiny? It’s not going to be easy you know.”

You square your shoulders, determination hardening your resolve. “I can handle it. I’ve dealt with difficult situations before, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work. We both have a lot at stake here.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, skepticism etched into his features. He leans back, scrubbing his chin with his hand as he ponders your words. The room is silent for a moment, filled only with the sound of his contemplative breathing. Finally, he speaks, his voice laced with doubt.

“You do realize what you’re signing up for, right? This isn’t just a casual arrangement. We’ll have to convince everyone that this is real. That means living together, attending events together, and putting on a convincing act at all times.”

“I understand,” you reply firmly. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to provide a secure future for my daughter. We can work through the terms together.”

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing slightly as he considers the implications, weighing the potential fallout against the benefits. For a moment, his gaze softens as he studies you, a flicker of admiration passing through his eyes.

He sees the determination and resolve etched into your features, and it strikes a chord within him. Then, as if unable to resist, a mischievous glint appears in his eyes as he lets out a low hum.

“But are you sure you can leave emotions out of it? You might end up falling for me, you know,” he teases, a smirk playing on his lips.

Rolling your eyes, a shiver rakes down your spine. Shaking your head, you stand firmly.

“Yeah, not happening. I think I can manage, Gojo. This is purely a business arrangement. No emotional entanglements.”

He chuckles softly, the sound unexpectedly warm and genuine. In that brief moment, teasing you gives him a fleeting sense of relief from the immense pressure he’s been feeling.

“If you say so,” he murmurs, still grinning.

As you look at him, you notice the subtle signs of emotional fatigue etched into his features—his teasing doesn’t have its usual edge. The slight sag of his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes. It strikes you that although Satoru Gojo can sometimes be a privileged ass, he’s also a regular person with his own burdens and struggles.

Maybe there really is more to him than you originally thought?

The playful light in his eyes slowly dims, replaced by a steely resolve. He straightens in his chair, the humor fading from his expression as he leans forward, all business now.

“Alright,” he says, his voice steady and determined. “We’ll draw up a contract – I have a friend who’s a lawyer, I can arrange a meeting. And I’ll get started on the arrangements to have you and your daughter move into my place.”

You nod, feeling the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally loosen. The realization hits you – this is actually happening.

Satoru Gojo, the heir to the Gojo Corporation, is agreeing to marry you?

It's almost surreal, like stepping into a dream – or perhaps a well-orchestrated scheme. But it’s real, and it’s happening.

Relief floods through you, washing over the stress and uncertainty that had been weighing you down – for the first time in what feels like forever, you see a glimmer of hope, a tangible solution to the myriad of problems you’ve been grappling with.

To secure a future for your daughter, to stabilize your life, all you have to do is deal with Satoru Gojo.

Easy, right?

“Agreed,” you say, your voice steadier now. “But first things first, we need to lay down some ground rules. We set clear boundaries.”

“No emotional entanglements,” he reiterates, his voice firm.

“Exactly,” you agree. “And no touching,” you add resolutely, crossing your arms defensively.

Satoru raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah… that’s not entirely realistic in public. We’ll need to look convincing. Hand-holding, maybe a kiss or two for the cameras.”

You feel a flush rise to your cheeks at his suggestion. “A kiss or two?” you repeat, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden flutter in your stomach. “This is a business arrangement, Gojo. Not a rom-com.”

He chuckles softly, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Relax, I’m not asking for a love story. Just enough to keep up appearances. It’s a business arrangement with a touch of theatrics. Think of it as...method acting.”

You narrow your eyes at him, not missing the amusement dancing in his gaze. “Fine.” You mutter reluctantly, “But only in public, and only as much as necessary. I’m not playing house for fun. No funny business.”

“You have my word,” he grins, placing a hand over his heart in mock sincerity. “Strictly business. No funny business. Well… maybe just a little,” he adds with a wink.

You narrow your eyes at him, your resolve unwavering. “I’m serious Gojo, you better keep it professional when we’re alone. I’m not here for your entertainment.”

Satoru chuckles softly, the sound rich and surprisingly genuine. “Don’t worry, I’ll behave. But you might want to practice that smile of yours. You know, the one that doesn’t look like you want to kill me.”

You groan and roll your eyes, “I’ll work on it… anyways, what’s next on the agenda?”

Satoru hums thoughtfully, reaching for a notepad and pen. “Since we’re on the topic of appearances in public… we should probably arrange a public announcement of our engagement.” He taps the pen against the pad thoughtfully. “Oh, and we’ll need to come up with a convincing story of our love and make sure both sides match… meaning we’ll need to know enough about each other to pull this off – our likes, dislikes, habits…”

“Gojo,” you interject, pulling his attention back from his thoughts. “There’s something else.”

He pauses briefly and raises an eyebrow, signaling you to continue.

“My daughter,” you say, your voice steady but laced with concern. “She’s my top priority. I’ll need her to have a stable environment. We need to discuss her care and routines. She’ll need her own room, and I need to ensure she has everything she needs, including a full-time nanny.”

Taking a deep breath, you clench your fists and steel yourself, pulling your gaze up to meet his. “That is one of my conditions. Will you cover the expenses of her childcare? Just during our agreement, of course.”

Satoru’s expression softens slightly, a flicker of empathy in his eyes. He sets down the notepad and pen, giving you his full attention.

“Of course,” he replies, his voice sincere. “We’ll make sure she has everything she needs. A stable environment is important for both of you, and I’ll take care of the costs for her childcare.”

Your thoughts drift to your daughter—her wide eyes, her infectious giggle that lights up even the darkest days, and the way she clings to you with unwavering trust. You picture her tiny hands gripping yours, her joyful laughter echoing through the halls of Satoru's grand home.

The weight of the past months’ struggles seems to lift slightly, replaced by a cautious hope. Relief washes over you, but you maintain your composed exterior.

“Thank you.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair.

“She’ll have only the best. I’ll have my assistant compile a list of top-notch nannies, and you can make the final decision.”

You blink, a bit surprised by his willingness to ensure your daughter’s stability. It’s a side of Satoru you hadn’t expected—a softness beneath the confident, often arrogant exterior.

“Thank you, Gojo,” you say again, more softly this time.

His lips curve into a faint smile, one that carries a hint of genuine warmth. "You're welcome. We'll get through this together. One step at a time."

You hold his gaze, finding an unexpected gentleness in his eyes. This keeps happening. Was this softness always there, hidden beneath his confident facade?

As you find yourself lost in the moment, Satoru clears his throat, pulling you both back to reality.

“Alright, sounds like we have a lot of the initial details covered. Let’s finalize everything with my lawyer. I'll see if he’s available tomorrow—the sooner we do this, the better.”

“Right,” you mutter. “It’s a deal then.”

Satoru rises from his chair, signaling the end of the discussion for now. There’s a brief, tense silence. Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, the world outside seems to fade away. His gaze rakes over you, intense and penetrating, almost as if he’s trying to read the depths of your resolve.

The intensity of his stare makes you feel flustered, heat rising to your cheeks. The sudden rush of emotions and the close scrutiny make you feel awkward, and you instinctively extend your hand toward him, needing to formalize the agreement to break the tension.

“I appreciate it, Gojo,” you say, your voice a bit unsteady. The gesture feels stiff and unnatural.

Satoru looks at your extended hand, a smirk forming on his lips and mischief dancing in his eyes. He finds your awkwardness oddly endearing.

“You’re welcome,” he grins, taking your hand in his warm, steady grip. The touch lingers a moment longer than necessary, the silence between you filled with unspoken thoughts. His amusement is evident in the twinkle of his eyes, but there’s also a hint of something deeper, a connection that neither of you fully understands yet.

He lets out a soft hum, his voice dripping with humor, “And you should start calling me Satoru now. After all, you’ll be a Gojo soon enough.”

Your eyes widen, and you feel your face flush even more, pulling your hand away from him, his fingers brush against yours, sending a small shiver down your spine. The teasing comment throws you off balance, adding to the whirlwind of emotions you’re already experiencing.

“Satoru,” you repeat, the name feeling unfamiliar on your tongue. “Right. Satoru.”

He chuckles softly, clearly enjoying your flustered state. His laugh is low and warm, reverberating through the room like a gentle, mocking caress.

“That’s better,” he says, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He leans back slightly, crossing his arms as he continues to watch you with an almost predatory interest, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a teasing smile.

The atmosphere in the room shifts subtly, charged with an undercurrent of something unspoken yet undeniable, making your heart race just a bit faster.

You try to ignore the fluttering sensation in your stomach, convincing yourself that it’s merely irritation. Satoru has always had this effect on you—his arrogance, his charm, the way he seems to enjoy pushing your buttons. It’s infuriating, and yet, there’s something about him that draws you in, even if you don’t want to admit it. The conflicting emotions swirl within you, leaving you feeling unsteady and vulnerable.

He shrugs, leaning back further with his grin expanding, curling up higher as if he was reading your mind.

“Just remember, sweetheart, this is strictly business. No falling in love with me, okay?”

You scoff, crossing your arms.

“Trust me, that’s the last thing on my mind, and don’t call me sweetheart.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and you can’t help but feel a mix of irritation and amusement.

“Whatever you say, darling,” he replies, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

For a moment, the world seems to narrow down to just the two of you – his eyes hold yours, a challenge and a promise in their depths, and you can’t help but wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into.

a/n. thanks so much for reading :') → on to the next chapter ꨄ

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