summary: declan's marriage is in dire straits. moving to the Cotswolds has not only changed his relationship with his wife, but also his working life. amidst all the chaos, he met you. a little spark in the dark.
characters: declan o'hara x reader
contents: age gap, cheating, sexual tension, guilt trip, forbidden relationshiop.
word count: 3.2K
Hello! I'm here to say that this is my very first fic of Rivals and I'm really excited! I wrote this for a dear friend, but I decided it was worth posting here too. Also, this will probably be a three-part story, so there will be more chapters to come.
It was only supposed to be a one year job.
Maybe a few months at Corinium. Something respectable to put on a CV. Something that might open doors later. Instead, you found yourself working for Declan O'Hara.
Most people at Corinium seemed to orbit chaos in one form or another. Tony Baddingham generated it smoothly. He could fill a room simply by walking into it, leaving everyone else to reshuffle themselves around his aura.
Declan was different.
You spent most of your days keeping track of his schedule, making sure he arrived where he was supposed to be, reminding him of meetings he’d inevitably forget and intercepting phone calls before they became someone else's emergency. It wasn't glamorous work, but he always thanked you for it.
A surprisingly rare quality in television.
The launch party for his programme was in full swing by the time you escaped to the drinks table.
Champagne flowed freely. Cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling. Across the room, James appeared far more interested in Sarah Stratton than whatever story she was pretending to tell him. Tony and Cameron were also secluded, and everyone pretended not to notice the palpable sexual tension between them.
“Careful there, kid.” The voice came beside your shoulder. You startled hard enough that champagne sloshed dangerously close to the rim of your glass. Declan looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“God, Mr. O’Hara.” You snorted, feeling slightly lumpish for holding eye contact for more than five seconds.
Declan smirked.
“What's the verdict?” he asked.
“On what?”
“The party.”
You glanced around the room.
“It feels very expensive.”
A laugh escaped him.
“Tony's favourite sort.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The noise of the party faded into the background. Then Declan nodded toward your glass.
“Go easy on that.”
“Oh, it's just champagne.”
“Exactly.“
“Should I be worried?”
“Nah, not worried.” His mouth twitched. “Just keep an eye out. Corinium's full of opportunists.”
“And you're warning me because….?” You nodded, a smug smile playing on your lips.
“Because you're far too decent for this place.”
You almost choked. Almost. Before you could think of a response, he reached past you, stole an appetiser from a passing tray and stepped away.
“Enjoy the party, darlin’.”
You watched him disappear into the crowd. The ridiculous part wasn't what he'd said. It was how long you stood there afterwards thinking about it… What on earth was that?
That night, alone in your car on the way home, you replayed that moment over and over again, like a schoolgirl. You relived the way his eyes had lingered on yours, and how he’d curled his lip and given you an impish smile. You squeezed your eyes shut tight and blamed the drink. It was just a daydream. An alcoholic delusion.
You’d imagined it all. Declan O’Hara would never even look at you, let alone flirt with you.
By six o'clock, Corinium had emptied out. Except for you. The corridors that usually buzzed with ringing telephones and hurried conversations were quiet, save for the distant hum of equipment somewhere deeper in the building. Most people had fled the moment Friday afternoon became Friday evening.
You, unfortunately, had not been granted that luxury.
The production team had left the scripts for next week's episodes in Declan's office, and somebody had to make sure he actually took them home. That somebody, as always, was you.
You pushed open the door and reached for the light switch. The room flooded with soft yellow light. The blinds were drawn and there was a distinct smell of whisky in the air. You barely noticed the chair positioned toward the window as you crossed the room and gathered the stack of scripts from the desk. You tucked them against your chest and turned toward the door.
A metallic squeak cut through the silence as the chair spun.
“Fuck me!” The scripts slipped from your hands and scattered across the carpet.
For a second, all you could hear was laughter. Declan leaned back in the chair, thoroughly entertained by your misery.
“Oh, that's cruel.” But his laugh only worsened.
"Sorry, darlin’." He stood up, still laughing. "Thought it was someone else for a mo."
“It's fine.” With a sigh, you crouched to collect the pages. The sound of another movement made you glance up. Declan was kneeling beside you. “It's no problem, you don't have to help.”
“Probably not.” He picked up a loose page and handed it over. “But, if they're out of order, you'll blame me, ay?”
You grab the papers with a smirk on your face.
“I mean, I’d have to tell my boss about it.”
“Exactly.”
You stand up whilst you arrange the papers inside the pad so they don’t fall out again. Declan's smile faded first, you notice.
“I'm gonna head off, then." You nod towards the door without taking your eyes off Declan, whose gaze is somehow hellishly magnetic.
"Have a good weekend, darlin’"
You walk towards the door, but over your shoulder you see him sit down and swirl his whisky glass. You hear the ice clinking against the glass just as his expression blackens even further.
You should leave. The prudent thing would be to leave.
Wish him a good weekend. Go home. Stop wondering why a man with a successful programme, a beautiful wife and a family waiting for him was sitting alone in a dark office drinking whisky.
Instead, you heard yourself speak.
“Mr. O’Hara, are you all right?”
The question slipped out before you could stop it. Declan swivels his chair round, the glass clinking in his hand. You hold your breath, thinking you’ve overstepped the mark. You immediately regretted it.
“Sorry. That was probably none of my business.”
“Probably.”
You winced.
“Right.”
You looked up. Declan slowly frowns as he looks at you. You feel so bare before his eyes.
“S’that obvious?” he asked.
“No.” The answer came too quickly.
His eyebrow lifted. You sighed.
“Maybe a little…?”
A soft laugh escaped him.
“Ah.” The amusement faded as quickly as it had appeared. “I'm fine,” he said.
You recognised the lie immediately. Apparently, so did he. Because a second later he exhaled through his nose and shook his head.
“No. S’not true.”
Eventually, he glanced up.
“I'm not goin’ to bore you with my problems.”
“Oh, you wouldn't.”
Declan snorted.
“That's generous.”
“I'm serious.”
“You shouldn't be.” He swirled the whisky. “I'm considerably older than you.”
“So?” You shrug your shoulders.
“So you've probably got somewhere better to be on a Friday night than listenin' to a middle-aged man complaining about his life.”
You laughed hard. The sound echoed through the office.
Work has made any socialising in your life pretty difficult. Worse still, you can’t even remember the last time you made out with a guy at a bar or had any real fun. Adult life is such a bitch.
Declan studied you for a moment.
Then he stood. You instinctively stepped aside as he crossed the room. Instead of heading for the door, he set the scripts back down on the desk. A second glass appeared from somewhere in the cabinet behind him. Then he pours half a glass of whisky on the rocks and hands it to you.
“In that case,” he said, “you might as well stay for one.”
You were grateful the office was empty, so no one could hear your laughter bouncing off the walls of Corinium. You and Declan spent hours in the room chatting. At some point, the whisky ceased to be the reason you were both still there.
You talked about everything from politics and television to childhood stories and whatever silly thing happened to be on your mind at the time.
Talking to him was easy. He was funny, honest, intelligent, and very observant. He could make you laugh with the greatest of ease. When you laughed, he’d look at you as if you were from another planet until he started laughing along with you.
The hours passed without you noticing. The bottle of whisky on the table was now half empty.
Everything seemed smaller now. You felt more comfortable, as if you were in a bubble that you couldn’t bring yourself to leave.
You sighed with ease as you leaned back on the sofa at the end of a chuckle. But then your gaze fell on your wristwatch and an alarm went off in your mind:
“Oh, my God.”
Declan followed your gaze.
“What?”
“It's nearly ten.”
Neither of you had realised how quickly time had passed, and Declan raised an eyebrow.
“I should go.” Your voice sounded almost disappointed. He agreed.
“Probably.” He said. “I can give you a lift.”
“Oh, no. It’s fine. I’ve got my car.”
You both stood there, neither of you moving. For a few hours, everything had been easy, it had been too comfortable. Declan had hardly seemed like your boss during the time you’d spent getting to know each other a little better.
He walked you to the door. It was a perfectly normal thing to do, except that neither of you reached for the handle.
You were standing much too close, closer than was necessary. A silence fell between you that was louder than ever before. It was then that Declan looked at you, the haze that had lifted during hours of conversation now gone.
“Y’know,” he said quietly. “That was probably the longest conversation I've had all week that wasn't about ratings.”
You smiled.
“Is that meant to be a compliment?”
“S'not meant to be anything.”
For some reason, it was there, in that smile and those worn-out eyes, that all the charm lay.
You felt a tightness in your chest, an alarming sensation. At the same time, you saw something shift in his expression. You saw him realise it at exactly the same moment as you did. The distance between you suddenly became impossible to ignore. Declan glanced briefly at your lips, looked away, only to look again.
A huge mistake. You both knew it, and that should have been enough to stop the thoughts from coming. Instead, neither of you pulled away.
The kiss happened almost by chance, the two of you moving towards each other and colliding softly. Declan wrapped one hand around your neck, then he gently ran both hands over your face. He was waging a battle within himself, his brow furrowed painfully.
It was a slow, tongue-filled kiss with a hint of whisky. It lasted a second before you both remembered all the reasons why it shouldn’t have happened.
Declan was the first to pull away. Not far enough. Never far enough. His forehead almost brushed yours, his strong, whisky-scented breath kissing your cheek.
Then he let out a silent breath.
“Well.”
You laughed nervously.
“That’s one way to end a conversation.”
Declan shook his head, a faint smile appearing despite himself.
“Terrible idea.”
Your heart was pounding.
“Probably.” His eyes flickered shut again when you brushed your lips against his.
“Definitely.”
Yet neither of them moved to put an end to it.
After the kiss, you found yourself thinking it had been a mistake. Not a romantic mistake, because that’d have implied there had been something romantic about it in the first place. Declan was married. He had children, for god’s sake. A life that existed entirely outside the walls of Corinium. You were his assistant. The facts of the situation seemed straightforward enough when laid out plainly, which only made it more irritating that you couldn't stop thinking about him.
As a result, you threw yourself into the deeply mature strategy of avoiding him altogether. If lunch happened to fall at midday, you'd leave ten minutes early. If someone needed a message passed on, you'd scribble it on a note and leave it on his desk rather than deliver it yourself. If a conversation could be reduced to three words, you'd reduce it to two. It was childish, and you knew it.
Declan noticed almost immediately.
Every morning, he'd appear with a coffee in one hand and a stack of papers tucked beneath the other arm. Every morning, he'd greet you with an easy "Mornin', darlin’," and every morning you'd suddenly discover something on your desk that required your immediate and undivided attention. The look he gave you afterwards suggested he wasn't fooled for a second. It wasn't accusatory, exactly. More curious. As though he were trying to work out a puzzle and finding himself short a few pieces.
By the end of the month, Corinium had secured a sizeable contract. Flamboyant as he is, Tony decided that a party was the best way to celebrate. You debated whether to go, staring at your reflection in the mirror for so long that the idea of wearing a crimson lippie seemed like a bad one. The navy dress stayed, largely because there wasn't enough time to find anything else and because, if you were being honest, it looked rather good.
Promises, Promises drifted through the room beneath the hum of conversation, while waiters threaded their way between clusters of guests carrying trays of champagne. Laughter rose and fell in bursts. Cigarette smoke curled lazily towards the roofing. Across the room, Cameron sat beside Tony while he entertained a semicircle of executives with all the subtlety of a man auditioning for his own legend.
You made a beeline for the drinks table, as usual.
At some point, Sarah appeared long enough to tell you your dress looked lovely before immediately disappearing back into a conversation with Beattie. Charles arrived a few minutes later, topped up your champagne and announced that he'd rather be at home than spend another evening watching Tony parade Cameron around like a prize-winning racehorse. You laughed, and the two of you fell into conversation. Or rather, Charles talked while you contributed the occasional nod and suitably interested noise.
The truth was that your attention kept wandering. It wasn't intentional. At least, that's what you told yourself.
Across the room, Declan stood with a whisky in one hand, listening to some unfortunate executive explain something that was clearly boring him senseless. Every now and then he'd rub the back of his neck, glance towards the bar, or shift his weight impatiently from one foot to the other. There was something oddly comforting about seeing him look slightly out of place amongst all the polished smiles and expensive suits.
You looked away whenever you caught yourself staring. The problem was that every so often, against your better judgement, your eyes found him again. You felt self-conscious, but you couldn't help but notice him. Declan O'Hara had a habit of drawing attention without ever appearing to ask for it.
Even from the other side of the room, his presence seemed to alter the atmosphere around him. People gravitated towards him. When he laughed, his biceps flexed, making his suit look like a mere scrap of fabric under his skin. You hated that you noticed these stupid things.
At one point, in the middle of a fit of laughter, as though responding to some instinct he wasn't entirely aware of, he glanced over his shoulder. Looking for something… or someone. That’s when your eyes met, as if for the first time in a long time. The spark that had ignited when you kissed was back, more fiery than ever. You considered breaking off eye contact and pretending to be interested in the conversation, but neither of you did.
“Charles, excuse me,” you said abruptly. “I'm just going to find the loo.”
Charles waved you away without missing a beat. You left him near the balcony just as Kiss took over the party and got everyone moving. You put your glass on the railing and pushed through the crowd to find somewhere you could breathe without being consumed by Declan’s magnetic presence.
Relieved to have lost sight of him for a moment, you stepped into one of the hallways.
“Lookin’ stunnin', love.”
Your heart gave a traitorous lurch. One ankle crossed over the other, arms folded loosely across his chest. Declan looked like a deity. His hair was perfectly groomed, with uneven ends. Beneath his thick moustache lurked a devious smile.
This man was the Lucifer incarnate.
You should’ve damned the day you kissed, because ever since then, he’d been fuelling all your worst thoughts.
“Thanks.”
Outwardly, you appeared calm, but you could feel your heart thumping in your ears. Amidst the coloured lights dancing across faces, every shadow made Declan appear increasingly lecherous.
Declan's gaze travelled briefly over your dress before returning to your face.
“Blue suits you.”
You laughed softly.
“You're very determined to make this awkward, aren't you?”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“S'good to know I've still got some talents left.”
Despite yourself, you smiled. “Let’s put an end to this, shall we?” You took a deep breath, closing the gap between you.
“We certainly should.”
Declan stepped away from the wall, his tall, broad frame looming over you. Still, you forced yourself to meet his gaze.
“What happened…” You began. “It was a mistake.”
It felt good to say it out loud, to put a name to things.
“It was.” Declan grunted, nodding his head.
You blinked a few times. Relief flickering through you.
“Right.” You folded your arms across your chest. “I'm really sorry it happened.”
Declan frowned, his smile turning down at the corners.
“What?” Your stomach clenched.
“‘Can’t say the same, darlin’.”
“Declan…” Your gaze shifting between Declan’s eyes and his downturned lips.
“Well, I’m serious.” He took a step towards you. You stepped back.
“You're agreeing it was a mistake.”
“I am.”
“Then what are you saying?” Your voice was little more than a whisper. By now, you were cornered like an animal. Declan looked you up and down as if he could devour you.
A humourless laugh escaped him.
“I'm saying it shouldn't have happened. I've spent the entire week tellin' myself to forget about it.” His voice purrs in your ear and you take a deep breath, trying to keep your wits about you.
Your mind screams to back away, but your body says the exact opposite.
“And?”
“And s'not gone particularly well.”
Despite himself, a laugh threatened.
“That's not funny.”
“No,” he agreed quietly. "S'not.”
The noise of the party drifted faintly down the corridor. Music and laughter. The distant clink of glasses. It all felt very far away.
“We can't do this.”
“I know.”
“You have a wife.”
The words landed heavily. Something flickered across his face.
“I know that too.”
Neither of you seemed capable of leaving. You became painfully aware of how close he was standing. Of the way his eyes lingered on yours. Of the fact that every sensible thought you'd arrived with seemed to be abandoning you one by one.
“It won't happen again,” you said. The conviction you were aiming for never quite made it into your voice.
Declan's mouth twitched. “It won’t.”
“Declan…” You purr, your lips parted as he takes hold of your chin, lifting your head.
“Yes, love?”
A moment passes.
“It won’t happen again.”
He agrees. Your eyes met for a moment, certain that this really is a lapse. Your breathing becomes erratic and Declan studies tiny details of your face.
One more second is enough.
Your mouths collide fiercely in a kiss. There’s a taste of whisky and champagne on your tongue. Declan hovers over you, cupping your face with his large, broad hand, burying his fingers at the nape of your neck. You’ve grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him close, closing any gap that might exist between you.
“Christ.” he breathed. Chest rising and falling like a crescendo. “This is a proper disaster.”
