But I’m coming out of my drought because of Katie b. My god that woman has me in a chokehold. And I know that she’s had mixed feelings about fanfictions, I respect that. I also think that there’s a line, especially when it comes to RPF and how some people don’t always like it. So just remember that RPF is based off of opinions of what is given to the public eye.
But I also am curious how many people would be interested in a fic or headcanons of her? Cause at this point, if you can’t find it, write it, right? lol.
synopsis — you’ve quit your job and you now need something new. however your job interview with the expensive looking man is more confusing than it needs to be. sugar daddy!harry AU
word count — 3.5K
warning tags — nothing crazy for this chapter. 18+ for eventual smut. slight insecurity from the reader. talks about money issues.
series masterlist | read on ao3
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You were so done with being poor.
That’s what you told yourself as you handed in your two weeks notice at your current–well, former now–job, ignoring your scowling boss, looking at you like a crazy person. You avoided his sharp eye contact, swivelling your head as you turned to exit through the creaking door.
“I hope you know what you’re doing!” He yelled back at you, his degrading voice vibrating off the walls of the room. Cringing, you darted out of the room, before he could spit anymore fire at you.
In all honesty, you had no idea what you were doing. You had hours, your coworkers were generally friendly, but you could not deal with one more measly paycheck, barely leaving you with any spare savings after every dime was spent on rent. New York was expensive and your degree felt more and more underused every day, with your time exclusively dedicated to organising grown men, who couldn’t tell their left foot from their right.
While you had a love hate relationship with being an assistant, it was time to get out of this job.
Briskly walking through the halls of your office, you quietly sat back behind your desk, feeling the burning gaze of your coworkers. You know what they think. Silly girl with silly dreams of more in the big city. It didn’t seem so silly before.
Now, as you try to remember your to-do list, you busy yourself back into your laptop screen, typing LinkedIn into the search bar.
“So, you finally did it.”
Yelping, you spin around in shock, completely unaware of your deskmate you had snuck up behind you. She flashed a kind smile, showing off perfectly white teeth, and sat down beside you. Her presence was usually friendly, however you couldn’t deal with any questions at this moment in time. “Yeah, hey, Marlene. She’s all handed in. In two weeks, I’m gone”
Marlene squeals, throwing her arms around you, squeezing you tight to her warm chest. “I’m so proud of you. I couldn’t imagine leaving here without a plan or new job lined up. You’re so brave.”
You grimace at her back-handed words, pushing them to the back of your mind. “Thanks, sweetheart. If you know of any assistant jobs going, please let me know.” You shake her limbs away from her body, giving her a tight lipped smile.
You aren’t sure if she replies, but she does leave you alone. You aren’t the closest of friends with Marlene, however you do appreciate her presence in the office. You were aware of her fortunate financial situation, seemingly able to afford luxury goods, like a Prada handbag one week, and a Gucci scarf the next. Most days, she eats out, always coming to work the next day with an eloquent story on the latest restaurant she had visited. Her hands remained freshly manicured, always patched as soon as any nail got chipped.
You were slightly envious.
You were aware that both you and Marlene were on the same salary, both being personal assistants to the financial managers. She must’ve had a second job, you think every time she comes in to work with a smile on her face. There’s no way she could be that happy tailing a pretentious, stuck-up piece of work for eight hours a day.
Unfortunately for you, your financial situation was slightly dire. The cost of living in New York City was becoming increasingly a problem, barely able to scrape by each week. Your tiny apartment ran cold most nights, unable to find the spare change to flick on the heating. The fridge was bare most weeks, besides from the odd condiment bottle and slab of butter.
It was not a glamorous lifestyle at all.
Marlene wanders off, seemingly done with the conversation. There was no point asking her for help. You sigh and stare back at your screen.
Maybe you need a new profile picture?
––––––
Staring out the window, you notice how the sun has already left the sky, with beautiful orange flecks reflecting off the little clouds. It was late and you have yet to let yourself finish your day. LinkedIn was a bust, with no one in your network of peers looking for any new assistants, so you decided that maybe you’d go back to study.
Scrolling through the course page of a nearby institution, you once again didn’t notice the presence behind you until it was too late.
“So, I was thinking–”
“Jesus, Marlene!”
“–and I may have thought of a job for you.”
You wince at her strange wording. Screwing your eyes up, you bring your fingers to your temples, soothing the frustrating seeping out of your pores. You were exhausted. The only thing on your mind was an ice cold margarita and your fluffy bed socks. “What kind of job is it?”
Marlene pauses, finding her words on the tip of her tongue. The delay worries you. “It’s an assistant job.”
You cock an eyebrow. “You sure? You seem unsure about that.”
“It’s just–” Marlene trails off, peeking around the room to see if anyone was listening. It was silly of her; everyone had left hours ago. “It’s not your regular assistant job.”
You roll your eyes, sick of her discrete behaviour. Standing up, you begin packing up your things, placing your worn books and pens away in your satchel, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t have time for this, Marlene. Just send me an email.”
Before you could walk away, you feel the light pressure of hands against your arms, holding you back. Squealing, you turn back to Marlene. “Marlene, st–”
“It’ll pay really well.”
“I–” You pause, unable to find the words to stop Marlene. Sighing, you give her a small smile, shaking your head in exasperation. “Fine. Hit me.”
Marlene grins widely, gesturing for you to sit with her once more. Her nails tap against the desk excitedly, waves of positivity oozing out of her. Hastedly, Marlene removes her phone from her pocket, pulling up an email. Suspiciously, she scrolls down to just the end of the email, and turns her phone screen so you can see the words in front of you. You pout in confusion.
Castillo Finance
Area of Expertise – Administration
Job title – Job no. 12
Marlene rambles away, as you try to read at the same. “I’ll send an email to my girl, because I know the lovely lady that works there– of course, I’ll need to explain it some more. It’s a bit different, but you’ll be fine. Oh, you’ll just love it. We can see each other more. Oh, I can’t wait!”
“Marlene, just wait–” She stops her spew of word vomit as you speak, flashing a smile.
“Yes?”
“What kind of administrative job?”
“It’s, uh– personal assistant! Very similar to what you do now.”
You don’t believe her and she knows that, but Marlene waves away your concerns. “You just head there tomorrow and tell the front desk you’re there to apply for “Job no. 12”, they’ll sort out everything for you.”
Job no. 12.
You squint as you check the address on your phone. Private equity. Now that’s a new one for you. Staring up at the towering building in front of you, you fear you have bitten off more than you can chew. You believe Marlene now when she said that this would pay well. The building is massive, easily one of the tallest in the area. Large windows stand up to the sky, presenting clean and glorious views into the foyer of the building.
Nervously, you walk through the doors and take in the expensive sights. Everything is pristine. The granite floors sparkle as you clack your shoes against the stone. Plush furnishings on the couches and throws light up the room, appearing as though it could be out of a magazine.
You walk up to the front desk, voice small, as you flash a smile to the administrator sitting behind the desk. She’s beautiful, with clean clothes and perfect makeup. If you saw her walking down the street, you’d assume she was a supermodel. You weren’t aware that real people looked like that. Coughing to clear your throat, you capture her attention.
Flicking her head up, she peers at you from over the top of her cat-eye glasses, staring at you like you were her lunch. You gulped as she spoke. “Can I help you, sweetheart?”
“Uh,” you pull out your email, staring at what Marlene had forwarded you. It wasn’t the same email she showed you in the office–for some reason, she never let you see the full email–but a new email, with the confirmation of your job interview. In the subject line, it had today’s date with an identification number. “I have an interview for job number twelve? My ID number is 478.”
The lady scoffed, turning back to her computer. You swear you could hear her mutter under her breath, but you couldn’t make out any words she said. However, it did seem unfriendly and calculated. She reads out your name and looks back at you, disapprovingly.
“Yes, that’s me.” You confirm your identity, shoving away any feelings of insecurity that were beginning to creep up on you as you watched the supermodel stare you up and down. She was most certainly judging how you looked.
Miss Supermodel, as you’ve decided to call her, scowls but nods her head. “Take the elevator to the right. Go to floor twenty four. Someone will direct you from there.” She waves you hand away, sending you off into the wild.
Unsure of whether to thank her or not, you decide on a polite nod, and make your way into the elevator, pressing the 24 button. Just as your fingers go to press the close button, you notice a man from the distance heading towards the elevator. Politely, you press your hand to the cool metal of the door, keeping the doors from closing and cutting him off.
As the man approaches, he notices the open door, and widens his eyes at the polite gesture. Grateful, he offers a small nod as he gets in, standing next to you, without trying to take up too much room in the elevator.
You grin to yourself. Trying not to stare at the man before you, you can’t help but rake your eyes over his body. He’s built strongly, an easy six feet tall. His eyes are warm and dark, like melting chocolate, begging you to just stare in, and fall deep into the pools of blackness. His clothes are clean and fancy, definitely something designer. He must be important, you think to yourself.
“Thank you for holding the door.” He offers, and you let yourself feel happy for a moment. It’s not like you care about what a random man in an elevator thinks about you, but something about making this specific man happy sets your insides alive. Without taking up too much space, he presses the 25 button, and returns to his original posture. Taking a quick peek at you, he clears his throat. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”
You turn to look at the kind man next to you. He’s staring directly back, his eye contact strong and dominant, like he owns the place. It makes your heart flutter. “I’m here for a job interview.”
He smiles and turns away. “Ah.” The elevator goes quiet again as it reaches your floor, opening the doors onto floor twenty four. Just as you step out, you hear a quiet voice call out to you.
“Good luck.”
As you turn back, the elevator doors have already closed, and you are unsure if you had imagined it or not. Shrugging, you continue towards the front desk.
The lady behind the desk is, just like Miss Supermodel, absolutely beautiful. Her clothes are also designer, with not a single hair or thread out of place. She looks like she came directly out of a Vogue magazine.
Biting your lip, you open your mouth to speak, but are interrupted by a pitchy, male voice behind you. “Andrea, I need your help.”
The man pushes you aside, nearly tumbling to the ground, as you watch the show in front of you. A man, not older than thirty, but already going bald, is red in the face, his hands full of binders. He’s frantic as he pulls out what seems to be a contract, and shoves it into the lady’s–Andrea’s–face.
“Where’s Mr Castillo?” His voice comes out in exhausted gasps, like he’s just ran a marathon. However, by your calculations, he couldn’t have run more than one hundred feet.
Andrea shrugs, obviously annoyed by this mousy man and his antics. “Which Mr Castillo are we talking about, Sanders? Surely you can understand my confusion, as this is Castillo Finance.”
Sanders scowls at Andrea, pulling back the sheet of paper with a huff. “My boss Mr Castillo, genius. Have you seen him, or do I need a competent administrator to understand what’s relevant in the conversation?”
“I haven’t seen him today, Sanders, now get these contracts out of my face and maybe check his office.” She blinks at him like he’s a child. “On a different floor.”
Aggressively, Sanders gathers his office equipment and heads past the door, staring daggers at you as he leaves. You believe he must not have appreciated the eavesdropping, however you’ll never say no to free entertainment. Collecting yourself, you approach the desk once again, and go to speak. Andrea, however, interrupts you. “How can I help?”
Without thinking, you blurt out, “I’m sorry he talks to you like that,” before immediately regretting what you said. The air goes thick with tension, as Andrea stares back at you, eyes of glass.
“He’s a dick.” She says plainly, making a giggle slip from your lips. She smiles back, before composing herself, and returning to her professional self. “Now, what can I help you with?” She repeats herself, coughing as she watches you stutter.
“I’m here for a job interview.” You speak plainly, pulling up your phone once again. You give her your name and wait for Andrew to finish finding what she needs on her computer. All of a sudden, she stops cold, turning back towards you slowly. Her face runs white.
“You’re applying for “Job no. 12”?” Her voice comes out in a small whisper, which presses confusion into your brain. You couldn’t help but think ‘what the hell is so wrong with this job?’
You clear your throat. “Yes.” You pause. “Have I done something wrong?
“Of course not!” Andrea’s voice escapes in a cool laugh, but you can help but notice how forced it is. “It’s just, it’s a word of mouth job, and I’m just,” she looks you up and down like you said something crazy, or if you’ve worn something wrong, “confused.”
“It's a personal assistant job… am I wrong?”
Andrea looks back at you plainly. There must be some information you are missing here. You simply can’t understand why she is looking at you like you’ve got something on your face. “I guess so.” She eventually speaks, however her words are too plain for your liking. “I mean, yeah, sure, it’s a personal assistant role.”
Andrea stands, wandering over to a nearby office, muttering under her breath words you just barely catch. “Personal assistant job, pfft, it’s definitely a personal kind of assisting.” Opening the door, you watch as she says something to one of her coworkers.
For the third time today, you are met with one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen. Furrowing your brows, you observe how the two women whisper to themselves, before the new girl nods towards you, inviting you to join their discussion.
The new lady speaks at you, her voice so quiet you could almost miss it. “Who sent you this job?” She mutters.
You can’t believe the question. “My old co-worker, Marlene Beauregard.”
The two ladies gasp and turn to each other, a small smile whispering across their lips.
Andrea speaks up first. “And she told you…” She trails off, expecting you to finish her sentence.
“She told me that she knew of a personal assistant job for me–this “job number twelve”–and set up the interview with me.” You pause. “What’s going on?”
The new lady quirks a smile. “Nothing at all. I’ll call Harry. You’re going to be late for your interview.”
––––––
You stare forward at the third lady as she pours over your CV. Her office is sleek, but small, organised so as much furniture as possible can be squashed into the same space. The walls are a crisp egg shell white, with a luxurious window sitting behind her, overlooking the city. Across her desk is a name plate.
Liza Brown. Human Relations Coordinator.
She hums gently. “Impressive.” She licks her fingers and turns to the second page of your CV, another agreeable sound coming from her mouth. “Studied at NYU, very chic. Journalism, very trendy. This is a glowing recommendation–”
Liza takes your CV and holds it up to the light. For some reason.
“How long were you in your old role?”
You sigh. “Four years, but it was time to move on. They didn’t pay me very well and I wanted to use my degree.”
Liza smirks. “So, you are applying for a personal assistant role again? That’s not very investigative journalism of you.”
“I need a job.” You say plainly.
“So,” She eyes you up, “you thought job number twelve was the job for you?”
“Why does everyone–”
However, your words are cut off as the door swings open, and elevator man walks in, frantically rubbing down his blazer jacket. “Sorry I’m late, was on a call and–”
He interrupts himself as he looks at you, with recognition in his eyes. They’re just as warm and inviting as they were half an hour ago, except this time, there was a spark of something else in there. “It’s you.”
“It’s me.” You repeat, not breaking eye contact with him.
Liza interrupts, her voice laced with confusion. “Do you two know each other?”
“No–” Elevator man says plainly, turning away from you and making his way to the other side of Liza’s desk. “We simply met earlier, however, I do believe formal introductions are in order.”
He extends his hand out to you. “Harry Castillo.”
You take his hand and say your name, which he repeats slowly and surely, like he was trying to memorise the way it sounded in his mouth. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Liza writing something down at her desk.
Once again, Liza interrupts, coughing to capture Harry’s attention. “She’s here about job number twelve?”
Harry looks alarmed. “Job number twelve? The g–”
“The personal assistant role.” Liza cuts him off, her voice harsh, like she’s speaking a different language.
Harry furrows his eyebrows. “But I al–”
Liza presses again. “The personal assistant job. Job number twelve is for a personal assistant role. Your personal assistant.” She grasps your CV in her hand and tosses it towards his chest. “Look over it.”
Just then you realise she had scribbled some writing across your CV, however you can’t make out any distinct words before Harry turns away from both of you, his eyes scanning the paper. When he turns back, his eyes have lost friendliness. “Ms Brown? A word.”
You watch sheepishly as they exit the office. Unfortunately, the room is soundproof, unable to make out any words from their frantic conversation. It isn’t until they both enter the room again that you feel slightly calmer.
Harry stalks you like prey, his eyes scanning you up and down.
He’s studying you.
Finally, he speaks, his voice calm.
“Can you start in two weeks?”
You exhale a breath you weren’t even aware you were holding. Somehow, you had gotten a job, without barely trying. You couldn’t understand your luck. In the back of your head, you knew something was off, but in that moment, you couldn’t find it in you to care.
However you stop yourself. Dread fills you. You didn’t have a job for the next two weeks. You couldn’t possibly afford two weeks out of work. Your smile drops from your face, something that Harry doesn’t miss.
“Is there a problem?” He says it warmly, with genuine concern in his voice.
You sigh, frowning. “Two weeks? Is there any possible way I can start earlier?”
Harry seems confused. “Earlier? Why’s that?”
“I’m currently out of work and I–”
He understands, immediately cutting you off, focusing his attention onto Liza.
“Take down her information and get her onto payroll immediately. Talk with payroll and make sure she gets an advance check of two weeks of pay.” He looks you up and down. “And add on a bonus. Maybe a grand?”
You gasp, unsure of what to say.
Before you can even manage any words, Harry winks, speaking softly under his voice. “Buy yourself some new clothes, something cute, and I’ll see you in two weeks.”
------
a/n – okay so i haven't published fanfiction for soooo long–since the incident we don't speak of–so i apologise if this is kinda rusty, however i enjoy writing it.
tag list – @joeldjarin @moyavsemoya @glitterspark @ro-nahime-things @throttlepascal @umadirectioner @roslynsworld @morganlolitta @isa942572
That Gucci film gave me rich, estranged, quirky, and incredibly lonely young old money millionaire who does every day things like get fish and chips in expensive suits because that’s all he owns. He always goes into town, but no one ever interacts with him out of wrongful fear and intimidation. He isn’t sure how to interact with them either. He descends from his tower or whatever, only to go right back up, leaving the rest of town in their speculations.
From an intern running coffee while still in school, to second in command at one of the best realty companies in London - Lighthouse Real Estate had become a huge part of your life. It allowed you to work for yourself in every sense, and afforded you the luxury of a nice apartment in center city. Your home was your safe haven, and you valued people trusting you enough to help them find their own space. And not only did you love your job, but you were good at it.
Well, until you met Harry Styles - the enigma you never could have anticipated.
A story of finding out what’s beneath the surface and seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.
- A Slow Burn AU // Harry x Reader -
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Rated: M, mature || Word Count: 31.9k
INSPO || STORY TALK || AWARDS
All of my writing can be found here and feel free to come talk to me here!
When Y/N applied to study at the art school located in Golden Hills, a small city hidden amoung the mountains, blessed by a beautiful coastal line that is known to captivate large ammounts of turists all year around, she would’ve never guessed that she would find herself willingly stepping into a subculture in which the limits are as blurry as the feelings she shares for Harry, a green-eyed boy with long hair, black clothes and a very messy heart.
Listen to the Damaged Goods Spotify Playlist: Here
Genre: Enemies to Lovers | College AU
Warnings: Smut, Cursing, Alcohol & Drug Use, Borderline Abusive Behavior
Read This:
• This story will mention actions that may be considered as borderline abusive, such as public humiliation and verbal abuse. If you’re sensitive to any of these subjects I advise you not to read it.
• Even though one of the main characters in this story is inspired by a real person (Harry Styles), I purposefully avoided mentioning his last name because writing explicit things under his name made me feel a uncomfortable, since he never conceded me the right to write about him.
• Every character mentioned in this story is a legal and consenting adult.
• Although the events narrated are completely fictional, they’re inspired by real college traditions that I’ve experienced myself. I later realized that understanding these traditions may be a little challenging if you’re not already familiar with them, so if you’re curious or want to know more about them feel free to ask.
Chapter I - Golden Hills (11/07)
Chapter II - The Rabbit Hole (13/07)
Chapter III - Mouthful of Pride ( Coming Soon: 15/07)
summary: a mob!harry au. mafia!daughter reader escapes a bad situation in america under the protection of one of her fathers london associates
warnings: none this chapter (smut!!!!!!!!!!!!! filth!!!!!!!, mentions of violence, blood in upcoming)
a/n: here it is!!!!!! mob!harry!!!!! im pretty stoked about this one! no smut in this chapter, but the rest of the fic will be absolute filth as per usual. i hope you love this one and theres more to come soon <3
***read the prologue here
Since the day you arrived in London, Harry had spared no expense in doting on you. He was always a proper gentleman, checking on you himself to see if you were comfortable, sending his men to attend to any need you could possibly have.
“She’s here under our protection,” you’d heard him say. “You’ll do exactly as I say.”
It was a bit jarring at first, the amount of attention showered on you.
You’d tried to brush it off, thinking that perhaps it was no different than your father’s men back home looking after you, you thought.
But the lingering glances and comforting touches seemed to carry a bit more weight, seemed to last a bit longer than that of a hired consigliere looking out for the boss’s daughter.
aw yes im doing okay! i hope you are too. quarantine has been super stressful and society in general has been as well. with these protests i mean. it sucks that it has finally come to this, but i feel like for change, some action needed to happen. it’s sad that in the process people are getting hurt, but people’s voices that are important are being heard, and i feel like sacrifices are needed. this is only the beginning. black lives matter.
TW: in later parts, this story will contain brief mentions of cheating so if that’s triggering to you at all, proceed with caution!
___
If there was one thing you were absolutely sure of in this world, it’s that there’s nothing more infuriating than LA traffic. Checking your car’s clock for the fifth time in the last two minutes, you hoped that by some miracle, time would slow down enough for you to not be late to the first meeting of the season.
9:55am.
You huffed and gripped the steering wheel a little bit tighter with your left hand as you waited for the light to turn green. You began picking at your lip with your other hand, a nervous habit you had developed over the years.
