"guilty as sin"

ariadne | they/she

[writeslikeanaria]

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my name is ariadne. i am twenty and i am a writer. a lot of my posts will be “writing practice” where i share drabbles that i write to improve on my skills, but i will also post full fics.

requests are open !

glitz & glamour & gloom masterlist

hp masterlist

[writeslikeanaria]

i’ve decided to write this

[writeslikeanaria]

Do we have a date for chapter three? I check your profile all the time to see

hi !! in theory i try to post once a week, so it should be up within the next couple days

in practice, it’s started but i’ve also been working on a different piece as well so it might be slightly delayed, but it should still be up by the end of next week !! :)

[honeyandruin]

Idle Hands - Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader

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Pairing: Auto shop teacher!Joel Miller x Reader (college AU)

Summary: You’re just trying to pass your final elective. He’s the instructor who doesn’t say much—but sees everything.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Slow burn. Tension. Rough hands. Fully clothed grinding. Praise kink. Light degradation (mocking). Desperation. Size kink. Dirty talk. Overstimulation. Creampie. CAR SMUUUUT

Word count: 7.8k

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You don’t mean to be late.

You were up before sunrise. Had your coffee. Even got to campus early enough to scroll on your phone in the parking lot for a minute, thinking you had it handled. But then you wandered straight into industrial hell—half a dozen identical doors, metal walls, concrete floors, zero signs. You passed the same auto bay twice before it hit you: you were completely turned around.

By the time you find the right garage, your heart’s pounding, breath hot and tight inside your hoodie, and your palms are sweating like you’re about to take an exam instead of change a tire.

Not exactly how you pictured starting your final semester.

After years of grinding through labs and clinicals and late-night study sessions, all that’s left is one elective. Just one. You waited too long to register and ended up with whatever had space—Intro to Automotive Systems. Your advisor called it “hands-on” and “practical,” which you’re now realizing was code for grimy, loud, and probably full of dudes who think power steering is a personality.

Still. You didn’t think it’d feel like a trap.

The second you shoulder open the garage door, everything stops.

Voices. Movement. Even the air seems to still, thick with heat and oil and whatever tension you just dragged in with you. The room’s huge and bright, all fluorescent lights and slick concrete, a silver car lifted on the central platform like it’s waiting for judgment.

A half-circle of students is already gathered near it. Every single one turns to look at you.

But your eyes don’t land on them.

They land on him.

He’s standing at the center. Arms crossed. Broad shoulders under a dark work shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his forearms—tan skin, thick wrists, a smear of grease at the edge of one hand. No clipboard. No smile. Just a hard jaw, a scowl deep enough to cut through steel, and a pair of eyes that say you’re late, you’re a problem, and he’s already tired of your shit.

Welcome to class.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just watches you—long enough to make your stomach twist. Like he’s daring you to speak. Like he’s already counting the seconds you’ve wasted.

Then finally, he says—voice low, rough, like it’s been dragged through sandpaper:

“You show up at my door late again… don’t bother walkin’ in.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow.

Your throat tightens. You weren’t trying to make a scene. You weren’t trying to be that student. But your voice still comes out quieter than you mean it to—reflexive, not confident.

“I’m sorry. I got turned around. There weren’t any signs—“

“This was your one and only chance,” he cuts in, fast. Flat. “Don’t waste it.”

No shouting. No venom. Just final. The kind of warning that doesn’t need to be repeated.

And just like that, he turns away. Dismisses you like the conversation never even happened.

“We’re starting with fool orientation,” he says, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. Gloves stay on. Phones stay away. If you’re lookin’ to coast through this course, I suggest you drop now. Saves me the trouble later.”

Someone in the back snorts. A quiet laugh. Probably meant to take the edge off.

It doesn’t help.

Your face is hot. Neck flushed. Embarrassment crawling just under your skin—but it’s not just that. Not entirely.

You slide your bag off your shoulder and take your place at the edge of the group, jaw tight, lungs pulling in air like it might settle something inside you.

He didn’t just reprimand you.

He sized you up. Labeled you.

And even with his back turned, you swear you can still feel the weight of his stare pressed between your shoulder blades—like he’s still watching.

Like he doesn’t trust you not to crack.

***

Joel moves through the instructions like he’s done it a thousand times.

Voice low. Direct. Nothing extra.

He points out the lift controls. Walks the group through the eyewash station. Taps the emergency stop switch like it’s muscle memory. No jokes. No icebreakers. Just business.

You follow along the best you can—pen moving before you even think about what you’re writing. But there’s still that knot in your chest, that lingering flush from earlier. It tightens every time he glances your way. Even briefly.

You shouldn’t care. You know that.

But something about the way he moves—calm, solid, purposeful—paired with that voice, all grit and weight like it’s been lived in for years… it’s hard not to notice.

Especially when he steps back from the lift and says, “Alright. Time to get your hands dirty.”

The energy in the room shifts. A few students straighten up.

“You’re each gonna need a basic set of tools to start,” he says, reaching toward a dented red box on a rusted metal cart. He taps the lid once, like he’s knocking on it for effect. “Socket wrench. Flathead and Phillips screwdrivers. Pliers. Oil filter wrench. Torque wrench, if there’s any left. Don’t just grab whatever’s shiny—check for damage.”

He pauses, scanning the group. His gaze drags across you for half a second—barely long enough to hold—but you feel it anyway.

“They’re all labeled. Organized. Color-coded by station. Figure it out.”

Then he leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest again. “You’ve got five minutes.”

The group scatters, peeling off toward the bins at the back of the shop. Rows of toolboxes sit cracked open on a long shelf beneath a hanging board covered in outlines—wrench sets, ratchets, socket keys. Some of the students move fast, already talking brands, comparing grips like they’ve done this before. Confident. Loud.

You hang back.

Not because you’re avoiding it. You just… don’t know where to start.

The names on the board blur a little, and while you could probably ID a wrench in a lineup, nothing here is labeled clearly. You scan the outlines, searching for something familiar, but it all blends together—metal stacked on metal. Socket sizes. Jaw shapes. Handle styles.

You crouch beside one of the bins and pick up a tool at random. It’s heavy, rubber grip, open-jawed. You try to match it to one of the silhouettes on the board, hoping you don’t look as lost as you feel.

Behind you, someone laughs.

It’s sharp. Mean.

You hear it before you even register where it came from. A guy three bins down—gelled hair, backwards hat tucked under his goggles, already elbowing his buddy like you’re the joke of the day.

“Jesus. She doesn’t even know what a socket wrench looks like.”

Your stomach drops. Hard.

You clench the tool tighter and start to put it back, already reaching for something else—anything else—when another voice cuts across the room.

“Hey.”

Joel’s voice doesn’t rise.

It doesn’t have to.

Everything stops. Every head turns.

He pushes off the wall, slow and steady, boots echoing over the concrete as he walks toward the kid who laughed. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something colder now. Tighter.

“Didn’t hear you volunteer to teach the class,” he says.

The guy straightens fast. “No, I—I was just—”

“Then shut your mouth. Pack your shit. Get out.”

“What?”

“You don’t laugh at anyone in my shop,” Joel says. “Don’t care if it’s their first day or their fiftieth. This is an intro class for a reason.”

Silence. Heavy and dead still.

The guy doesn’t move at first. Then he mutters something under his breath and storms out. His friend stays rooted to the floor.

Joel doesn’t watch him leave. He just turns slightly, eyes landing on you again.

You’re still crouched beside the bin. One hand braced against the edge, the other curled too tight around the tool in your grip. Your cheeks burn. Jaw locked. Shame mixes with heat and something else you don’t have a name for—something sharp and twisted that settles low in your gut.

Joel steps closer.

He doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t crouch beside you. Just looks down and nods toward your hand.

“That’s a spark plug socket. You’ll need it later, but not right now.”

You glance up. “I didn’t ask for help.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. But not kind. Just… knowing.

“No. But if I don’t show you what’s what, I’ll end up watchin’ you use the wrong damn tool and blow your wrist out tryin’ to muscle it.”

You open your hand and let the socket rest in your palm.

Joel leans in—not close, but close enough that you catch the scent of him. Oil. Leather. Sweat layered under something sharp and clean. Like he doesn’t wear cologne, but still smells like something solid. Something lived-in.

He plucks the socket from your hand and trades it for another tool. It’s heavier. Shorter.

“This is your standard socket wrench. You’ll use it more than anything else in here. Start with quarter-inch heads—they’ll be in the red tray. Grab a set. Then flathead, Phillips, pliers. The rest you’ll learn as we go.”

You nod. Your fingers wrap around the wrench.

His voice softens. Barely.

“Don’t let anyone in here make you feel like you don’t belong. You showed up. That’s more than I can say for half of ‘em.”

Your throat tightens.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thanks.”

Joel straightens and turns without another word. The moment breaks as fast as it formed. He’s already moving across the floor again, barking something about PPE violations at the next station over.

But your hands still feel warm.

And the weight of the wrench?

Still nothing compared to the way he lingered.

***

The energy shifts again once Joel finishes the walkthrough.

He nods toward the back corner of the shop where a row of stripped-down sedans sits idle on concrete risers. Rusted tires. Mismatched panels. None of them road-ready—just teaching frames salvaged from junkyards and outfitted for beginners. Oversized bolts. Pre-loosened lug nuts. The kind of setup that won’t break your wrist if you screw it up.

“All right,” Joel says, grabbing a clipboard from the wall behind him. “Pick a bay. You’re gonna remove and reinstall a front tire. Nothing fancy. Just enough to prove you can ID your tools and not bleed all over my floor.”

A few students laugh. You don’t.

“Torque wrench. Breaker bar. Jack. Safety stand,” he continues, voice steady. “I catch anyone jackin’ without a stand or forgettin’ to re-torque—grade drops to zero. Don’t care how long you think you’ve been doing this.”

You catch the echo of his words from earlier.

This is an intro class for a reason.

You take an open bay near the tool shelf. Still not entirely sure what half the items on your checklist do, but you recognize most by sight now. Wrench. Jack. Gloves. The basics. You collect them quietly, stacking them into your arms one at a time. Even remember the safety stand, tucked under a cart near the wall.

The others pair up fast. Groups of two or three, some already laughing like this is just another lab credit. One girl from the front of the group drags her friend to a far bay and avoids looking at Joel completely.

You think about teaming up too—just to play it safe—but then decide against it.

It feels better to figure it out on your own.

The tire’s already mounted when you approach. You kneel beside it, gloves pulled snug, tools laid out beside you in a clean, methodical line. The torque wrench is heavy in your hand but balanced. You check it. Adjust.

Then you start.

Cap off. Lug nuts next.

You brace your knee against the sidewall and lean into the breaker bar. The resistance is sharp—metal groaning as it holds—but then it breaks loose with a loud click. The first nut comes free. You let out a breath. Keep going. Remember his instructions. Cross-pattern. Counter-clockwise. Don’t unscrew them all at once or the wheel shifts.

You’re so focused you don’t hear him walk up.

But you feel him.

That same prickle at the back of your neck. Like gravity’s shifted just slightly. Like the air changed.

You pause just long enough to glance over your shoulder.

He’s five feet behind you. Arms crossed.

Watching.

He doesn’t speak. You turn back to your work.

Second nut. Third. You move the bar to the upper right lug and brace again—but the angle’s wrong. Socket slips. Your elbow jerks, balance tipping.

He’s already there.

“You’re losing your angle,” he says. Voice low. Close.

You don’t look up. “I noticed.”

“Breaker bar’s too high. You’re not getting enough leverage like that.” A pause. “You left-handed?”

“No.”

“Then flip sides. You’re working against yourself.”

You shift without answering. Try not to let it show—that his presence is getting under your skin. That it feels like something.

You reset. The bar clicks again, clean this time. The next bolt pops free.

Joel’s voice softens. Not much. Just enough to feel it.

“Not bad.”

You don’t thank him. Just nod once. Move on.

He doesn’t leave.

He stays there. Silent. Watching.

Long enough that the heat creeps up your spine again. The tension presses into your ribs. Not embarrassment. Not nerves. Something else.

Something heavier.

Then—quietly—he says, “Careful with the jack.”

And walks away.

You sit back on your heels, hands braced on your thighs. Your pulse is faster than it should be. You tell yourself it’s just the task. The tools. The pressure.

But the truth sits somewhere else.

Low. Hot.

In the way he said it.

***

Most of the class clears out by the hour mark.

A few students finish early and leave without waiting for Joel’s dismissal. Others hang back just long enough to log their tool returns before slipping out, voices echoing down the hallway outside the shop.

You pack slower than the rest. Not on purpose. You’re not trying to stand out. You just… aren’t done.

The tire’s off. That part you managed. But getting it back on—lining it up, tightening it right, hitting the torque—none of it feels solid yet. There was an uneven pull the first time. A shift. The way the wheel tilted before it caught. If this were a real car, a real road, you wouldn’t trust it to hold.

So you run through the steps again. Slower. More focused. You check the pattern, check the pressure. Try to feel the torque instead of guessing at it.

It’s only after a long stretch of silence that you realize you’re not alone.

You glance over your shoulder.

Joel’s still at the tool bench. Arms braced on the edge, gaze fixed on you beneath furrowed brows. The rest of the shop is empty. Quiet. Just you, him, and the soft clink of metal on metal as you tighten the last bolt.

“You planning on stayin’ all night?” he asks. Voice low. Not sharp.

You straighten, wiping your gloved hands on your thighs.

“I didn’t think I got it right,” you say. “So I wanted to try again.”

He watches you for a beat, then pushes off the bench and starts toward you. His steps are steady, deliberate. Boots scuff softly across the floor. His eyes flick to the tire, then down to the tools beside you.

“This won’t count for extra credit,” he says when he stops. “If that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

“It’s not,” you reply. “I just want to understand it. That’s all.”

Your voice stays even. You don’t look away.

Joel’s gaze narrows—not annoyed, not skeptical. Just thoughtful. Like he’s measuring something quieter than your form. Something in you.

He doesn’t offer help. Doesn’t correct your grip. Doesn’t hover.

He just steps back. Folds his arms. Watches.

You move through the steps again. Lifting. Aligning. Bracing your knee where it should be. This time, the breaker bar holds. The bolts glide on smoother. The torque clicks clean beneath your hands.

When you’re done, you ease back on your heels, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your glove.

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Then—he nods. Once. Solid.

“Good job,” he says. “You got it.”

You breathe in slow. Try not to let it show how deep the words hit.

He starts to turn. Pauses halfway.

“Be ready for next class,” he says. “It’s not gettin’ easier from here.”

“I’ll be ready,” you answer.

He nods again. Then heads for the front, where the office light flickers on as he disappears through the doorway.

You stay behind, alone in the quiet clatter of cooling metal. The scent of oil still clings to your sleeves.

You don’t know why it matters so much that he saw you try.

But it does.

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It’s been three weeks since your first day in Joel Miller’s automotive class.

The nerves you walked in with—late, flustered, still figuring out where the hell you were going—have settled. You know your tools now. You understand the systems. You’ve taken apart and reassembled a brake caliper more times than you can count, and you’re no longer shy about getting elbow-deep in grease if it means understanding what you’re doing.

Joel hasn’t praised you much. Not directly.

But he doesn’t hover anymore. Not like he did in those first few days—correcting your grip, adjusting your stance, warning you like one wrong move would blow the place sky-high.

Now, he just… watches.

Quiet. Steady. From the far end of the shop, or from the corner of your station, arms folded, eyes always tracking. Sometimes you stay late after class—finishing up a task, reviewing something that didn’t sit right—and he never tells you to go. Never says stay, either.

He just keeps the door unlocked.

Stays nearby.

Steps in when it matters.

Today is one of those days.

The classroom is buzzing as he breaks the students into small work groups, assigning everyone a different section of a half-disassembled Toyota Corolla. You end up on the driver’s side, cross-legged on the concrete, halfway through replacing a stripped bolt near the caliper bracket. Your sleeves are rolled. Your gloves are streaked with grime. The socket wrench is wedged in place, angled just right.

You’re focused. Dialed in. Until a voice cuts in behind you.

“Hey,” someone says. “You’re tightening that backwards.”

You glance up, blinking sweat from your brow.

It’s him again—Kyle, maybe Kaden—one of the loud ones who always talks more than he works. He crouches beside you, close enough for his knee to knock against your arm, and gestures toward your wrench with a smirk like he’s doing you a favor.

“That’s a reverse-thread bolt,” he says. “You’ll strip the shit out of it going clockwise like that.”

You pause.

“No, I won’t,” you say flatly.

He snorts. Leans in further. “Swear to God, I saw this same build last semester. It’s reverse-threaded. Look, let me just—”

His hand starts to move toward your wrench.

You don’t get the chance to stop him.

Because someone else already does.

“Maybe have her show you instead.”

Joel’s voice cuts clean across the room—low, sharp, just loud enough to slice through everything else.

You both freeze.

Joel’s walking toward you now, eyes locked on the guy still crouched beside you. His expression isn’t angry.

It’s worse.

Blank. Tight. Cold in a way that makes your skin prickle and the air around you feel thinner.

“You’re completely fuckin’ wrong,” Joel says when he stops in front of the car. “That bolt’s standard-thread. Factory part. If you spent half as much time listening as you do runnin’ your mouth, you’d know that.”

Kaden blinks up at him. “I was just trying to—”

“Get back to your station.”

Joel doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to.

The kid stammers, mutters something under his breath, and backs off fast—disappearing around the rear of the car without another word.

You’re still sat. Still holding the wrench.

Joel doesn’t look at you right away. Just glances down at the bolt, then nods once. “You had it right. Keep going.”

So you do.

He doesn’t stay after that. Just walks off, muttering something to another group near the back of the shop like nothing happened.

But every time you glance up from your work, you feel it—that quiet weight of his attention hanging at the edge of your periphery. Not constant.

Just enough.

Like there’s something he’s not saying.

Like whatever’s passing between you is starting to get too heavy to ignore.

***

The store’s colder than you expected.

Fluorescents hum overhead, casting a pale glare across rows of boxed tools, coiled cables, and plastic bins stuffed with brake fluid and air filters. It smells like rubber and engine oil and the kind of dust that never quite leaves.

The whole place feels half-forgotten but always moving—like the only people who come in already know exactly what they need.

You don’t.

You’ve been standing in front of the same pegboard display for six full minutes, squinting at torque head sets and trying to remember the difference between deep sockets and standard ones. You thought this would be quick. Something simple to practice with over the weekend.

Now your brain’s foggy. The labels don’t make sense. And your hoodie’s starting to feel too warm.

You shift your weight. Reach for a three-piece extension bar set and mutter under your breath, “I think this is right…”

“It’s not.”

The voice comes from your left—low, dry, and unmistakable.

Your heart skips.

You turn your head slowly, already knowing exactly who you’ll find.

Joel.

Two feet away. Wearing a faded Carhartt over a black thermal, jeans worn soft at the seams, grease still smudged on the top of his hands. His hair’s damp at the temples—like he just stepped out of the shower or wiped sweat off under a hood. Either way, he looks different here. Same scowl. Same narrowed eyes. But without the classroom lights or the safety goggles, he feels heavier. Realer.

He glances at the tool in your hand. Lifts a brow.

“You’re not runnin’ a breaker bar through an extension like that. Too much play. It’ll slip.”

You blink. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” His voice stays flat. “Don’t lie. It’s embarrassing.”

Your mouth falls open, half-offended—until you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He’s not annoyed.

He’s watching you. The same way he does in class. Like you’re a puzzle he hasn’t finished yet.

You exhale through your nose. Try to stay calm. “I just wanted something to practice with.”

“Yeah?” Joel plucks the extension bar from your hand and places it back on the hook, then tilts his head toward a different aisle. “C’mere.”

You follow.

Of course you do.

Down a narrow row of socket sets and ratchet kits, your heart hammering like you’ve done something wrong.

He stops halfway, pulls a small boxed set off the shelf—shallow sockets, quarter-inch, neatly arranged—and hands it to you.

“This is what you want. Lighter. Easier to handle for what we’re doing. Good for practice. Won’t trash the heads.”

You take it, careful. Your fingers brush his knuckles.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “I was guessing.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you.

And for a second, it feels like he’s not deciding what to say—he’s deciding if he’s going to say it.

“You remembered the torque pattern last week,” he says. “Handled that caliper clean.”

You blink.

That’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve heard from him since day one.

Your throat tightens. “Thanks,” you say again, softer this time.

He nods once, then glances toward the front of the store. “Your car still out there?”

You frown. “Yeah. Why?”

Joel’s already moving—headed toward the glass storefront. He stops by the floor jack display, squints through the grimy window, then tilts his head slightly.

“You need new brake pads,” he says. “Left rear’s draggin’.”

You stare. “You got that from looking at my car?”

He shrugs. “Rear wheel’s darker. Dust build-up. You can hear it stick if you roll slow.”

You glance back toward the window, unsure whether to be impressed or… unnerved. “Okay, that’s either witchcraft or you’ve been staring way too hard.”

His mouth twitches. Barely.

“I know what I’m lookin’ at.”

You shift the box in your hands. The air between you thickens—weight gathering behind the silence. You didn’t expect anything from running into him here. But now your palms are warm. Your pulse is high. And apparently, your car’s seconds from self-destructing.

Joel watches you another moment.

“You want me to take care of it?” he asks. Voice quieter now. “Brakes aren’t hard. I’ve got parts at the shop. Be faster than waiting ‘til next week.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’d… do that?”

He nods. “Won’t take long.”

There’s no pressure in his voice. No suggestion of anything else. But still—it feels heavier than it should. Like he’s not just offering help. Like he’s offering something else.

You don’t say yes.

You just follow him out the door in a hurry after paying for the tool set.

***

The shop is nearly dark when you pull in.

Joel backs into the bay like it’s second nature. The motion triggers the overheads—rows of fluorescents humming to life in staggered sequence, casting pale light across the wide concrete floor and the wall of tools you’ve only seen during class hours.

It feels different like this.

Quieter.

Cooler.

The usual sounds—keys, footsteps, the clink of steel—feel sharper in the silence. More intimate.

You park beside him and cut the engine.

Joel doesn’t say much. He walks around to your side and nods once—silent instruction to pop the trunk. His voice, when he speaks, is gruff but not cold. Focused. The same tone he uses in class, but stripped of distance.

He works fast. No fanfare. The jack rolls under the rear of your car like it knows the way. The tire’s off within minutes. You stand nearby, the socket set cradled in your arms, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex beneath the cuff of his jacket. The way his breath fogs faintly in the chilled air. The way he moves—efficient, practiced, solid.

He doesn’t ask for help. Doesn’t offer an explanation. Just moves with the same quiet, brute certainty he always does.

The silence should feel awkward but it doesn’t.

You lean against the wall near the open bay, watching him until he lowers the car back to the ground and wipes his hands on a rag from his pocket.

“That’ll hold,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You nod, swallowing the thank-you caught in your throat. It doesn’t feel like the moment for it.

Joel nods toward the car. “Show me the rattle you mentioned. In the dash.”

“Oh—uh, yeah. It happens when I turn the fan on.”

He circles around to the drivers side and opens the door, nodding for you to follow. You slide into the passenger’s seat. The heater kicks on, followed by a low, mechanical groan beneath the dash.

Joel listens for a beat, brow furrowed. “Loose mount. Bracket’s vibrating. Not dangerous—just noisy.”

He leans in further, fingers brushing over the vent. Then he opens the glove box and gives it a gentle tug.

He’s close now.

Too close.

The heat blowing from the vents fogs the windows slightly. The space between you shrinks with it. You can smell him—oil, leather, clean sweat—and feel his presence in a way that makes your pulse spike, even without him touching you.

He reaches across you, fingers brushing the radio dial.

And that’s when the song starts.

Something low. Old. The kind of classic rock he wouldn’t have expected from you, slow and drawled and aching. A gravel-thick voice murmuring about losing sleep over someone he never should’ve wanted.

Joel doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull his hand back.

He stares at the dash like he’s still listening, but you don’t think he hears a word of the song.

Then, quietly—almost like he regrets saying it the second it’s out—he speaks.

“If that guy touches you again,” he says, voice low, “I’ll pull him from the class.”

You inhale. Sharp. Not loud—but enough for him to hear it.

Your voice comes out soft. Not challenging. Not playful. Just one word:

“Why?”

Joel’s jaw flexes. His eyes drop.

He doesn’t answer.

He shifts like he might sit back. Like he might leave. Like the conversation’s already too close to something neither of you has dared to say.

So you move first.

You lean in slowly—no hesitation, no plan—and kiss him.

At first, he doesn’t react. His lips are warm. Slightly chapped. He doesn’t push forward, doesn’t pull back.

He just breathes.

Then he exhales.

And it breaks.

His hand lifts—finds the back of your neck—his mouth opening against yours like he’s been waiting weeks for this. His kiss is rough. Unguarded. Not practiced or precise, just real. Tongue sliding against yours, thumb stroking your jaw like he needs something to hold onto.

It tastes like coffee and breathless restraint.

When he pulls back—barely—his voice is hoarse.

“Get in the backseat.”

You don’t speak. You don’t ask.

You just move.

One second, you’re kissing him—mouths crushed together like the air between you doesn’t matter—and the next, you’re both reaching blindly for the back door. Hands fumbling. Hearts pounding. Breath lost somewhere in the heat of the moment.

You slide into the backseat first. Joel follows not a second later.

It’s dark. Warm. The kind of close, sealed-in air that smells like sweat and leather. He’s already reaching for you, grabbing your hips, pulling you across the seat until you’re straddling him. His palms are firm, fingertips pressing into your skin through your jeans like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you—prove to himself you’re actually here.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He just stares, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to breathe through the weight of it. “You sure?” He asks, voice low and rough.

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I’m sure.”

Without another thought, he’s kissing you again, harder this time—hot and messy, lips open, tongue sliding against yours like he needs to taste every breath you take. His hands move fast, dragging your hoodie up, then your shirt, then slipping underneath your bra to squeeze, to feel.

You can’t help but gasp at the cool air hitting your heated skin.

He grins at that, and watches as you moan when his fingers find your nipple, when he rolls it between callused fingertips just enough to make you arch. His mouth drags across your jaw to your throat, humming deep from within his throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re already drivin’ me crazy.”

Your hands find his hair, curling deep in the roots and pulling slightly. His mouth falls open as he looks up at you, letting his head rest against the headrest.

You grind against him—slow and deliberate—feeling the thick length of him pressed against your cunt through both layers of denim. Now it’s your turn to grin, “you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” You whisper, teasing, breathless. “All those nights after class, watching me?”

His hands flex on your hips, “don’t start.”

“Tell me.” You demand, letting your hips roll against his again, and Joel nearly falls apart right there.

“Every damn day.” He grunts, his palm running up the expanse of your bare back.

He entangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling your head back with enough force to bite—just a bit, and doesn’t stop until you’re staring at the ceiling of the car. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast. Then another. Then higher—until his mouth is warm over your nipple, lips soft, tongue flicking just barely.

You grip the back of the drivers side headrest, gasping at the sudden heat, then the cool air from his lips as he purses a breath across your chest. You’re aching, throbbing, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s too focused on your chest—licking slow, open-mouthed circles around your nipple before sucking it between his lips. The free hand on your hip tightens, holding you in place as you writhe above him.

“Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “You’re teasing.”

He hums against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that rumbles through your ribs.

“You’ve been drivin’ me crazy for weeks,” he mutters, his lips moving to the shell of your ear, a soft whisper, “you’ll survive.”

He drops his head then and switches sides, mouth closing over your other nipple, sucking harder now. His tongue drags across the tip while his other hand slides up to roll the one he just left—pinching lightly, just enough to make you whimper.

“Sensitive,” he says, like he’s cataloging it. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“Joel—please.” You whimper, letting your free hand fall to his shoulder, nails biting into his skin.

“You beg real pretty, you know that?”

He kisses your chest again—softer this time—then finally slides his hands down to your waist.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Your breath is still shallow, your body trembling just from the feel of his mouth. His tongue. The soft scrape of his stubble against your chest. It’s too much and not enough and your jeans feel like they’re trapping you now—tight against your hips, soaked through, clinging to your skin.

Joel’s still staring up at you, flushed and focused, pupils blown wide with restraint that’s clearly cracking.

“Take these off,” you whisper, rocking forward slightly, grinding your soaked cunt right along the thick line of him through his jeans. “I want to feel you.”

His jaw flexes once, and then he moves.

His hands are suddenly at your waist, working the button of your jeans with quick, rough fingers. You lift your hips for him, thighs shaking slightly from the way he’s breathing—slow and tight, like he’s trying not to lose control.

The zipper lowers, teeth dragging open with a soft rasp, and he peels the denim down your hips, dragging your panties with it in one go.

“Lift,” he mutters, tapping your ass with a smirk.

You do. And then they’re off—shoved down your thighs, tugged around your ankles, and kicked somewhere into the shadows of the floor. The rush of cool air against your soaked pussy makes you gasp.

Joel groans when he sees you—head tipped back, throat bobbing with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re already dripping.”

He drags his hand up the inside of your thigh, slow and firm, thumb grazing your cunt just once before settling his hands back on your hips. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush.

Just looks.

“Now yours,” you say, fingers already reaching between your bodies.

Joel lets out a breath—half-laugh, half-grunt—as you tug at the button of his jeans, then slide the zipper down over the aching bulge beneath. He lifts his hips as you work them off, the denim catching on his thighs before he shoves them the rest of the way down himself with a growl of frustration.

“Been wantin’ this,” he mutters. “Thinkin’ about you climbin’ on top of me like this. Every fuckin’ night.”

His cock springs free—hard, thick, already flushed and twitching at the sight of you bare above him.

Your thighs tighten instinctively, and then—without a word—you reach down.

Your fingers wrap around him at the base, slow and steady, and he groans—a low, gravel-slick sound that punches straight through your core. He’s heavy in your hand. Hot. Already leaking, the tip slick and flushed, thick veins pulsing beneath your palm like he’s barely holding on.

You stroke once—slow and deliberate, from base to tip—and his head drops back against the seat.

“Fuck,” he grits out.

You do it again—twisting slightly at the top this time, just enough to smear the precum down his shaft.

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex on your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to pull you down or beg you to stop.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” You whisper, eyes locked on him. “Thinking about me touching you like this?”

He growls—actually growls, hips jerking up into your grip.

“You have no fuckin’ idea.”

You stroke him again, then again, a little faster now, wrist twisting just right—and he’s breathing like a man on the edge, jaw tight, thighs tense, chest rising in sharp, shallow pulls.

“Feels good?” You ask in a murmur.

“Feels—” He cuts off with another moan when your thumb rolls over the head. “Feels too good. Gonna—fuck, baby, you keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna last.”

You smile, slow and wicked, and lean in—lips brushing his ear.

“Then tell me to stop.”

Joel growls again. One hand snaps to your wrist, gripping just hard enough to still you—but not to hurt.

“I’m hangin’ by a thread here, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough. “Don’t make me beg.”

You lick your bottom lip and tilt your head slightly, “but you beg real pretty, you know that?” You mock, gasping as he pulls your bodies impossibly closer and grinds up against your slick cunt with zero shame.

“I warned you,” he mutters, the words sharp against your neck. “You think I won’t beg? You think I won’t lose it for you?”

His hand slips between your bodies. One strong finger traces the seam of your folds—slick and swollen—and you shudder when he groans.

“Fuck. You’re soaked.”

He nudges his cock against your entrance, not pushing in yet—just letting the head glide through the wetness, dragging it along your clit in slow, devastating passes.

“Go on, then,” he rasps, voice low and dangerous. “You wanted control? Take it. Sit on it. Make me watch you fuckin’ ruin me.”

You rise just enough to line him up, your hand guiding him to your entrance—slick and aching and so fucking ready.

And then—slowly, trembling—you start to sink.

The stretch is unreal.

Thick. Blunt. Hot.

You feel the pressure first, the way your walls fight to take him, your body instinctively pulsing around the intrusion. The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, and you gasp—sharp and broken—your nails digging into his shoulders for leverage.

Joel grunts beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening like a warning to himself not to thrust up, not to ruin the moment.

“Shit,” he groans. “Baby…”

You slide lower. Another inch. Then another.

It burns, but it’s perfect—just enough to make your thighs shake, just enough to make your vision blur. You pause halfway down, forehead dropping to his, your breath catching in your throat.

“I can’t—I’m not—Joel, you’re so—”

“I know,” he pants, voice ragged. “I know. You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby. Look at you.”

He strokes your back with one hand, the other pressed flat against your stomach like he’s trying to feel himself through your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am already?”

You whimper, hips rolling in a tiny, desperate circle.

“Too much?”

You shake your head instantly. “No—it’s just… you’re stretching me so full. I feel you everywhere.”

Joel growls, low in his throat, and kisses the corner of your mouth, his voice breaking apart as he whispers, “Fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

You start to lower yourself again, inch by inch, until finally—finally—you bottom out.

The fullness knocks the air out of your lungs. You sit still, trembling in his lap, thighs twitching where they cage his hips. Your pussy pulses around him, fluttering tight, trying to adjust to the size, the stretch, the weight of him buried that deep.

He curses again, forehead pressed to your temple.

“Jesus Christ, you’re squeezin’ the fuck outta me.”

He kisses your neck. Then your shoulder. Then back up to your jaw, whispering between kisses.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You got me. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”

You rock again, your thighs already trembling from the stretch. The drag of him inside you is slow, devastating—too much and not enough at once. Every grind brings your clit down against the ridge of his pelvis, and you can feel your slick spreading between your bodies, soaking the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

Joel’s eyes never leave yours.

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, then back down again—every movement heavy with reverence, with restraint. He’s guiding you, not controlling. Letting you take your time, letting you use him, even though his jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

“You ride so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Just like that. Nice and slow. Let me feel every bit of it.”

You moan—soft and caught in your throat—and move again, lifting yourself an inch before sinking back down, the head of his cock hitting that perfect spot just inside you.

Joel grunts.

His head drops back against the headrest, eyes fluttering shut, a pulse ticking hard at the base of his throat. He looks wrecked. Sweaty. Flushed. His shirt sticks to his chest, soaked where your bodies meet, and you realize with a sharp, hot rush that you did this to him.

You lean forward, pressing your chest to his, lips brushing his jaw.

“You like that?” You whisper.

His hands tighten on your ass. “Too much,” he says, voice hoarse. “You keep movin’ like that, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

“Good.”

You roll your hips again, deliberately now—grinding your clit down against him, letting your body melt into his. The pressure builds low in your belly, slow and tight, a heat that curls and coils and refuses to let go.

Joel groans—deep—and buries his face in your neck.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he pants. “You’re so wet. So tight. Keep squeezin’ me like that, I’m not gonna last.”

You lift yourself higher this time, until just the tip of him is inside, and then drop back down with a moan.

Joel chokes on a sound—half growl, half prayer.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps. “You feel that? The way you stretch around me?”

You nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you do it again, and again—building a rhythm now, riding him slow but deeper, hips tilting with each pass to chase your own pleasure.

His hands roam everywhere—up your back, over your ribs, slipping between your shoulder blades to hold you close as he thrusts up into you, gentle but deliberate.

You sob quietly against his mouth.

“Can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let it come. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

His thumb finds your clit—presses, circles, rubs you exactly how you need—and your whole body locks up.

Your orgasm hits with a sharp, crushing intensity—wringing your cunt tight around him, every muscle in your body drawn tight, shaking, clinging, your moan breaking apart against his neck.

Joel loses it.

The second he feels you fall apart around him, he thrusts up hard, his grip bruising, mouth open as he groans straight into your ear.

“That’s it—fuck, baby—give it to me—make a fuckin’ mess—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He comes with a growl, hips jerking beneath you, cock twitching deep inside as he spills, hot and thick, his breath stuttering in your hair.

Neither of you move for a long time.

You collapse against his chest, your body still trembling, his arms wrapped tight around you like he doesn’t want to let go.

Your pulse throbs between your legs, your slick mixed with his, dripping slowly down your thighs where you’re still seated, still full, still connected.

Joel presses his lips to your shoulder.

Then your collarbone.

Then your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and soft now, the edge gone. “Need anything?”

You nod into his neck, still breathless.

“Water. A cigarette. A new spine.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and brushes a thumb along your jaw.

“You were fuckin’ perfect,” he says. “Took me like you were made for it.”

***

The windows are still fogged. The air inside the car is thick—humid with sweat, heat, and the sharp-sweet scent of sex that clings to your skin and seeps into the seats.

You haven’t moved.

Neither has he.

You’re still in his lap, thighs spread across thighs, skin flushed and trembling, his softening cock still buried deep inside you. The whole car feels hushed, like it’s holding its breath with you.

Joel moves first.

One hand drifts up your spine—slow, steady. The other rests at your hip, fingers curling like he needs the anchor more than you do. His head is tilted forward, lips brushing your shoulder, breath cooling where sweat still clings.

“Gonna pull out now,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked against your ear. “Alright?”

You nod.

Your legs ache. Muscles cramping from how long you’ve been straddling him.

He’s careful—one hand steadying your waist, the other slipping to your thigh. You wince when he eases out of you, slow and wet, the stretch still echoing deep inside. The emptiness leaves your stomach fluttering, body still too full, too sensitive to register anything clearly.

Joel watches it happen.

His breath stutters. One hand drops between your thighs—thumb brushing where you’re dripping, slick and spent, your release already sliding down your leg.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible. “Look at that…”

He leans over, finds the flannel he’d discarded on the seat next to you, and brings it up folded in his hand. The fabric is soft from wear, warm from his skin. He presses it between your thighs, gentle, slow, wiping the mess before it can fall.

You gasp—too overstimmed to hide it—and your hand flies to his wrist on instinct.

“Shh,” he soothes, thumb stroking the inside of your knee. “I got you. Just wanna clean you up.”

You breathe out, let him.

Melt into his chest, boneless, every part of you raw and exposed. He wipes you down without rushing. Without speaking. Like it’s something he’s done before. Like he wants to.

And when he’s done, his hand lingers. Thumb tracing circles against your leg, lazy and warm.

He’s not ready to let go.

You sit up slowly, muscles tight. Your thighs ache when you move off his lap, cunt still pulsing with aftershocks. Joel helps—wordless and steady—one hand at your waist, the other bracing your back as you climb over the console.

You slide into the front seat, legs unsteady, one hand braced against the steering wheel like it’ll hold you together. The hoodie you left in the passenger seat is still there—twisted in a soft, wrinkled heap. You pull it on, swallowing a quiet breath, the cotton dragging across sweat-slick skin. You can’t even imagine trying to pull the jeans up right now with how slick your skin feels.

Joel stays in the back.

Half dressed. Chest rising slow. His shirt is clinging to his body, darkened with sweat, his jeans still undone. One arm slung over the back of the seat. The other resting on his thigh.

And his eyes—

They haven’t stopped watching you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You reach for the keys. The engine’s off. The dashboard blinks softly and the hum of cool air hits you harshly. You adjust the mirror—just slightly—and catch his reflection in the glass.

Wrecked. Quiet. Still tracking the curve of your jaw like he doesn’t know what happens next.

Truth is, you don’t either.

But your lips are swollen. Your thighs are sore. Your body’s buzzing, full of him even now.

And the air around you still smells like sweat and leather and Joel.

You’d let him do it all over again.

[writeslikeanaria]

The noise I made at the ending of G&G&G part 2 lmfaooooo

You're doing great with this story fr

hehe omg thank you for reading !!! i appreciate everyone being so supportive of the story already! 🫶🫶

[writeslikeanaria]

GLITZ & GLAMOUR & GLOOM

chapter two — mr castillo

boss!harry castillo x assistant!reader

synopsis — during your two week break, harry takes you out shopping, forcing you to get new clothes, and just insisting on getting them for you. additionally, harry sorts out some of his own business. sugar daddy!harry AU

word count — 6k

warning tags — 18+ for eventual smut, some misogynistic dialogue, reader is described as feminine, kinda perv!harry but not really, references to cum and masturbation, references to vomiting

series masterlist | read on ao3

previous chapter | next chapter

The sun had set hours ago, allowing the moonlight to seep through the cracks within the dusky curtains, illuminating Harry’s office with a dim aura. The rest of his employees had dissipated out of his office, leaving just Harry, hunched over his desk, pouring over his work.

A looming headache had erupted against his forehead, continuing to bloom in pain, refusing to disappear, even after he had thrown back painkillers like it was nothing but water. Nothing had worked. His anxiety was through the roof, reaching new levels he hadn’t felt in years.

He felt dirty. He had done something bad and was struggling to deal with the consequences of his actions. 

On his desk, your CV sat, sitting on top of other paperwork, seemingly more important paperwork. However, he couldn’t bring himself to actually fill in any of the contracts, spaces blank as his mind remained distracted on you. 

Job no. 12. It had been a while since he had had a bright, young girl enter his office, shining smiles as they queried about his most elusive position within the company. A role completely paid for by himself, that was solely talked about in his office. Outside of the two floors that belonged to him and his crew, no one was allowed to discuss job no. 12.

It wasn’t regular to keep a girlfriend on the payroll, but desperate times had come to desperate decisions.

Last “relationship” had disintegrated quickly. Too many demands, too many maxed out credit cards, too many arguments that just left Harry feeling worse about himself than before. This job was supposed to take a weight off his back, to keep his parent’s eyes and nose out of his personal business. With a beautiful lady clutched onto his arm, able to be shown off at important events, and to be brought to every family dinner, he felt stronger, more secure. He could almost feel normal, like his brother, able to date successfully, and give his heart over to a woman of his choosing.

Except he messed up.

Harry continues to stare at your CV, his eyes gliding carefully over your name, memorising every letter. He had re-read this singular piece of paper more times than he could count, feeling himself connect with this condensed version of you. His head spun. Were you actually like these seven hundred words in front of him? He desperately tried to analyse your personality through your written tone, but it was no use.

He wished he had just talked to you when you were here, instead of immediately handing over a job, and a bonus. There hadn’t even been a proper interview process. He just looked into the eyes of the woman sitting before him and crumbled. 

Maybe it was just pity. Maybe it was something more, but he had a desire to keep you by his side.

A sharp knock at his door knocks Harry out of his reverie, his eyes flicking up to his doorway. He thought that everyone else was done for the day, leaving him as the last remaining employee on the floor. However, he must’ve been mistaken. Shoving your CV underneath some important contract that he really should just fill out, he coughs, clearing his throat. “Come in!”

A shrewd figure cracks open the door and emerges out from the doorway. Sanders’ mousy head appears through the crack, followed by his scarlet face. He looked out of breath, his eyes bloodshot from stress. Harry’s head fell into his hand, a sigh escaping his lips as he took in Sander’s evidently stressed exterior. 

Sanders’ voice escaped his lips in a squeak. “Are you busy, Mr Castillo, sir?”

“Not anymore,” Harry’s finger beckons Sander’s into his office, inviting his poor assistant into the unorganised chaos that encases him and his work. “Please, come inside. Is there anything you need from me?”

Sanders wasn’t a bad assistant, per se, but he certainly wasn’t up to Harry’s standard. He constantly rushed his work and looked as though he was about to cry whenever anyone pointed out a mistake. To Harry, it felt like walking on eggshells just to get anything done properly. He needed to break the news soon and without completely stressing out the poor man, whose blood pressure was surely already through the roof.

Harry needed to break the news to Sanders that he had hired a new assistant. It was an accident, not trying to fill Sanders' position with a new hire, however, something happened. 

He had looked into your eyes, eyes so desperate for a job, and created a new position for you on the spot. Sanders was replaceable anyway.

“You wanted to talk with me today?” Sander’s voice was too small–it freaked Harry out, “You never fetched me, so I waited unti–”

“You’ve been just waiting for me to call you in?” Harry expresses, his hands flailing around in surprise, “You should’ve gone home. It’s late.”

Sanders gulps, searching for something to stay. Yet, he keeps quiet, waiting for Harry to continue. The older man sighs, rubbing his temples, wishing his headache would just ebb away. He did not desire for this conversation to happen tonight, but it had to happen soon. Reaching for his drink beside him–a whiskey that had been mulling in his glass for over an hour–and shooting back the fiery liquid in one gulp, he built up as much courage as he thought he needed.

“Sanders, I’m letting you go.”

The colour from his face disappears in an instance, with a ghostly white sheen spreading across his cheeks. After a pause, his eyes begin to water, tears threatening down his cheeks. He rushes to Harry’s desk, crouching at Harry’s side. There’s something pathetic in the way he begs that makes Harry scrunch his nose up. Displeased, he attempts to push the ex-assistant away from his desk.

“Please, sir, whatever I’ve done, let me apologise.” Sanders’ words come out in a word vomit, piling into Harry’s ears. The grovelling affects Harry too much, forcing him to turn his body away, unable to make eye contact. “If I’ve done something wrong, let me fix it–”

“There’s nothing that could change my mind.” Harry’s voice was clipped, not allowing himself to feel any emotion, certainly not towards Sanders. “You’ve been underwhelming in your work performance for months now. Forgetting items, running late, always never neat and tidy. It lets the company down, and you are constantly letting me down. I’m not changing my mind.” He ponders his next words for a second, before they slip from out of his lips. “Besides, I’ve already hired someone new.”

Sanders mulls this over, suspiciously quiet. His hands shake at his side, a fact not unknown to Harry, who watches Harry like a hawk, anticipating an explosion of emotion. However, Sanders stays calm, until he finally brings himself to speak again.

“It was that girl who came in the other day.” Sanders sneers, his voice laced with venom, completely void of any warmth. Any expression of fear has been wiped from his face. “I thought she was supposed to be the hired whore you keep around–”

“Out!” Harry points at the door, unable to find the courage to continue this conversation. However, Sanders continues with his hurt words.

“–but oh no! She’s taken my job. Does she even have any experience? Did you just get sick of staring at me all day and needed someone to lust over–”

“I said, out!” Harry feels the fury build inside of him.

“–some stupid girl, who’s just going to make this worse for you. She came in to be your fake girlfriend, why is she stealing my job–”

Harry’s fist encloses around his phone, dialing the number to the front desk, and barking “Security!” through the phone speakers, before directing his attention back towards Sanders. “You have been incompetent and your standards have slipped. I no longer have the need for you anymore. That is all.” Harry frowns deeply. “And that is no way to talk about women. If I knew you were such a misogynist, I would’ve thrown you to the curb months ago.”

Just as Harry’s words had left his mouth, two tall security guards burst through his door, taking in the scene in front of them. Immediately, they zone into the anger filled Sanders, looping their hands around his arms and dragging him away from Harry’s office.

Desperately attempting to zone out any words coming from Sanders, Harry turns his attention back to his paperwork. Yet, anger still pulses through his blood. He’s boiling over. 

He thinks of you at this moment. Your soft face, your kind voice. You appeared so organised and ready, such a stark contrast from Sanders. It didn’t matter that you weren’t fully aware of what you had signed up for. You were going to be the perfect personal assistant, and he hoped in time, you were going to be the perfect girlfriend for hire.

––––––

The weekend couldn’t come fast enough. 

After nearly a week of being out of a job, you have realised that you were not made for a life of spontaneity and freedom. You had anxiously paced your apartment all week, drilling holes into the floor with your furious footwork, pain-stakening performing every and any household chore you could think of.

Currently, you were practicing your new hobby of choice for the day, which involved deep cleaning every inch of your kitchen. With your hands furiously scrubbing the linoleum behind your fridge, which was caked in a thick layer of grime and what you hoped wasn’t mold, a buzz at your apartment speaker caught your attention. Begrudgingly, you stand up from your hands and knees, trudging over to the speaker.

Without any caution to politeness, you speak into the microphone, your finger pressing at the stiff button. “Who is it?”

“Hey babe!” Marlene’s voice rings through the speaker, taking you aback. You were confused as to why your ex-coworker was at your door, but lethargy was the dominant force in your head, and you no longer had the energy to care.

You sigh into the microphone. “You wanna come up, Marlene?”

“Well duh,” her voice calls back, her giggling muffled by the static of the speaker, “it’s cold out here. Do you want me to freeze to death?”

Without responding to her cheeky remark, you buzz her up to your apartment, unlocking the door, and heading back into the kitchen. If you were to have company, you should really put the fridge back to where it belongs.

Just as you manage to move the fridge about two inches, your front door bursts open, and Marlene hurries into your warm apartment, peeling off layers of clothing. Her scarf goes first, flinging it to what you suppose was the hook on the wall. Unfortunately, you walk into the living room just as the scarf becomes airborne, allowing the string of fabric to make a safe landing on your head.

“Hey Marlene,” you peel the scarf away from your face, letting your eyes land on Marlene’s sheepish expression, laced with embarrassment, “Having a good day so far?”

Marlene grins, her cheeks pressed tightly to her face. Clasping her hands together, she darts to sit on the couch, inviting you along to join her. Rubbing your eyes to fight off any sleepiness that threatened to seep into your upcoming conversation, you made your way to sit beside Marlene, sinking into the comfort of your couch.

“I’ve been missing you at work.” Marlene says quietly. That doesn’t surprise you. Other than Marlene, you weren’t that friendly with your other coworkers, always keeping your distance to not overstep. You were quiet, not antisocial, but you struggled to converse with those around you, opting to keep conversation with Marlene instead. Similar age group, same gender, it was just simply easier to have Marlene as your only friend, never having the energy to start a friendship with your male coworkers. You assumed it was the same with Marlene. While she was most certainly more sociable than you, she too kept her distance. It was very rare to see her sharing words with other coworkers, outside of work conversations. You frowned at Marlene’s words, feeling a hit of guilt for leaving her alone, something that Marlene noticed.

“No, no, no, don't feel bad,” Marlene wraps her arms around you, pulling you tightly into a firm side hug, resting her head against your shoulder. “I don’t fault you for leaving. I’ve been thinking of doing the same, y’know? Maybe you’ve become a trendsetter.”

You laugh at Marlene’s words, your body heating up at her friendliness. “You shouldn’t leave just because I did. You’ll end up in the same position as me–jobless.”

Marlene furrows her brows at your statement, her head tilting downwards as she considers what you said. After a moment’s pause, she looks back at you. “So I’m assuming that the job I referred you for didn’t end up going anywhere?”

You pause. Oh, right. “Nevermind. Not jobless.”

A gasp leaves Marlene’s lips as her face lights up in excitement. Her hands leave your body as she repositions herself in front of you, staring you dead into her eyes. Her eyes have an incredulous expression, unable to fully believe you.

“You never told me you got the job!” Marlene shrieks, clasping her hands together in a string of sharp claps. “Have you started yet? I’m assuming not, looking at–” she gestures to the mess of your apartment, and the bucket of dirty, soapy water, perched upon your bench, “–all this.”

You smile, your next words spoken calmly. “I start next week. I have a couple things I need to do before I start—like buy new clothes apparently—”

“Well, naturally,” Marlene says, flipping her hair behind her shoulder smoothly, “I assume he gave you money for clothes?”

You pause, unable to answer. It was a strange thing for her to say, something she shouldn’t have known. You glare at your friend for a moment, confusion in your eyes. 

You are unable to respond to Marlene, as your phone buzzes in your pocket, breaking you out of your conversation. Quietly, you slip your hand into the fabric and pull out the vibrating brick. Flashing across the screen is HARRY CASTILLO BOSS, a sight you have yet to see. 

Anxiously, you raise your pointer finger to your lips, forcing Marlene to stay silent. She looks at you with wonder in her eyes, unsettled by your irrational behaviour. Hissing at your friend, you take yourself into a different room, not wanting to be overheard.

Carefully, you press the ‘accept’ button on the screen, pushing the cool phone against your hot ear. Taking in a deep breath, you hiss out a small word of acknowledgment. “Good afternoon, Mr Castillo. How can I help you?”

On the other end of the phone, you can make out the sound of someone laughing, a fact that makes you slightly uncomfortable. You gulp, waiting for a reply which, in your opinion, is taking too long. Through the phone speaker, you impatiently wait for Harry to begin speaking.

At last, he replies. “Please, Mr Castillo is my father. I want you to call me Harry—we are coworkers and we work together. Try not to think of me as someone above you.”

You cock an eyebrow at Harry’s word, unable to process his strange command. “But, sir, you are above me. You are my boss. It’s a sign of respect to call you Mr Castillo,” you purse your lips together, “Mr Castillo.” You pace around the room, keeping your body busy.

Another laugh seeps through your phone speaker. “Not so obedient now, are we? Careful there, I might have to get rid of you before you’ve even started.” Harry says it with a tone of amusement, yet the colour drains from your face, unable to distinguish his humorous jab from the actual threat of termination.

“No, no, no, wait—” your voice escaped your lips in a frantic prayer, desperately looking for a moment’s pause to express your apologies. “I’m so sorry, Mr Cast- Harry. There’s no need to get rid of me.” You inhale a sharp breath, bringing your thumbnail up to your lips, and biting down. “You’re the boss, I’ll call you whatever you want. Mr Castillo, Harry, hell- I’d even call you da—”

You cut off your ranting. Too far. 

Harry didn’t seem to notice, his laughter continuous and stretched over the phone. At least someone was finding this exchange funny. You frown at his amusement. What a strange man. 

Eventually, Harry speaks again, breaking his streak of chuckles. “I must apologise.” He speaks your name delicately, as if it were poetry. “I didn’t mean to cause any panic. Please, call me whatever you want. Whatever makes you comfortable. Mr Castillo is entirely acceptable, I’m sorry for my teasing.”

His end of the phone goes quiet as you patiently wait for his next sentence. You can tell that he’s searching for the next words to say. 

Harry’s next words take you by surprise, his tone flipping back to his professional voice. “Have you prepared yourself for work next week?”

You blink twice. “Yes, Mr Castillo. Well, I believe I have.” You begin your ramble about your previous day’s adventure. “I had a call with the IT department yesterday, and I have been added to the company’s system. I, also, have been granted access to your calendar. Everything should be smooth sailing from Monday forward.”

Harry hums on the other end of the phone, his deep timbre sending goosebumps up your spine. After a short cough, he speaks. “Did you find time to get yourself some new clothes?”

Your blood runs cold. Fuck. You had forgotten that important task, the one thousand dollar cheque still sitting on your cabinet, waiting to be cashed at the bank. It was haunting you, dread filling you every time you thought about the sheer amount of money Harry had dropped on you after five minutes of knowing you.

You gulped. “I haven’t had time, yet.”

You hear a disappointed sigh on the other side. Before you can present another excuse to Harry, he beats you to it, speaking first. “You haven’t had time?”

Cringing, you shake your head, despite knowing that Harry can’t see you at this moment. “I’m sorry, Mr Castillo, it just hasn’t been a priority to me.”

“Well, it’s a priority to me.” You hear commotion over the speaker, which sounds like movement. On the other end of the phone, Harry checks his calendar for tomorrow’s schedule, frowning as he looks at the basically filled out day.

Sighing, he mutters a couple short words to himself, beforing speaking up to talk to you. “I have an hour break over lunch tomorrow. I will send a limousine to pick you up from your apartment. There’s a nearby boutique that I’m friendly with. I may be short on time but I believe I should be available to help pick out some work appropriate attire.” He pauses. “I’m assuming you’re available?”

“No prior plans for me.”

“Well, naturally.” He chuckles over the phone. Rude. “Right, send me your address and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The phone clicks off without any goodbyes. Turning around, you notice Marlene lurking at the door frame, eavesdropping on your conversation. Smiling innocently, she bats her eyelashes at you, like she had done nothing wrong.

“Trouble in paradise?”

You scowl at her. “You already know what that phone call was about.”

Marlene giggles. “Have fun shopping!”

––––––

As the limousine pulls up to the boutique, an overwhelming sense of dread is thrusted upon you. Anxiously, your eyes flick over your surroundings, searching for something, anything, to ground yourself in this moment. The boutique reminds you of Harry’s workplace immensely. They both share similar architecture, with beautifully tall windows, inviting wandering eyes indoors. Displayed on the other side of the panes are mannequins, dressed in the most high quality outfits you had ever laid your eyes on.

You are unsure of Harry’s expectations of you at this moment. Without a sense of determination, you wander through the large doors, letting your eyes trail over racks and racks of clothes, shoes, and accessories. 

Naturally, you let yourself be drawn to one mannequin in particular. Her wig is pulled back, dark hair thrown in a messy, but slick bun. It’s stylish, but also casual, in a way you could never replicate. The mannequin’s form was dressed in a simple blouse, with the pearlescent white silk reflecting off the bright store lights, and a dark, sexy pencil skirt. It was so unimaginably tight at the hips that you wondered how the poor sales assistant must’ve put the skirt on. Clutched onto the mannequin’s arm was a bold handbag, with a price tag that made you uncomfortable to just be in the presence of.

You reach up to the silk blouse, feeling the softness of the material between the rough pads of your fingers. It was soft, and you were positive that it was the most comfortable feeling blouse you had ever come across. You were so enchanted by the feeling, that you didn’t notice the sales assistant standing behind you.

“Can I help you, dear?” You spin around, eyes locking with the tall lady behind you. She reminds you immensely of the ladies in Harry’s office, polished and perfect, that could trade their office lifestyle for a modelling career anyday. You blush under her gaze, as a realisation runs through your head. Had Harry taken the other office ladies shopping as well?

You imagine Harry, hand in hand with Liza, pulling out the tightest outfits he could find, forcing her to dress how he pleases, just like a real-life Barbie doll. You imagine the way she would preen at Harry, offering a sickly giggle at one of his poor jokes, her sweetly manicured hand pressed against his firm chest, that little portion of touch and intimacy sending sparks between the two of them. You cringe at your imagination.

However, the sales assistant’s steady gaze pulls you out of whatever daydream was being forced upon you. She’s studying you, looking at you like you are one of her mannequins, ready to be made up, dressed, and presented to the world. 

“I’m just waiting–”

“For Mr Castillo, yes.” The sales assistant smiles, taking your arm in her hand, and pulling you to the back of the store. As you walk through the rest of the boutique, you can’t help but gape at the sheer amount of designer clothes that decorate the walls. The sales assistant follows your gaze and smiles. “Is anything taking your fancy?”

Before you can reply, you notice a figure appear from a separate door. Harry emerges into the room, his phone pressed against his shoulder and his ear, a fury of words slipping from his lips in an effortless rant. His eyes press together, stress radiating from his body. His shoulders are currently holding an egregious amount of tension, visible from where you stand. However, as you enter his eyeline, his body softens in an instant, a small smile spreading onto his lips.

You can hear a small, “I’ll call you back,” before Harry removes the phone from his ear, shoving it far away in his back pocket. His body opens up, no longer tense, but welcoming to his surroundings. To you. You can’t help but feel special. 

Harry speaks your name softly. “It’s good to see you.” His hands clasped in front of himself with excitement. “I was severely concerned when you had informed me you had yet to buy yourself a new wardrobe for your new job. I’m surprised this wasn’t easier for you–how could you not be ready to reinvent your wardrobe?”

You turn away, desperate to hide the scarlet flush rising onto your cheeks. “I apologise, Mr Castillo,” you take notice at the way Harry rolls his eyes at your formality, “I had been busy, preparing for my new job in other ways–”

Harry dismisses your words, appearing to only be taking in half of what you were saying. “I told you that you needed new clothes.” His eyes scan your current choice of outfit–bleach wash jeans and a cotton shirt that was beginning to pill at the edges. “Appearances are very important in my office. You are to work close by me, which means I expect you to be presentable at every moment of the day. Understood?”

Nodding, you return his eye contact, offering a shy tilt of your head in an understanding gesture. “I understand, Mr Castillo. I will put appearances first over my work. I am allowed to slack in my productivity and efficiently, but god forbid I wear socks with sandals.”

Your attempt at a joke was met with laughter–thank god. Harry chuckles, heading towards the fitting rooms. Proud of how well your joke was taken, you hold your head up high, following Harry to the draped curtains. The fitting room area was comforting, with a soft couch, smothered in cushions, looking out at the rooms. Harry sits himself right in the centre, finds himself a nearby table, and places his phone away from his person. “Where would you like to start?”

Awkwardly, you stare at the sales assistant for some assistance. In all honesty, who have no idea where to start. Luckily, the sales assistant recognises your hesitation, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. She smiles. “I saw you interested in the mannequins near the front of the store. Should we start there?”

Dry mouthed, you nod, struggling to formulate words through your anxiety. As the sales assistant walks away, it leaves just Harry and you, alone together. You bite your lip, taking in the way Harry watches you, like he’s studying a work of art.

You speak up first. “I’ve never been here before.”

Harry nods, affirmatively. “I figured.” He looks around, his eyes trailing the sales assistant, watching to see when she is coming back. You both look on in slight amusement as the sales assistant attempts to take the blouse of the mannequin, unfortunately, in a less than graceful manner. “I would’ve taken you somewhere more,” he struggles to find the word, “high-end, however I didn’t want to stress you out anymore than you already sounded on the phone.”

You let out an unknown sound. “Mr Castillo, I say this earnestly, but this is genuinely the most high-end clothing boutique I’ve ever been to.”

You don’t miss Harry’s smirk. After a moment’s pause, you hear him speak once again.  “I know. I’m enjoying this.”

Biting your tongue, you fight the urge to argue with Harry as the sales assistant appears once again, clothes draped over her arms and shoulders. She had taken off the blouse you were admiring, emerging with the white colour, with the additional black and mauve shade as well. On her other arm, the matching pencil skirt lounges, the velvet texture appearing divine against the lights.

You squeal. With the invitation from the sales assistant, you take the clothes off her body, and make your way into the fitting rooms. Hurriedly, you throw off your current shirt, allowing it to fall somewhere. You feel like a kid in a candy shop, not worried if any dirt or dust bunnies rubbed against your personal cotton shirt.

As you pushed your arms through the holes, you nearly moaned at how good the shirt felt. It was softer than you had ever imagined, leaving you rosin feeling healthy, a stark contrast to the itchiness you are used to. Staring at yourself in the mirror, you gawk at how you look. Sophisticated, sexy, and professional. Sure, you had worn “office” clothes at your previous job, but none of those items of clothing made you feel special. Not like how you felt in this blouse.

Putting on the matching pencil skirt, you gasped at how it all worked together. You had never looked so good. The thick material hugged all your curves in the most perfect way, accentuating the femininity of your soft body. For once, you felt comfortable within the clothes you wore, allowing the material to feel like an extension of yourself, rather than just a way to hide yourself from the world.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. “And I found some appropriate heels for work!” The sales assistant calls out to you, pushing a pair of slick, black kitten heels under the curtain. You had never worn something like this before. Slipping on the heels, you push down your discomfort, trying to picture yourself as someone different. What if you were a successful CEO yourself? Would you wear this every day? Would you have your own personal assistant? Would the boutique workers know you by name?

“Are you going to show us, dear?” The sales assistant’s voice interrupts your daydreams. Begrudgingly, you muster up the courage to rip open the curtains, stepping into the limelight.

Your eyes catch Harry’s gaze, drinking in the way he stares at you. With a single hand movement, he commands you to spin, and you do so, unable to fight you submission. You put on a show for your boss, laughing and giggling as you show off the way your body moves in these clothes.

“They fit well.” Harry says, sipping at a drink that he must’ve been offered. You try to ignore the way his eyes trail down to your arse, believing that it must be just a trick off the light. However, his presence doesn’t last long, as he stands up, turning his eyes away from you. 

You try to ignore your disappointment. However, it is short lived, as you watch Harry reappear with a dress clutched within his hands. It’s a flowy teal dress, seemingly floor length, with a soft sweetheart neckline. Almost invisible ruffles border the edge of the dress, adding a layer of texture. It’s utterly gorgeous. 

“In three weeks, I have an event.” Harry begins to monologue. “It’s a gala, and as my personal assistant, you are expected to attend with me. I’m assuming you have no ball gowns yourself, so I have pulled a couple options myself.” His arm points to a rack beside you, and you realise where he got the dress from. Next to your dressing room, someone–you’re assuming both Harry and the sales assistant–had pulled three dresses from the store, all in your size. “I expect there will be more events in the future, so I have picked out a couple dresses that I expect you to wear to these events.”

You sigh, taking in the masterpieces of gowns in front of you. Unfortunately, there's one looming thought creeping your way in the back of your remind. You force out a pressed smile. “Thank you, Mr Castillo, for the options. However, with just normal work clothes, I don't think I can afford all these dresses.”

You don’t miss the way Harry stiffins, like a shockwave rippled through him. He chokes on his own spit, before sputtering out a short response. “I will pay for all of this. Do no worry.”

You step back, aghast. Surely, not everything. “Mr Castillo, don’t be ridiculous. I appreciate your continued generosity, but you have already given me an allowance of one thousand dollars. I don’t expect you to spend even more money on my wardrobe.” With the way Harry’s body reacts, you are beginning to believe he likes the way you talk about his money. How rich he is. 

Harry reaches for his wallet, taking out an elusive black card, and handing it to the sales assistant. You swear you could hear a soft gasp fall from her lips. “Everything goes under this card. Get her every colour in the blouse, and two additional skirts. Plus, the dresses I had picked out.” His eyes trail to your feet. “And those heels. Multiple pairs.”

You wouldn't believe your ears. All these clothes have already added up to well over triple your original allowance, and the idea of making such a dent in Harry’s wallet stresses you out. You whimper gently, unable to find the proper words for the situation.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I have to use the bathroom.” Harry excuses himself, walking back through the door he originally appeared through.

In a daze, you follow the sales assistant up to the counter, helping her out with the mountain of clothes that were now yours. At the till, you purposely stare away from her screen, refusing to look at the ever growing numbers, closing your eyes, and taking in the continuous sound of beeps sounding out from her scanner. 

Luckily, she notices your uncomfortable posture, and does not read out the total, electing to just simply swipe the card, and bag up the items. She does it like it's an art, folding each item as if it could break at any moment, and wrapping the individual item in tissue paper. It didn’t matter to you, however, you appreciate the extra level of luxury. It isn’t every day you receive new clothes.

Eventually, Harry reappears, heading straight to the counter. Effortlessly, he takes an ink pen from his shoulder pocket, and removes the cap with his teeth, scribbling a signature on the receipt sitting on the counter.

Harry turns to you with a smile on your face. “Happy?”

You aren’t sure that’s the correct word. “Overwhelmed.”

Harry hums in agreement, but doesn’t press further. Reaching his hand out, he invites you to take his hand in a shake. You oblige. It feels strange but you don’t press it any further. Harry continues. “I will see you Monday morning. I hope to see that you have prepared for your first day correctly.” He softly says your name. “Goodbye, for now.”

You watch as Harry exits out the main doors, studying the way he leaves. It hasn’t quite hit you yet that he has been a ghastly amount of money on your wardrobe. However, a sick feeling creeps up on you.

In an instant, you feel sick, overwhelmed with the weight of what had just happened. It wasn’t just dread though–you actually felt like you were going to throw up.

The sales assistant seemed to recognise it immediately, pointing to the doors behind you. With a thanks on your lips, you push your way through the swinging doors, and into the nearest unisex bathroom, locking the door and crouching onto the cool tiles.

Luckily, nothing comes out of your throat. After a short period of dry heaving, the sick feeling that rumbled inside of you, dissipates. Potentially, just stepping away from the franticness of the boutique was enough to calm you, but as you settle amongst the tiles, your stomach returns to normal.

Realising your eyes are clenched tight, you open your eyes, taking in the room around you. It’s clean–exactly how you imagined a boutique bathroom. 

Turning your head, a shiny substance catches your eyes, so small you could almost miss it. You don’t even realise what you’re looking at at first. Squinting, you crawl up to the towel bowl, analysing the ceramic. 

There’s something streaky on the side of the bowl. 

You are certain your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. There is a sticky, white substance, still wet, dripping down the side of the toilet bowl. It drips to the tiled floor in an abundance, yet to have dried up fully. You can tell a haphazard attempt to clean it up had occurred, with a certain smudge around the toilet rim, but it wasn’t good enough.

Someone’s cum was dripping down the toilet.

You didn’t want to believe it. You knew who had just been in these bathrooms, the thought making your head spin.

Had Mr Harry Castillo just masturbated in these toilets?

——————

a/n — i need a nap. i wrote this and forgot to post this for a couple days. it’s been a long week. but yay new chapter yippee !!!

tag list – @joeldjarin @moyavsemoya @glitterspark @ro-nahime-things @throttlepascal @umadirectioner @roslynsworld @morganlolitta @isa942572 @ccisneros444 @ilovefictionallmenn @he-is-the-destined @tanyaherondale @wecanbepiratez @thebeautytoyourbeat @fandomunite2107 @tinyleia @lilipads @lumbiiii @jxvipike @nicholedraghoes19 @brinapedroswife @crazysouthernlady @thefalseapp @melsunshine @ultrav10l3nce @reidswifeyyyyyy @zofirellas @terrence1ovesyou @behomewhenthestreetlightscomeon @thefalseapp @or-was-it-just-a-dream @okyeeaaahhhh @sinarainbows @dotyoureyez @cynic-spirit

[writeslikeanaria]

What happened to the update?

it’s scheduled and will be posted in a couple hours !!

[writeslikeanaria]

GLITZ & GLAMOUR & GLOOM

boss!harry castillo x assistant!reader

synopsis — when the assistant job you were desperately hoping to get turns into a fake dating scheme, you begin to understand the saying of “money can buy everything”. your new boss needs a girlfriend more than he needs someone to schedule appointments, and you could never say no to a larger pay check. especially when your boss is rich. filthy rich.

or — when your assistant job feels more like a sugar baby position

warning tags — SMUT 18+, fluff, angst, unfair power dynamics, typical misogyny, eventual BDSM-adjacent smut, reader has a backstory but it won’t be relevant for a while

read on ao3 here

chapter 1 — job no. 12

chapter 2 — coming soon

chapter 3 — coming soon

chapter 4 — coming soon

chapter 5 — coming soon

[writeslikeanaria]

all this love is so crazy !! can’t wait to write more

[writeslikeanaria]

GLITZ & GLAMOUR & GLOOM

chapter one — job no. 12

boss!harry castillo x assistant!reader

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

previous chapter | next chapter

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

[writeslikeanaria]

GLITZ & GLAMOUR & GLOOM

boss!harry castillo x assistant!reader

synopsis — when the assistant job you were desperately hoping to get turns into a fake dating scheme, you begin to understand the saying of “money can buy everything”. your new boss needs a girlfriend more than he needs someone to schedule appointments, and you could never say no to a larger pay check. especially when your boss is rich. filthy rich.

or — when your assistant job feels more like a sugar baby position

warning tags — SMUT 18+, fluff, angst, unfair power dynamics, typical misogyny, eventual BDSM-adjacent smut, reader has a backstory but it won’t be relevant for a while

read on ao3 here

chapter 1 — job no. 12

chapter 2 — mr castillo

chapter 3 — coming soon

chapter 4 — coming soon

chapter 5 — coming soon

[writeslikeanaria]

finally will make my return to writing … mark my words, within a month, i will be back

[coertin]

being hot is his costume 😻😫

[theealbatross]

fight the alchemy (s.s)

Plot | After a tumultuous year, Sebastian’s life was finally okay – passable, up-to-scratch, satisfactory. And he had just almost reached peace – when his brilliant, painfully observant, carelessly crude genius of a friend, Garreth Weasley, started pointing out unnecessary facts that could rip all that harmony to shreds.

or, Garreth asks why Sebastian isn’t dating you. Sebastian spirals.

Tags | fluff, sebastian is a thought daughter, low self esteem, seb is a playboy BUT NOT REALLY, horny thots but we keep it pg, insecurity so deep you try to fight cupid, cupid fights back

An Ashwinder’s wand to his neck and Sebastian could honestly and truly say that he was … alright.

Life wasn’t perfect, by any means. His uncle was murdered dead, an estranged twin sister in Paris who refuses to answer his letters, a mistrustful Ominis that breathes on his neck, and a tattered companionship that was barely hanging on by a thread.

But he was okay.

Thankfully, Solomon was still dead, Anne was still alive and finally cured, and still cranky Ominis is now open to reconciliation. Plus, if all else had fallen, he at least managed to save your cherished friendship thanks to your forgiving nature.

Thus, as thanks to the people who had not yet given up on him, he had sworn to live the rest of his academic life as a meek, unassuming, law-abiding student of Hogwarts.

And he did such a good job at it.

The professors are now impressed at his steadily increasing grades (so much so that the Ravenclaws are now finally seeing him as a threat again) and he even managed to make Imelda’s team as her beater to keep him occupied.

The latter, however, had a grating consequence – he had become popular.

It was thrilling, at first, he went on dates to make up for the years he had lost, kissed the pretty girls because it felt like he should (as one of the few bastards lucky enough to live every raging teenager’s dream), and accepted the slaps on the face politely when they inevitably broke up.

But now he’s just gotten tired and bored of it all.

Ominis says it’s a genius’ folly, to always find a fault in something and then drop it when it doesn’t quite meet his standard of perfect. Leander says he’s just a bastard.

He cups his face with his hand, wincing. Her fucking ring caught on his skin and he can’t be arsed to suffer through the bitterness of a Wiggenweld Potion for a mere scratch.

Garreth doesn’t bother to swallow his bread before saying, “Really, mate? I thought you liked this one?”

“Liked her rack, more likely,” Andrew quipped from his seat on the stone steps of the boathouse.

Sebastian threw his scarf on his face, satisfied at his squawk.

“No talking about my ex-girlfriends,” he warned. It was one of his few rules when it came to his male friends. He may be a bastard but as someone with a sister and a couple of good female friendships, he makes it a point to never become one of those losers who talk badly about women they have a history with. Just so he can have a moral high ground when he beats up anyone who might do it to his friends.

“All right, all right,” Andrew raised his hands in playful surrender, throwing Sebastian’s scarf back to him. “But as your friend, I think it’s about time you stop swapping out girls every time you get bored of them.”

“I don’t swap them out,” he rolls his eyes. “Breakups are normal.”

“Breakups are normal,” Garreth points out. “Six breakups in 2 years is an issue.”

“Maybe I’m just meant for the bachelor life,” he mumbles, ignoring the pointed accusation from Garreth. Fucking perceptive prick. “Not everyone gets to meet their soulmate in Hogwarts, asshole.”

Garreth grins, “Natty’s great, isn’t she?”

Sebastian and Andrew both throw their scarves at him, the three of them bursting out in laughter and boos.

“To the Three Broomsticks, then?” Andrew stood up, patting his pants.

As 7th years it was nearly impossible to take a breather with the looming threat of exams that will dictate the rest of your life and the inescapable trap of adulthood that awaits them in a couple of months. So, his friends had made it a point to at least go out once every week whenever they could, really take advantage of their last year as students where they had no other responsibility but to survive the week.

In a year’s time, seeing each other as often as they do will be nothing short of a miracle.

“Leander and Everett are already there, saved up a table since it’s a Friday, it’s gonna be packed full,” Andrew explains.

Sebastian looks around, eyes scanning the castle in the setting sun. “You go on ahead I’m waiting for –”

“Sebastian!”

A flash of movement appeared rushing down the stairs towards the boathouse, your face beaming as you waved to the three of them. When you were a foot away from him you jumped into his arms, shrieking energetically when he grabbed your waist and lifted you above his head.

“Sorry, I’m late,” you pant, smiling at your friends once you’re back on the ground. “Professor Hecate asked me to stay back for a minute, something about revisions on my research.”

“I can’t believe you got permission to research in The Restricted Section after the crazy nonsense you pulled in 5th year,” Garreth shook his head. Sebastian wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his side, beaming in pride. Nobody knows but the two of you that the very thing you were researching were the technicalities of how you broke Anne’s curse so it could be taught to the nurses in St. Mungos and hopefully spread to the rest of wizardkind.

“It’s exactly because I had the nerve to break the rules that I was given the honorable opportunity,” you dramatically curtsied. “And they said Gryffindors were the brave ones.”

That made Sebastian laugh. Garreth blinks, eyes squinting at him for a second but he doesn’t look offended, more … focused on Sebastian.

“Alright, no more of that House Rivalry. Quidditch Season is over,” Andrew quips.

“Wiped your asses there too, Larson,” he quipped, Andrew’s jaw drops, looking at Garreth for help and receiving none. He was still staring at Sebastian, eyes shifting between him and you.

Andrew groans. “Slytherins are assholes.”

Slytherins are, apparently, also light-weights.

Well, at least one of them is.

He adjusts his hold on your body as the other hand wraps his coat around your body properly. After your last ‘improved’ butterbeer you had slumped into his lap, rudely snoozing off on the crook of his neck and refusing to wake up even when it was time for your group to leave – not that he would’ve allowed that to happen, with your demanding research it was a miracle to get you to sleep let alone let loose.

The rest of the group had gone in first to scope the scenery and bribe the patrolling Head students with leftover chips while he and Garreth were stuck carrying you and an unconscious Amit that they had managed to catch last-minute in Hogsmeade. Poor bastard.

“I was thinking –”

“Please don’t,” he groans.

“Why have you two never dated?”

Sebastian stops his fussing, barely able to use his head to ensure he keeps walking, and continue to Act Normal, now using both of his hands to hold you tighter.

“You’re drunk,” he deflects. The puffs of your breath warm his entire body.

“Because! When I think about it …”

Please, for the love of the great Merlin stop thinking.

“You’ve been inseparable from the start! I can’t believe it’s escaped my notice you’ve never dated. You say your past relationships got boring and got annoying but you’ve never been bored and annoyed with her and you’ve been friends for years!”

Bored with you? He’s had more near-fatal heart attacks because of you than breakups. Sebastian barely had the time to be bored. And sometimes you do get at each other’s throats but it was always fixed after a proper conversation. If his killing his uncle couldn’t turn you away then he doubts anything you do could ever turn him away.

“Plus, with all the respect and love to my beautiful darling Natty, she’s a fucking catch, mate!”

If Garreth wasn’t carrying a sinless half-dead Amit, Sebastian would’ve punched him in his mouth just to stop him from talking.

“I’m just saying,” Garreth walks ahead of him, clearly aware of the fuse he had just lit. Sebastian was tempted to kick the back of his knees just for the satisfaction of seeing him fall.  “Maybe you can join the club and find your soulmate in Hogwarts.”

Garreth winks.

“We’re still accepting members.”

He’s decided.

He needs to kill Garreth.

He has not been able to sleep properly for the past week and it’s all because of that ginger prick and his needless remarks.

“Why have you two never dated?”

Sebastian’s pencil cracks in his hand.

“Is he alright?” he hears an underclassman whisper on the other table. He glances at them and they flinch. Quickly, he softens his expression ("You really need to stop scowling at people, Sebastian."), unaware he had glared at them and sent a wary smile in apology. It would just be unfair to aim his ire at innocent people when he could just use it to rip out every strand of Weasley’s hair.

“He’s been staring at that page for an hour. Maybe we should call –”

He stands up, escaping.

Sebastian never realized just how much he spent his time with you until people were looking at him funny when he was walking or sitting alone in public places. At first, he thought there had been crumbs on his face or one of his asshole friends stuck a note on his back like a kid. Plus, he hadn’t been feeling his best since that night but he thought it had been the lack of sleep.

It wasn’t until he had met Imelda on the grounds that he found his answer:

“Where’s the rest of you?”

He blinked at his captain, “I’m sorry?”

She shook her head. “Man, it feels weird seeing you alone. Did you guys have a fight? You’re usually shadowing her like a puppy after class.”

Then everything clicks, the strange looks, the feeling of missing something (like a forgotten important homework after he had reached the top of the Astronomy Tower) – it’s been a side effect of avoiding you.

Okay, it’s not that he’s avoiding you per se. He just needs space. He needs to think and he finds that can’t do that once he feels your eyes on him. With his luck, you’re going to see right through him and that would just be unideal if not a fucking catastrophe.

That’s why he’s taken it upon himself to stay off your way until he puts his thoughts in a row and finally screws his head on straight again. Or he could just kill Garreth, get sent straight to Azakaban, and avoid confronting these complicated thoughts altogether.

“I can’t believe it’s escaped my notice you’ve never dated!”

He sits on a bench, hands on his head as he let out a prolonged groan, “The fucking bastard.”

Why did he have to point it out? Why did Garreth have to bring what he, upon reflection, was buried on the back of his head, just waiting for that one little flick of acknowledgment before it blew his brains out.

Because Sebastian is a lot of things but he’s not a fucking moron.

It’s not that the thought of being together is unpleasant. If he lets himself consider it his chest feels like it would escape his ribcage both in excitement and utter terror.

But Garreth was right: he’d actually never thought about it before – hadn’t really conceived the idea as something that was conceivable in this reality.

He has a feeling it was his way of preserving whatever pure relationship he had left. He’s not exactly rich with true companionship and he’s not idiotic enough to risk it all over a bloody crush. 

And not just any crush – his best friend, the person who saved his life and then helped him rebuild it when he was finished smashing it to pieces. The one who never turned her back even when his blood had given up. The girl who has a line of eligible bachelors following her on their knees for a single chance, ones who could offer her more than he ever could – ones who could offer her the world.

So, yeah – forgive him, but he’s never really allowed himself to entertain the idea of them dating. Sebastian has tested his luck enough.

Unless the roles switch and he gets to save the wizarding world this time then maybe … yeah, maybe -- maybe in another fucking life,

The thought makes him stand up, walking straight out of the campus to hopefully drown the sorrows of the depressing state of his love life with the best fire whiskey Hogshead could offer. How does he even move on from this? How does he make peace with the fact that he has sealed his fate of living the rest of his life alone? 

It’s impossible, he’s decided. Even if he graduates at the top of the classes he is taking and gets accepted into the Auror Programme that Sharp had recommended him for, their social standing is still heavens apart. He’s an orphan, with a husk of an extended family and no money to his name.

It wouldn’t matter to you, never really cared for pure bloodlines or lineages and he knows anyone who brings that up when they’re courting you will receive the most disgusted look on your face. 

But he cares – you are the most special person in his life. He wants the best for you. And the best is not something he can provide.

His depressing thoughts halt as his steps falter, a familiar scent tickling his nose. A familiar scent that leads straight into the Forbidden Forest. When he looks up to the sky, he realizes the sun has almost finished setting.

She can’t be that reckless, right?

He was barely surprised when he chanted the incantation that triggered the charm they had both put in their necklaces, the sparkling thread leads straight into the forest. And if he knows you half as well as he thinks he does then he knows exactly where it’s gonna lead to.

There goes his late-night plan.

It isn’t exactly his first jaunt in the forbidden space but it still gives him the creeps especially so close to the night. Why you’re so fond of the place is something he’ll never understand.

But that’s just the way you were, just another part of your quirks that makes you so endearing.

How you throw your head back when you laugh, that you get so cranky when you’re studying that no one dares to approach you but him, even the way you messily eat your favorite chocolate pastry of the week yet never fail to share a piece with him.

With this new revelation, he bitterly accepts the reason for his philandering ways. That he simply is another bastard who is coping with not being able to attain the love of his life at the expense of those poor girls.

His self-condemnation however was cut short when he heard the waterfall, not being able to help the smile on his face when he turned the corner and found you just as he had expected: in the middle of the clear, dark, water, floating carelessly on your back.

Gods, you are a beauty. He’s always thought so, the entire male race in Hogwarts thought so too. If they somehow get to break through your walls and manage to get to know you, he might just have to beat them away with an actual stick.

“Sebastian,” you smile, his heart stops. “I knew you’d find me.”

You swim to him gracefully, barely disturbing the water with only your eyes above the water but there was no hiding the grin in your face. Like a pitiful sailor seduced by a siren, his feet dragged him to the edge, a short ledge above from where you were looking up at him.

“You left your scent on purpose,” he states, kneeling to get a closer look at you. What a beauty – mischievous, cunning, irresistible. He’s never loved anyone more. “Naughty, naughty, darling.”

She pulls herself up the ledge, their faces inches away from each other. He nails his eyes to yours so they wouldn’t be tempted to look down at your soaking figure cloaked only by a thin chemise “I had to get you somehow, knew you couldn’t resist a damsel in distress.”

“Funny,” he softly glares, chuckling when she preens, clearly satisfied that her plan worked perfectly. “With all the water in the Black Lake, you had to pick the Forbidden Forest to swim in.”

You dip yourself back down in the water, swimming away but still facing him. “Come, Sebastian. I’ve been bored all week since you’ve been avoiding me.”

Guilt runs through his spine at the sudden coldness in your offhanded comment. Clearly, his absence hasn’t escaped your notice as he had hoped.

Like a scolded pup, he follows your command to a T. Eyes never leaving your floating figure as he removed his coat, folding it neatly along with the rest of his clothes until he was left in his underclothes.

He winces at the touch of the freezing water. A heating charm would do wonders but the way your unsympathetic eyes never left his figure gave him a feeling that this was a punishment he was meant to endure.

He steels himself, diving into the water and only resurfacing when he is right in front of you. “You called?”

“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” you splash the cold water at him, shrieking when he reaches out for your arms and barely managing to slip away.

He dives again, grinning at your confused flounder, until you realize your mistake, looking down just as he catches your waist, your surprised shriek, and his unrestrained laughter breaks through the quiet of the forest.

“You done running now, pet?” he locks his hands on your back, pushing you close until he is carrying both your weight in the water, chin resting on your chest as your hands run through his soaking hair.

Your darkened hair frames your face, like a sheer curtain it drops, teasing his cheeks, and hiding your conversation from the rest of the forest – in the dimness, your eyes have never been more radiant, even if it was clearly pissed at him.

Skinship wasn’t foreign between the two of you. When you’ve saved each other’s lives from certain death more times than you care to count, cuddling is the least of your worries.

But there is something about the forest's silence, the sparse moonlight that peaks through the dense trees, the sound of the droplets falling from your hair to the water, and the distant echoes of the animals that make everything ... intimate. 

“Are you?” you throw his question back at him mercilessly, your hands on the back of his neck, locking his face to look up at you – finally at you. The weeklong separation had been torture and now that the distance had cut his regular contact with his favorite witch, he finally realized how fast his heart was beating when he was around her.

He smiles.

He was satisfied, he swore he was.

Sebastian’s life was finally okay – passable, up-to-scratch, satisfactory. He shouldn’t strive for more, couldn’t allow himself that luxury – the luxury of love, the luxury of you.

But as he stares at your eyes, as he feels the ice in your skin, as he imagines a future where it wasn't him that gets to bite the plump of your lips – that dirty, greedy part of him crawls out of the hole he had shoved it in.

He feels it win.

“Are you done running now?” you whisper, a droplet falls from the tip of your nose to the space just below his eyes, his breath hitches, like your magnetic presence had sucked out all the air of the forest.

“I wasn’t running,” she raises a brow, and Sebastian presses his lips to your ears. “I was thinking.”

“And?”

Leander was right: he really is a bastard.

But he’s a bastard who will no longer wait for another life to love you. He's a bastard who will get what he wants.

“I think,” he whispers, at peace. “I think I’m gonna marry you someday.”

[colmiillo]

me acting like I just didn't read the most filthy nasty hot smut fic of my life

[h0tdog-water]

i don’t give a shit that he’s 6’2 i want him MOANING and WHIMPERING

[thaleleah]

𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓽𝔂 𝓛𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓵𝓮 𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓶

Pairing: Billy The Kid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dark-ish!Billy (just the tiniest bit tho), Virgin!Reader, Dub-Con, P in V, Hate Fucking (kinda but not really lol i tried), Fingering, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Mentions of a gun shot graze, Talk of tying up/restraining/bondage, Slight Dirty Talk, Rough Touches (he grabs her face & throat), Use of the word “drawers” instead of panties cause I'm cringey like that lol

Word Count: 3.5K

A/N: Dedicated to my anon who sent in this ask and put the thought of hate fucking in my head. I tried, hun lol. Didn't turn out how I thought it would and it's not my best work, but it did help me get out of my writing slump a bit sooooo i hope you enjoy it.

A/N 2: Please accept this supposed to be drabble that turned into basically a fic length thing as compensation for not having Godless Part 2 out yet. Hoping to finish it up within the next couple of weeks 🤞🏻

Summary: Jesse's younger sister is a pretty problem for Billy.

He’s so pissed at you. 

Jesse’s little sister once again trying to prove herself useful, trying to prove that she’s ‘one of the boys’, but doing nothing except getting in the way and causing trouble. 

It was supposed to be a quick job. They’ve rustled cattle together enough to have their system down pat, everyone in their gang playing their part perfectly so that they can be in and out of their target’s territory in the shortest amount of time. Very rarely do they get caught in the act now - and if they do, they’re good enough to never suffer losses. 

But when there’s a sweet-voiced, overly driven Miss suddenly among their operation when there’s not supposed to be, things can go wrong. 

You must have followed them, just far enough behind that they didn’t see you during their final look around before starting their run. One minute, everything was fine. None of the ranch owner’s cowboys were in sight and the cattle were proving to be easy to corral, not a single one of them choosing to go rogue and trying to push out of the herd. 

And then the next minute, you were there. You were wearing a dress when they left, a pretty little thing that Billy thought made the color of your eyes pop. It’s not your normal outfit, but you own it now courtesy of Jesse who was tired of hearing you nag about how much you wanted to come with them, how ‘helpful’ you could be if he just gave you a chance, and told you that if you wanted to be helpful you would run down to the local liquor store and make sure he had something to drink when they got back. 

You had switched out of the dress and back into your shirt and overalls, the shoes on your feet traded for riding boots instead of those dainty lace up ones. The hat that sat on your head covered your hair and the first thing that Billy notices when you ride up next to him is how tightly your hands are gripping the reins. 

The sight of you there catches him off guard and his gallop turns into a canter as he stares at you with wide eyes.

“Hey!” Jesse shouts from a little farther out. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’ here?”

“I deserve to be here just as much as any of you,” You reply, head held high as you glare back at your brother. 

“Hell no! Get your ass ou–” 

The bullet whizzes past his head, cutting through the air with a near deadly precision. Everyone ducks, heads snapping to where the bullet came from as the sound of the gunshot rings in their ears. There’s a couple of the ranch owner’s cowboys standing at the top of the hill, firing shot after shot towards the gang and the compromised cattle. Another bullet just barely avoids digging itself into Billy’s arm, the hot lead grazing against his upper arm and tearing through his shirt. Your eyes are wide when Billy shouts in pain, your own yell echoing his as he instinctively clutches his arm. 

He can see in your face that you’re terrified. You don’t know what to do. You’re going to get hurt if he doesn’t do something. 

Without thinking, Billy jerks his horse towards yours, forcefully nudging your own horse in the direction of the nearby treeline while he pulls out his gun with his uninjured arm to help return fire. The gang scatters, most of the cattle is already out past the property line and able to be herded during the commotion. The gunshots continue but no one else gets hit, and the group hollers the entire way back to the house, adrenaline pumping from just the taste of a bit of dangerous contact. 

You stay silent the entire ride back home. So does Billy. And so does Jesse.

But the second your feet are back on the ground, you’re in trouble. 

Jesse lays into you.

“What the hell did you think you were doin’?”

“I just wanted to help!”

“Yeah? Some help you were. You distracted us! You could have gotten us all killed,”

“Them shootin’ at you had nothin’ to do with me! I deserved to be there!”

Billy sits on the top post of the paddock fence as he presses a clean cloth against the graze on his arm, watching you both as you tear at each other's throats. He’s glaring at you too, bright blue eyes piercing into the side of your face as you scream at your brother. He watches as the tears fall from your pretty eyes, twin streams cascading down your cheeks as your hands fly around you in frustration. 

A Pretty Problem. That’s what you are. 

You’re a problem when you’re shooting. Your aim is always off, missing targets by an inch and somehow never able to fix yourself enough to hit them the next time. It’s a problem how you ask him for help, your back pressing against his chest and he guides you to adjust your position. Those are the only times your bullets hit the standing cans. When he steps back and you try again, you’re back to missing, and Billy just refrains from rolling his eyes even as his body feels like it’s been touched with a live wire just from the smallest bit of contact with you.  

You’re a problem when they’re drinking, a bottle in your hand as you try your best to match their intake. The others would leave you on the floor, stepping over you when you inevitably drop from too much alcohol. It’s Billy that picks you up, wrapping his arm around your waist and carrying you to your bed. 

You’re a problem when you’re laying there, sprawled out along the sheets somewhere between sleep and forcing yourself to stay awake. The way you look up at him is a problem, eyes glassy and half-lidded as you mumble a soft ‘thanks, Billy,”. He knows he’s not a good person, no matter how hard he tries convince himself he is, but fuck - he deserves some extra points for the self restraint he has to leave you there like that. 

You’re a problem when you’re being a brat. The constant butting into conversations, volunteering for jobs and then throwing fits when you’re turned down. You’ve taken to pleading with him for support, asking him to speak on your behalf just to make your brother and the other men see sense. 

“You’re the youngest,” You say, and your eyes are wide and nearly watering as you beg. “That’s why they call you The Kid. Doesn’t that bother you? Imagine how I feel!”

And how can you even ask him to do that? You can’t even shoot right on your own. Ain’t no way he’s speaking up for you so you can go on dangerous jobs and get killed. 

No. 

You fight just as harshly as Jesse does, spewing out insults and arguing your points until you’re both blue in the face. Neither of you notice when Billy jumps off the fence and heads into the house. You make him so angry - so naive and so willing to put yourself in danger just to try to prove yourself. Jesse is right. You could have gotten them all killed today with your little stunt. If you hadn’t been there, then their attention wouldn’t have been divided. Maybe he or Jesse could have seen the cowboys up on the hill a few seconds earlier and gotten out of there without even so much as a graze. In this world, every second is important and being distracted for even a moment can cost you your life. 

He’s still stewing when you follow him into the house only a few minutes later. Your eyes are rimmed red, lips puffy from where you’ve clearly been biting them. Bad girl, he thinks as he glares at them. It’s a nervous habit you have and he’s constantly telling you to stop. The sight of your teeth biting into your bottom lip always makes him go crazy. It should be his teeth digging into it instead. 

“What?” He mumbles gruffly.

“Are you okay?”

“Got grazed by a bullet,” He says, his eyes never leaving yours even as he hooks a thumb under one of his suspenders and pulls it off his shoulder. “You think I’m okay?”

He watches you as you watch him pull the other one off too, your eyes following the fallen straps as they hang around his waist. They follow his hands back up as he undoes the buttons on his shirt, one after the other after the other until the thin material separates in the middle and he can push it off his shoulders. 

His skin feels hot under your intense gaze, and the darker more primal part of his brain wishes you would follow his lead. Undo your own suspenders, unbutton your shirt but make it slow - tease him a little bit cause that’s what you are.

A tease and a brat. And he should treat you like one. 

Instead, you’re stepping up to him and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Your fingers trace just below the thankfully shallow wound of the graze. “You should let me wrap this for you. So it doesn’t get infected,”

“You shouldn’t have been there,” He says in return, and his anger flares as he watches you roll your eyes. 

“God, Billy. Come on. Didn’t I get enough of this from Jesse?”

“You could have- hey!” Billy’s hand snaps out to grip your jaw, stopping you in your tracks as you turn to walk away from him. He holds you still, forcing your face to stay turned towards him as he growls. “You could have been killed today with your little stunt. You had no place there,”

Your hands clamp around his wrist trying to pry his hand off of your face and your words are determined despite the small flicker of fear present in your eyes. “I deserve to be there just as much as any of you,” 

“Oh yeah? Is that why I had to save you today?”

“You nudged me in a direction I was already goin’ to pull my horse in. I wouldn’t call that savin’,”

He pushes forward, making you shuffle back even as his hand stays firm around your chin. Your back hits the opposite wall, a pretty gasp falling from your lips from the rough movement.

“Brat,” Billy hisses as he presses his body against yours, pinning you to the wall. “You’re a troublemaker. I should tie you to your bed, keep you there - bound and out of harm’s way.”

Your breathing hitches at his words and he can feel the way your fingers clamp tighter around his wrist, those big wide eyes that torment him in his dreams staring up at him. 

“Billy,” You whisper, but he just continues his thought. 

“I’ll take care of you,” He says, voice low and quiet between the two of you but it somehow sounds deafening in the silence of the house. “Keep you fed and safe. Give you a nice blanket to keep you comfortable while you wait for me to get home.”

Billy’s hand releases your chin, calloused palms sliding down your jaw and wrapping around your throat. He can feel how you swallow thickly under his hold. 

“And you can take care of me in return,” He continues, his words almost a growl in your face as his warm breath fans across your skin. “As a reward for keeping you out of trouble.”

Even with only centimeters apart, he can barely hear you as you whisper. “Reward you how?”

And fuck, if you knew all the dirty things that play in his mind at night…

“On your knees,” He says, the hand not currently wrapped around your throat reaches up to flick off the suspender strap around your shoulder. It falls around your waist much like his did just minutes before. “On your back.” The other suspender falls like its twin. 

The sound of your heavy breathing echoes in his ears. His eyes drop to your parted lips and he’s sure that his pupils are just as large as yours are. His breathing stops in anticipation despite the fact that it's him who leans in, closing the distance between the two of you as he presses his lips against yours for the first time. 

He wants to be embarrassed by the sound he makes when he tastes you, so soft and sweet and somehow so much better than he ever imagined. Your breathing shudders when his tongue brushes against your bottom lip, but it cuts off in a soft gasp when he presses in again to kiss you harder. Need curls tightly in his gut, anger burning through his veins at you for making him feel this way. 

So on edge all the time, so unhinged. So desperate. 

The hand around your throat tightens a bit and the little squeak you let out in response has him swelling in his trousers.

“Troublemakers like you need to be put in their place,” He says, voice raw and gravely with lust. “You wanna be a big girl and ride horses all day on dangerous trips?” His nose bumps against yours, lips just barely brushing against your own as he speaks. “You can ride me instead.”

His hand leaves your throat to pull at the button on your overalls, and your own hands grip onto the tight muscles of his biceps. 

“Billy, wait,” You say, hand moving down to cover his as he pops open the buttons, but he grabs your chin in his hold again. 

Wait? Wait? You want him to fucking wait? No, you’ve already made him wait long enough. 

“Shut up!” He growls. “I’ve heard enough from you.”

His other hand manages to push down your overalls and they fall to the ground, pooling around your ankles. You whimper as his hand slides across your belly, his long fingers tracing over your soft skin as they travel down and down until they slip under the thin material of your drawers. 

“Good girls do what they’re told,” He whispers, breathing hot and heavy as he presses his mouth against your cheek, and you can feel the stubble that’s started to grow back already on his jaw scratch at your face. “I’ll have to teach you better.”

You gasp when his fingers first touch you, the gentle caress of his fingertips on your clit that has you jumping against the wall but unable to go anywhere with how he has you pinned. He groans against your cheek when he feels how wet you are already, soaking into the pads of his fingers as he circles the bundle of nerves between your thighs. 

“Billy,” You moan, and he kisses you harshly, cutting off the rest of your sentence if there even was more because he can’t bear the thought of you trying to get him to stop again.

No waiting. No stopping. You’re his. 

“Just be a good girl for me, okay?”

His fingers slide through your wetness, trailing slowly over your slit as his arm pushes deeper into your drawers. The tip of his finger nudges at your entrance, rubbing and teasing against your dripping hole for a moment before pushing inside you, and fuck - you feel so tight around him already. Your pussy clenches around his finger as he moves it inside of you, sweet cries ripping from your throat when he adds another, stretching you more as he curls his fingers against your slick walls. 

He muffles your moans with his lips, and he can’t help but push his hips against you, pressing the thick bulge in his pants against your thigh for some relief. 

Damn you, he thinks. Damn you and your driven attitude, bad shooting, sweet demeanor, and pretty face. Jesse could kill him for this. Jesse would, and he would deserve it. But this is your fault. Your. Fault. You tempted him like this. Threw him off his game and destroyed his self control just by being you and he hates you for it. 

Your moans are a constant now, turning into desperate whines of “Billy, please! Oh, god, please!” as he watches you greedily hump his hand. He’s throbbing in his pants, cock pulsing with need and heavy as he presses harder against your thigh. He’s not going to last long - not with the way you look right now and the way he knows you're going to feel wrapped around his cock just from how you feel clamping around his fingers right now. 

You’re not going to last much longer either, and his fingers thrust inside you faster, thumb rolling over your clit as he pushes you closer and closer towards that edge.

Come on, pretty girl. Be good for me.

He’s never touched you this way before, but it’s like he knows your body inside and out already. The look on your face tells him you’re about to cum, and he wants to see it - wants to see it so badly to see if it matches the same look you have when he makes you cum in his dreams - but he wants to make you suffer. Just a little bit more. Like you make him suffer. 

The cry of protest you make when he pulls his hand away is beautiful, as is the way your eyes widen when he brings the soaked digits to his mouth, sucking your taste from them and fuuuuckkk you taste so good. Of course, you taste this good. 

He kisses you again, sliding his tongue inside your mouth against yours just to make you taste yourself too as he undoes the buttons on his own pants. The restricting material is gone in seconds along with both of your underwear. His hand grips your hip, squeezing the flesh between his fingers before dragging his hand along the curve of your ass and down the back of your thigh.

In one swift movement, he has your leg hooked around his hip and his cock positioned at your entrance. 

“Wait,” You whimper, looking up at him with those beautiful big eyes of yours. “I’ve never–”

“I’ll take care of you,” He says, slowly pushing himself forward. The clench of your pussy as he works his cock inside you feels like heaven, slick walls squeezing him tight as he fills you up. 

Your arms wrap tightly around his neck as he sinks in, face digging into his neck to muffle your soft cry. A pang of guilt shoots through him at your pain. He doesn’t want you hurt. You’re a brat and a troublemaker, but he’s only ever wanted to keep you safe. But the more primal part of his brain keens at the idea. 

It’s your first time. He’s your first. You’re his. Only his.

His good girl.

His pretty problem.

He wants to fuck you hard, wants his hips snapping against yours so hard they leave bruises. Wants you crying against his mouth, moans and whimpers so uncontrollable that your brother and the rest of the gang hears them from outside from how loud you’re being. He’s not going to last long, he was right about that. His hips move slowly against yours, cock dragging against your walls as he pulls out until just the tip is left buried in your cunt. 

Your small whines of pain quickly turn into pleasure as he rocks into you, your warmth hugging his cock so tightly he thinks you might be trying to keep him buried inside you forever. He fucks you faster, pressing you harder against the wall as he claims your lips again. His fingers find the sensitive nub between your legs, rough fingertips circling your clit relentlessly until your panting against his mouth. He greedily swallows your squeal when you cum around him, cunt forming a tight and unforgiving blissful prison around his cock as you drench him and his fingers. 

He moans with you, hips stuttering and inconsistent as your orgasm triggers his. He holds your face against his, his other hand clutching your hip as he holds you still, not letting you run away from him even if you try as he spills himself inside you, painting your walls white.

It’s quiet in the room as you both come down from your high, just the sounds of panting as you both try to catch your breath. He should pull out. Anyone could just walk in at any moment and catch you, but he grits his teeth at the thought of having to move away from you. He’d die happily inside you if he could. So, he takes another moment, letting himself revel in the feel of your still pulsing walls around his length as he lays his forehead against yours.

“You’re goin’ to keep being my good girl, right?” He says softly into the space between you. “Stay out of trouble?”

And despite the exhausted look on your face, when your eyes meet his, all he sees is that strong-willed defiance.

A pretty problem indeed.

[tootiredtobekind]