#ceo!reader

You are That Bitch. CEO of Morbicorp Industries, leader in biotech, pharma, and definitely-not-human-augmentation. Also the sole entity behind Project Lazarus, a “cancer treatment initiative” that’s totally not raising the dead.

And yes. You’re hot. And yes. People think you feed on souls. (You don’t. That’s rude. You just microdose fear.)

Every inch of you screams power: black velvet suits tailored like armor, red-bottom heels that echo like gunshots across the marble. Your office is a skyscraper penthouse—floor 113, naturally—with a glass wall overlooking the city like you own it (you do). There are rumors you have no reflection. That your legal team is composed of banshees. That you made Pfizer cry once.

You’re also very, very nice. But no one needs to know that.

*-*

It begins with an email.

No subject. No greeting. Just: "Nanami Kento — Floor 113. Now. – CEO"

Immediately, everyone stops breathing.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Jennifer from immuno-stats drops her Yoplait and screams. Daichi from hematology starts praying in tongues. People are SPRINTING to shred files that might implicate them in literally anything, including that time they pirated Finding Nemo. Some guy jumps out the window preemptively.

“OH MY GOD—OH MY GOD—KEN—KEN—YOU’RE GOING TO DIE,” hisses John from Bio-Data, clinging to Kento’s coat. “Did you falsify numbers? Did you piss in the sample freezer?!”

“I bet he was caught selling patient data to foreign markets—”

“NO, I heard he rerouted results to make it look like test drugs were working—”

Nanami, god bless him, looks perfectly calm. Calm and deliciously overqualified, in a gray suit that fits too well for a data monkey. Blonde hair slicked back, a face like God hand-crafted it after getting wine-drunk, and—

A plastic bag. With two Studio Ghibli bento boxes in it.

Totoro-themed.

The room stares.

“What the fuck is that,” mutters Hiro from Lab Six, mascara already streaming.

“Is he bringing... lunch?! Is he planning to eat it in the ELEVATOR? Before he DIES???”

Kento just adjusts his tie, totally zen. "I’m not dying."

“You sweet dumb bitch, that’s what they always say!” Jennifer hisses.

“GOD. WHY YOU??” John sobs. “We all thought you were normal! You recycle! You say good morning! You bought us that cake!”

“She’s gonna gut him,” someone says from the printer queue.

“She’s gonna reverse-gut him,” another whispers. “Like, gut him and put more guts in. For experiments.”

“Honestly?” says Yuki from HR. “I heard she only comes down here to pick new skin.”

Nanami presses the elevator button.

DING.

He steps inside.

The doors close.

Silence.

A single voice whispers:

“He’s fucking dead.”

*-*

You watch him rise.

Camera feeds blink red across your desk. Your fingers steeple. Your lips twitch.

You already know what they’re saying. They always do. Monster. Demon. Vampire. Succubus with a biotech degree. (You’re just tired. Great tits though- even better ass.)

You sip your iced matcha (ceremonial grade, blood green), and pull up his file again. NANAMI, KENTO. Efficient. Loyal. Underpaid. Surprisingly hot under stress. He ran your analytics faster than anyone else. Never flinched at the data. Never cried over the reanimation files. Always quiet. Always respectful. And those forearms? God’s cruelest joke.

Ding.

The doors open.

You don't look up right away. Let it simmer. Let the fear curdle in his gut. That’s part of the foreplay.

He steps in.

No hesitation. No sweat. He closes the elevator doors behind him with one hand on the button. Your private office falls quiet as death.

Then—

"You're late," you murmur, without looking.

Nanami’s voice is cool. Crisp. "I stopped to get your lunch."

You spin your chair.

You SMILE.

Like a demon queen in Prada. (Well, technically, Yohji Yamamoto.)

You blink. Finally glance up. The bastard is holding two Ghibli bentos.

Your dead heart flutters.

"Did you get the one with the tamagoyaki bear?" you ask.

His eyes soften. He holds up the box with pride. “And the pickled plum that looks like a heart.”

God. This man.

And before logic can intervene—you do it. You rise from your obsidian throne, walk across the sleek obsidian floor in your obsidian stilettos, and—

Mwah. Right on the cheek. You kiss him.

*-*

Well your employees loose their minds.

“SOMEONE JUST FAINTED!”

Someone is being shook as another screams: "HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON?!"

"Wait. Wait. WAIT. Is that why she approved his research budget in two minutes?!"

“SHE’S FEEDING ON HIM—SHE’S—SHE’S GROOMING HIM FOR SACRIFICE—!”

“Wait, is he into it???”

"NO—WAIT—YOU'RE TELLING ME NANAMI KENTO IS DATING THE CEO??? THE BOSS???"

“He brought her a bento in a catbus box. You think they fuck?”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say that ever again.”

“They fuck. He’s getting pegged in the penthouse right now.”

“I’M CALLING HR—”

Meanwhile, Hiro is googling "how to become emotionally resilient to betrayal" and John is quietly typing up his resignation letter in Comic Sans.

*-*

Nanami’s cheeks are pink. Barely. Just a flush.

You lean back on your desk, crossing your legs.

“So?” you say, unwrapping your chopsticks.

He raises an eyebrow. “You summoned me just for lunch?”

You hum. “That’s what dating is, isn’t it?”

Nanami gives you a look. One part fond. One part exasperated. All parts down bad.

“You know you just triggered a full-blown office meltdown,” he says, handing you a napkin.

You grin, fangs gleaming. “Good. Keeps them thin.”

*-*

You’ve just survived a morning of ten back-to-back meetings.

Each one a circus of idiots in ties trying to convince you to funnel budget into projects with names like “HopeCore++” and “Curefinity.” You almost threw someone off the balcony because he called breast cancer “on-brand.” He survived only because Nanami texted you “Lunch is warm. Your bear is smiling.”

But now? Now...

Your mouth is full of rice, eggs, and raw fucking respect.

“Mmm,” you say around a mouthful of tamagoyaki shaped like a bear. “This is criminal.”

Nanami, sitting in front of your desk with chopsticks in one hand and a custom bottle of yuzu dressing in the other, gives you a flat look that you know means quiet pleasure. "You say that every time."

"Yeah well," you say, chewing like a beast. “Every time you make me bentos like I’m your sickly Victorian wife who has consumption and must be fed soft food so she doesn't perish in her tragic tower.”

He wipes the corner of your mouth with a napkin. “You did say this week was high stress.”

“You say that like every week I’m not personally threatening half the FDA with budget cut assassins.”

Nanami gives a little noise. Something between fond exhale and eternal husband sigh. Then he leans back in the chair.

There’s a very satisfying silence as you consume three dumplings with the rabid intensity of a succubus who has not known rest since the Recession. You wash it down with a sip of sparkling blood orange tea.

Then: “How’d the vet go?”

A pause.

A long sigh.

You smirk, then you raise an eyebrow. “Don’t lie to me, Kento. I’ll know.”

Nanami, now actively sweating at the memory, runs a thumb down the bridge of his nose. “He attacked the scale.”

You drop your chopsticks. “He what?”

“Chairman Meow attacked the scale. Like. Viciously. 'Full murder mode' as you love to call it.”

“He doesn't like to be fat shamed.”

“The vet had to sedate him to check his gums. He pissed on the technician’s Crocs. He yowled so loud someone from the dentist next door came to ask if we were euthanizing a puma.”

“Jesus CHRIST, Chairman Meow.”

“He bit me,” Nanami deadpans, pulling back the sleeve of his pressed button-up to show you a faint pink scratch.

“Ken!”

“I paid extra for the vet’s Starbucks order out of guilt,” he adds, sighing. “I didn’t even get a thank you. I just got more meowing.”

You snort. “He’s a monster. My furry little baby disaster.”

Nanami glances up at you from under his lashes.

You are so, so fucked.

Nanami lifts his eyes. And this time you lock gaze. There’s a beat. A shared moment. The two of you. A loving couple. Deep in the trenches of parenthood. Raising one mentally ill cat.

You sigh. “Remind me to get him the chicken puree from the fancy shop.”

“I already did,” Nanami says, because of course he did, and you swoon a little.

God, he's so competent. You'd marry him yesterday if you weren’t already married to capitalism and caffeine.

*-*

By the time you’re back in your lair — shoes off, thighs wide, bentos licked clean — you’re still a little feral. You’re stressed. Your spine’s buzzing. Your brain feels like it’s leaking out through your ears, and all you want is—

“Come here,” you rasp, eyeing Nanami like a snack, “and make yourself useful.”

He doesn’t ask questions.

Because Kento Nanami may be a desk-bound number demon by day, but behind closed doors, the man is a devoted, punctual, and efficient whore for your pleasure. Harvard couldn't teach this. McKinsey couldn’t model it.

Nanami’s tie is loosened. His jacket’s off. His sleeves are rolled. His knees are on your rug.

“Sit on the edge,” he says, voice low and calm like he’s asking you to review patient metrics, not… this.

You blink. Then oblige. Slowly, you rise, hips swaying as you plant yourself on the massive mahogany desk, thighs spread, heels still on. He gently pulls your skirt up.

His voice is a purr. “You’ve been working since five. You need a break.”

You lean back on your hands. “I had lunch.”

“I’m giving you dessert.”

And before you can make some sarcastic, quippy, evil-lady-in-a-thriller comment—he dives in.

NO. NO BUILD-UP. NO FANFARE. JUST. MOUTH. TONGUE. DEVOTION. Like a holy man at the altar of your pussy.

It’s disgusting how good he is.

Gross, actually. Like he trained for this. Like he studied your pussy in a lab. Like he personally charted the analytics of your moans and cross-referenced it with your entire hormone cycle.

His mouth is so goddamn warm. Tongue steady and dedicated. Slurping you down like it’s a fucking wellness ritual.

“Oh fuck—Kento—” you gasp, thrown open wide like you’re offering a sacrifice. “You trying to get a promotion, hrm?”

He’s got his big hands under your thighs, pulling you to the edge like you’re something to be dragged into his mouth. His tongue licks up slow, savoring you like you’re Michelin-starred sashimi, while your entire soul exits your body and hits the penthouse windows like a bug on a windshield.

“Kento—” you gasp, reaching for his hair, “—oh my fucking—”

He hums into you. HUMS.

“Mmnh—god—Nanami, you’re gonna give me a cardiac arrest,” you moan, voice hoarse.

And this absolute slut of a man?

Looks up with spit-slick lips, your cum glistening on his chin like dew, and goes: “You’d survive it. You fund seven heart valve prototypes.”

FUCK.

This absolute beast of a man is giving you the slowest, most mind-erasing head known to woman. His mouth is hot and wet, tongue just the right amount of firm, tracing your folds like he’s studying you, mapping you, building a fucking GPS that ends in your pussy.

You are SO undignified. And he? This man?

Looks like he’s at peace.

Like there’s no war. No office. No screaming bioethics board. Just your thighs on his shoulders and his dick straining in his pants while he refuses to even touch it.

Because yeah, meanwhile, poor Nanami has the hardest erection of his life. Like. It’s painful. His cock is so rock-solid it could be used in corporate architecture. But does he touch it? Absolutely not.

Because this is not about him. This is about you, and your stress, and your success, and the fact that he gets to be the blessed man between the thighs of a woman who once stared a US senator into tears.

You could snap his neck between your legs, and he’d thank you for the honor.

His whole face is buried in you. You feel his nose bump your clit and see stars.

“FUCK—Nanami—oh my GOD I am going to promote you to GODHOOD—”

Your voice is hoarse. You grip his hair like the company depends on it (it does). He’s groaning now, hands digging into your plush thighs, face flushed and devoted like a man on death row granted one final request, and his request was your pussy.

You arch. You grind. You lose your mind.

And when you finally come, it’s with a full-body quake, your heel knocking a glass off the desk, your soul leaving your body and roundhouse-kicking the moon.

Nanami sits back, wiping his mouth with that same lunch napkin like he didn’t just make you cum so hard you might become legally immortal.

You pant. Your blouse is askew. Your hair is wild.

He tucks a lock behind your ear.

Then pulls a file folder from beside your foot and hands it to you, perfectly calm.

“Here’s the updated legal complaint for the patents case.”

You take it with a trembling hand.

Then he pulls out a peach from the bento bag.

He peels it. He feeds you a slice.

Your pussy is still twitching.

*-*

You stare at him.

“Kento.”

“Yes?”

“Are you an angel?”

“No. I work in Analytics.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re being literal- I was TRYING to be romantic-”

He presses another peach slice to your lips.

“Shh,” he says softly. “You’re on break.”

*-*

Back on Floor 112, a new legend is born:

Nanami Kento walked into the CEO’s office with lunch, stayed for over an hour, left with his hair mussed, shirt collar unbuttoned, and a lipstick mark on his throat.

He also handed a bunch of Very Scary Looking Documents to the secretary with a smile.

“Tell them she’s busy,” he said.

They haven't stopped screaming since.

A/N: hope this was good, i enjoyed writing this, was a change of the usual 'ceo nanami'

Masterlist.

"Are you sure about that?" you raise an eyebrow. You get the satisfaction of seeing a momentary flicker of concern cross his features.

"I am," he purrs.

You pull out your phone and hit "send" on a text you'd saved to your drafts.

"Don't bother asking those union peons to help," he sneers. "They've no say in management decisions."

"Not directly," you smirk. Again you get to see a flicker of self-doubt. "I'm not surrendering when I've still got a bullet left." Several seconds later Ransom's phone rings. "You're going to want to answer that," you smirk.

He looks at his phone with a mixture of rage and confusion. The second he hits answer you can hear Linda, his mother, ranting and raving even though she's not on speaker.

Because of his low opinion on everyone, Ransom forgot an important thing about unions: they can represent workers from multiple companies. The different unions for the construction workers you employ were the same unions for people Linda hired to fix and update properties for her realty business. Those same unions, to protect the workers at your company, have asked their people to stop all work for Linda's company.

Ransom's face was red with rage, that last metaphorical bullet well aimed.

"Jerry just said he's off the second week of December," Bucky iterates with a glare.

You tilt your head. "Yeah, so what?"

"So, what?" He repeats with disbelief, rage dripping from his tone. "That's three people in senior positions you've allowed to take time off just weeks before Christmas - are you insane, or just absolutely fucking stupid?"

Appalled by his words, you gasp. Nobody has ever dared to speak to you like that in your whole life. You let out a shaky breath, but before you can respond to him, he storms off inside the resort. With a huff, you stand up and race after him, preparing yourself to rip him a new one before firing him.

"Don't you dare walk away from me!" You yell as he turns into the changing rooms.

"Fuck off," He huffs, taking you aback.

"Stop taking to me like that!" You exclaim as he turns to face you.

"Or what, sweetheart?" Bucky asks you condescendingly. "You'll fire me?"

"Fuck yeah, I'll fire you!" You shoot.

"Too late. I quit," He spits.

"Are you forgetting who I am?" You ask with a dry laugh. "Who my mom is?"

He clenches his jaw and storms over to you before grabbing your arm. "I think about it every fucking minute," He reveals lowly. "I think about the fact that you're only in this job because your mom got fucked raw twenty years ago and didn't know how to raise a decent human being. You're only here because you didn't have enough brain cells to get a job your damn self. You were in college for all of six months and you spent that time getting spit-roasted by frat cock, trying your best to feel some kind of self-worth, to bring some kind of value to society - newsflash, honey, being a whore doesn't disguise the fact that you have next to zero worth. You are nothing more than a pretty face in high heels, and you're gonna run this company to the ground - but Mommy won't give a fuck because she's got a hundred others just waiting for you to bulldoze over."

Stunned, you say nothing. Your bottom lip quivers as you shake.

He lets out a scoff. "Fuck's sake. You gonna cry now? You can't tell me you've only just realized what a dipshit you are?" He asks you with a raised brow, before tightening his grip on your arm and pulling you closer and pulling at your bikini top. "Look at you. Just fucking look at yourself. Parading around in this tiny bikini, trying to make them like you. The only reason those guys show you any kind of respect is because they wanna fuck you. They wanna use your body because your mind sure as fuck ain't worth shit. No, don't cry about it, dummy. It's just the truth- and deep down, you know that. You know you're only worth anything when your holes are being used."

A whimper escapes your mouth.

Bucky brings his face closer to yours as he looks your body up and down. His eyes darken. "Mmm. You might have fucked up my career, but maybe I'll still get some use oughta ya," He grumbles, making your legs quake. "Yeah. Stupid little girls like you are only good for one thing; taking cock."

"James, what-"

"Shut the fuck up," He cuts you off coldly, before spinning you around and bending you over one of the benches. "Here. You should be grateful; I'm putting you to use. Giving you a sense of self-worth, huh?"

"You can't do this!" You exclaim, though you can't deny the notion of getting fucked by him excites you.

"Sure I can," He replies casually while pulling down your bikini bottoms and running his fingers through your folds. "Look at how fuckin' wet you are and I've barely touched you yet. Does it turn you on when someone reminds you what a worthless whore you are?"

He pins your hands behind your back and soon slips his cock into you with no warning. You let out a cry as it slightly pains you to be filled without preparation, but he doesn't let up.

"Fits perfectly," Bucky mutters to himself as he starts sliding in and out of you.

"Bucky," You cry out, half in pain and half in pleasure, as much as you hate to admit.

"That's it, you stupid little girl," He says gruffly. "Take my fucking cock like the dumb slut you are. I deserve this - you know how much fuckin' money I could be making if it wasn't for you, you cunt?"

Loud moans and yelps leave your mouth as he rails you, fucking in and out of you hard. He doesn't care that it probably hurts you to be pushed against the wooden bench, he's too far gone. Pure rage has taken over and the only way he can let it out is on you.

He spanks your ass repeatedly, not satisfied until he leaves a mark. "Look at how fucking pathetic you are," He says, snapping his hips as he fucks you harder. Wrapping a hand around your throat, he pulls you up so you're standing up against his body. "That's it, take it, take it. That's a good little fucktoy."

The praise makes you preen as you let out a singing moan, making him smirk while he rips apart your bikini.

"You like that, huh?" He asks you smugly. "Like it when you fulfil your role as a fucktoy? Like making men like me happy? Being nothing but a human sexdoll for dirty old men like me, you slut?"

"Yes, Sir."

"That's it," He says with a grin, pawing at your tits as he continues fucking you. "There she is. That's a good little dummy, just like that. This is what you were made for, ain't it?"

"Yes, Sir," You reply obediently, officially cock drunk. "Made for you, Sir."

"That's it, dummy, such a good girl for me," He says between grunts while bringing his fingers down to your clit. "Don't you fuckin' dare cum. Got it?"

"I won't," You promise as bursts of electric pleasure coarse through you.

Suddenly, you hear a thump from the left. You turn with a gasp to the doorway to see Peter standing there wide-eyed as he watches the scene before him.

"Hey, Parker," Bucky says with a smirk, not stopping his thrusts. "Come to watch me fuck this dumb bitch's brains out?"

Peter's speechless. Between your naked body and Bucky's utterly disrespectful words, he's thrown for a loop.

"Don't be so scared," Bucky coos teasingly as he squeezes one of your boobs. "Wanna come and suck on her tits while I fuck her brains out, huh?"

Terrified, and incredibly turned on, Peter quickly spins on his heel and rushes away.

"Not that you have any fuckin' brains, anyway," Bucky adds bitterly, slapping your tit. "You're just an airheaded bimbo, absolutely nothing going on up there, huh?"

Incoherent moans are all you can let out, proving his point. He chuckles smugly, pulling on your nipples while fucking you harder. Slowly, he lowers one of his hands down to your stomach.

"Feel me right there, dummy?" Bucky asks you. "Feel my big cock filling you up? Say it, you dumb slut."

"I- I can feel your-"

"Louder," He booms.

"I can feel your cock filling me up, Mr. Barnes," You say as clearly as you can.

"That's right," He says as his thrusts become sloppier. "Fuck. You're such a good little fuckdoll, gonna make me cum so quickly. You ready for it?"

You suck in a sharp breath as your core tightens. "Can I-"

He grabs your chin harshly, shutting you up. "Don't be stupid, dummy," He utters lowly. "Fuckdolls don't need to cum. All you need to do is shut the fuck up and take my seed. Got it?"

"Yes, Sir," You let out with a sob, desperate to reach your orgasm. "Please."

Bucky tuts. "Aw, poor thing," He chuckles cruelly. "Tell me how badly you wanna cum right now."

"Please, Sir, I need to cum so badly," You cry as he continues driving his cock into your cunt. "I'm so close, so close."

"Fuck," He utters gruffly. "Take my cum, dummy. That's it, take it all."

With a loud groan, he spills into you, filling you with his cum as he continues to pump in and out. You fall forward and he lets you fall onto the bench with a soft thump.

"Oh, fuck," Bucky mumbles between heavy breaths, rubbing his face. "Shit. Came so fucking hard."

You're left a frustrated, whimpering mess, letting out weak begs for him to let you cum.

Bucky simply pulls his trunks up and slaps your ass one last time before turning and walking towards the exit. "Finish yourself off, slut," He says lowly before leaving you alone.

bucky masterlist

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At first, you ignore it, ignore her. Hallucinations due to lack of sleep aren’t strangers to you. Though, you will say, it’s nice to simply stare at her, getting lost in her beauty. Oh, if anyone caught wind of this–

“How long.”

Her voice is sharp, like a sharpened blade. It’s beautiful. You want her to talk more, and it’s that mindset that keeps you from responding right away, savoring her silken, deep voice. 

“..Huh?”

Her eyes narrow. Oh, even when you’re probably going to die, you can’t help but swoon for the intern’s attention. Wait a minute. If she’s talking, and the detail on her is.. quite real, then.. The office should be closed! How did Arlecchino sneak in here? 

“How long,” she continues, staring down at you like you were a puppy who just deliberately disobeyed her commands. “How long have you been in your office, working nonstop?” 

The bags under your eyes, the slight hollowness in your cheeks, and the multiple cans of both coffee and energy drinks speak quicker than your mind can process. 

As for Arlecchino, the slight furrow in her brow parts her rage, showing its true colors as deep concern. How sweet; the once quiet, isolated intern who was determined to only do work and no socializing whatsoever, now breaking into the office (literally) to seek you out specifically and drag you out as if she were the boss here, as if she were a big momma cat carrying out a stubborn kitten. But seriously, who gave this woman a key? Hell, who let her into the building, allowing her to just burst through your office doors?

“Uhh.. I.. no comment..?” You wince at the crack in your voice. Despite talking to yourself over the days you’ve spent here, (how long has it been since you got to sleep in your comfy bed? Your mind drools at the thought.) your voice is more rough from the silence. You get the sense that any answer you give will only upset the little intern further.

Arlecchino sighs, the noise sounding like it physically hurt her to see you like this. “Can you walk? I’m taking you home.” 

Gods, Arlecchino’s voice is like a warm blanket. You try not to close your eyes, to fall asleep from hearing her nag at you, and it hits you. 

“Home? I still have things to do. Financing and a few other reports, a meeting with another company that I can’t postpone-”

“You’re done.” Her voice is set. You find it hard to argue with her. Seriously, where did she get all this gall, challenging you? You’re supposed to be the boss here! “‘I’ll carry you if I have to.”

Scary. How scary. You fold your arms, putting on your best pout that you know gives Arlecchino pause. It doesn’t work this time, much to your dismay. The intern’s long legs carry her to your side of the desk in a mere blink of an eye, and before you know it, warmth envelops you.

Your intern, who once upon a time hated any kind of physical contact, has made good on her promise (threat?) and scooped you up like you were nothing. And lord, your bones, mind, muscles, you were incredibly sore. Not to mention that gentle, smokey cinnamon scent easing your senses easily stomping out any spark of rebellion in you. 

Yet, you have your image to maintain!

“Put me down! I still have work to do! I can’t go home just yet!”

No matter how much you struggle, Arlecchino is simply too strong. Her grip around you is firm, like how one would hold a squirming puppy. Which, to be fair, you probably weren’t too far off from at the moment. How embarrassing. (You’ll have to ask for her workout routine later.)

“You’re getting rest,” her voice softens, losing that sharp edge, yet retaining the firmness. “I won’t take no for an answer. Is your health a joke to you? Is my concern for you not enough?”

Her forehead gently lands on yours, and for a second, you’re so caught off guard that you don’t fight, almost worried that you’d headbutt her. She doesn’t pull away immediately, letting the touch linger, feeling for your temp.

“No fever. Yet, probably, with how you’re holed up. God, can you even be trusted on your own?”

When she finally pulls away, with an exasperated scoff no less, you have to physically limit yourself (with great effort, your mind and body are thoroughly exhausted) from chasing after her, or her warmth. Her steps are even, to the point where you don’t realize that you two have moved to the elevator. And you’re still in her arms. 

“Wh- put me down! I can be trusted on my own! I’m not a kid!”

“You’re so foolish,” she retorts, minimal bite in her tone. “Sacrificing your health and time so that everyone could have a week off? You’re incredibly foolish. We’re grown adults, we can handle a bit more work. You don’t need to take it on yourself. We’ll take care of it all when we get back.”

She looks down at you and it’s hard not to compare you to a scolded puppy right now. At least you’ve stopped struggling in her arms, and lord, your droopy, sleepy little eyes.. she has to look forward to keep her resolve strong, to not crumple right there and force you to sleep on your office couch. Just wait a few more moments..

“You’re coming home with me. Never mind taking you home, I’m taking you to my place. I doubt you have any mind to take care of yourself, and I fear the moment you open your eyes after a pitiful attempt at a nap you’ll be right back trying to work.”

Arlecchino inhales deeply, and you can’t help but lean further on her shoulder, listening to her even breathing and her slightly hastened heartbeat. No, maybe that’s normal.. maybe you’re just exhausted. Surely Arlecchino doesn’t share your affections, it’s just.. an employee being worried for their employer. Surely this is all normal, right? (Not like you had many other people to ask. No one has this type of homey relationship with their employees. No one of this size, at least.)

Whatever else comes out of her mouth is lost on you. It’s simply heaven here, blanketed in strong arms that hold you so warmly, so securely, partnered with her scent, warm and inviting, and the slight sway of her steps. It doesn’t dawn on you that you’re being buckled into her car until the seatbelt clicks, and it’s no longer perfectly warm. 

“Wh- wait. Where are we going? What’s going on? I still have work to finish, Arle there’s a meeting I can’t miss-”

“-We’ll take care of it,” she insists, slipping into the driver’s seat. The car quietly starts, and she does that thing, placing her hand on your headrest as she one handedly reverses out of the parking spot (she’s doing it for you, though you don’t realize. Your heart skips nonetheless, completely smitten.). “Don’t underestimate your team- we value you just as much as you value us. We’ll figure it out when we get back to the office.”

“Get back to the office?” You gape, sure, you loved your team, and you knew that everyone appreciated each other, but it never really crossed your mind that they’d appreciate you just as much as you do them. Surely it’s just work, right? “What day is it?!”

Arlecchino gives you a nasty side eye, trying to keep her eyes on the road but completely flabbergasted that you don’t even know the date.

“It’s Friday. And before you ask,” she gives you a small (fond) roll of the eyes as she rolls to a stop at a light. “Yes, I can see it written on your face. I got a text from your secretary. Said she couldn’t get in touch with you to remind you to reschedule that meeting.”

Right. Reschedule the meeting. The one you purposefully kept in so that this situation wouldn’t happen, and yet. You sigh, “This won’t look good on us-”

“-It’ll be taken care of,” Arlecchino reiterates, an inkling of irritation slipping into her voice. “Just as you’re a competent boss, we’re competent employees. Plus, I’m sure whoever you’re meeting with will understand that you’re sick.”

“I’m not sick!”

“Any moment later, and you probably would be,” she stamps out your pitiful whine, “Let us, let me, take care of you. Please.” 

You’ve never heard Arlecchino beg, and even now, it’s not really begging, but the desperation is there. A plead for the impossible, but knowing the intern, she’s going to defy all odds and make it happen anyway. Might as well raise your white flag now to ease the struggle. 

Your own pride as a CEO clashes with the spark of hope in her eyes. Gods, just how have you become so weak to her?! Maybe she’s aware of it, and that’s why she’s using it to her advantage, much to your chagrin, knowing how you just cannot seem to say no to her.

“..The weekend only,” you huff, looking out the window in the only amount of defiance you can think of. Arlecchino takes it as a win. (She plans to make it longer, one way or another. You push yourself too hard, and it hurts her to see it.)

“Thank you.”