CEO of SUCS (Souls, Urges, Cocks & Sensuality)
A/N: this isn't late idk what you're talking about, time is false, not rlly proofread, doing this on my phone
IMAGE REFERENCE: Kyarrcha (@matchapichai) / X
warnings: ceo!reader, f! receiving oral
"What do you mean nanami’s going to the BOSS’S OFFICE?!" —an unnamed intern, before pissing herself
Because let’s be clear.
You didn’t set out to become The Most Terrifying CEO in Modern History. You were just... well you, with a black belt in martial business law, a goth sensibility, and an ethically-razor sharp desire to make cancer your personal little bitch.
Somewhere along the way, you started wearing all black.
Somewhere along the way, people stopped making eye contact.
Somewhere along the way, your company became the #1 global biotech enterprise with seven subsidized NGO branches focused on equitable cancer access and disability justice, and somehow, that translated into:
“do you think she drinks the blood of underperforming interns??”
LIKE??? YOU MADE FREE CANCER TREATMENT KITS FOR LOW-INCOME PATIENTS, NOT HUMAN SACRIFICES, SANDRA.
But ok.
Fine. You run a tight ship. Your office is located at the very top of a skyscraper, shielded by glass so dark the birds don’t even try to fly near it.
People don’t talk to you. They whisper about you. They fear you.
And listen—you like that just a little bit.
Maybe you made a pact. Maybe you ate a god. No one knows. Least of all HR. But one thing is clear:
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.
:)
