aughhh… thinking about dennis being bratty to robby (and/or jack) during shifts and they just put their hand into their pocket and press something and dennis was about to snark back with a really good and subtle comeback but he chokes on his words and his face turn beet red in the middle of the er because those damn old men turned the vibrator inside his ass to maximum.
“What was that, Dr. Whitaker? Couldn’t hear you the first time”
ANON’s ASK: “can we pls get secretary!reader on a date with another billionaire CEO?? maybe to a gala and wayne exec!tim sees them dancing and readers beautiful dress etc etc”
18 and up…
my masterlist w/ more of these 2
10:14 AM
What a beautiful, rare thing: a Saturday morning where you’re not hungover or dealing with excess work from the week.
So naturally, you find yourself at the coffee shop closest to your apartment, your nose deep in a book. It’s slightly too brisk to be sitting outside, even with the sunshine, so you’re in a window seat, listening to friendly chatter, the whir of the coffee maker, and the frantic typing of a college kid sitting a table over. You add to the atmosphere with the occasional clink of your mug as you sip your drink and the crisp flip of you turning the page.
10:?? AM
Someone calls your name and it’s like being snapped from hypnosis—looking around provides you with the answer of who as he walks toward you.
Tall, dark, and filling out his t-shirt in a way you didn’t know was possible, a man with a face that’s all too familiar strides across the coffee shop.
He says your name again, a boyish grin on his lips, and the memories come to you in a flood. Jaime, your old friend. The kid you haven’t seen in years and years—standing right in front of you in this Gotham coffee shop.
“How the hell are you?”
You beam in reply, big-cheeked and warm, as you let him fold you into his arms for a hug.
“It’s so good to see you,” you reply, still a little shocked that this is the same boy you used to yank around the playground to play superheroes. His brown eyes honest-to-god twinkle when he lets you go, and there’s an unruly fluttering in your chest as his hand lingers on your waist for a moment.
“It’s good to see you too, wow.” He echoes, not so subtly checking you out. “I’ve heard about your work with Wayne Enterprises. Really impressive. There’s companies training their administration after the way you run that office.”
A pleasant heat creeps over your cheeks at the unabashed praise, your heart thumping in your chest. You feel like you need a fan and a fainting couch.
(Sure, you’re used to handsome men telling you all about your positive virtues, but the past few years you’ve only cared about one’s opinion.)
“Even my firm does trainings loosely based on your notetaking style for meetings.”
(Having someone with such a storied history with you say the same things..?)
“Maybe in the future we can chat about you coming in and giving a seminar, or something?”
(Different story entirely.)
“Wait!” Jaime blurts, interrupting himself. “Speaking of business, actually..”
8:30 PM
“Yeah, I mean lucky for him.” Your coworker replies, her cat’s face barging in on the video call. “I can’t imagine finding out your girlfriend was cheating right before what’s basically the biggest office party—er.. like business meeting? Of your fiscal year.”
“And he happens upon me in a coffee shop.” You reply, carefully brushing powder over your base makeup. “Very lucky.”
The pair of you fall into silence, both clearly thinking about the happenstance.
“Weird that you weren’t already going.” She speaks as you try to segue into the question that’s been burning on your mind since you called her. The reason you called her.
“Do you know if Mr. Drake is planning to be there?”
“Oh, uh..no. I don’t.”
You’d be lying if you said that didn’t immediately make you anxious.
“Isn’t that technically your job?” She asks, no hint of snark in her tone. Just curious. “I mean, people at Wayne joke that you guys have a shared personal calendar too. That he makes you schedule his dates.”
It feels like your heart’s gonna stop cold. Your silence is incriminating:
“That’s not, like, true, though, right?”
“No, no,” you reply, waving your makeup brush through the air as you gesture with your hands. This cannot be happening.
10:?? PM
Whatever way you thought you felt at seeing Jaime again, or in his suit, it paled in comparison to the burning feeling in your stomach as you laid eyes on your company’s CEO.
He looks so good you feel slightly nauseous—the champagne’s oozing through your intestines as you try to look anywhere, anywhere, but at Timothy Drake.
As Tim was getting ready for the event throughout the day: showering, shaving, etc, all he could imagine was the ways you might be spending your free Saturday.
He’d left it blank on every calendar on purpose, and hadn't whispered a word to you or anyone in the office about it.
He knows you’re overworked, even if you don’t.
Were you taking a lazy morning, sleeping in? Letting yourself relax with a hand between your legs in a bubble bath, feet up?
Did you take a spa day, (Note to self: book her a spa day) go to any appointments?
Go shopping for those slutty little heels he was never quite able to get enough of or a new pair of slippers for home?
No matter what, nothing made Tim feel better about having to go to an event like this and schmooze, rub elbows with Gotham’s richest and douchiest, than the mental picture of you sitting at home with a glass of wine, sighing contentedly.
So seeing you across the ballroom in criminally high high heels and a dress that looked like it had been poured onto you and stitched up in the back, was a surprise.
To say the least.
11 PM
Speeches, rich laughter. Drinking and undoubtedly expensive hors d'oeuvres. Jaime being a gentleman, making you giggle at the worst times.
You couldn’t go up to your boss. It felt like there was an invisible wall between the two of you. Even when you both were ordering at the bar, albeit multiple people apart, you felt like there was something clearly separating him from you. You’re sure if he did say something, it’d be about how your date was making you order your drinks yourself.
12:45 AM
The older socialites and billionaires and executives and whatever have left, and there’s a nasty reggaeton beat blasting through the definitely expensive sound system. You’re not exactly sure when they switched from a string quartet to a DJ. Whether it’s subconsciously or due to the multiple mixed drinks you’ve downed, (because it’s certainly not free will) your hips start to move. Jaime’s been on the same energy all night, matching you tequila shot by filthy martini, so he’s grabbing your hand to spin you, to see if you remember the dances he used to try and teach you. (In vain.)
You’re giggling, spurred by the tipsy thought of Mr. Drake listening to music like this.
But you’re almost sure he left hours ago, storming out not long after Jaime’d given you a friendly kiss on the cheek at the mention of assistants in someone’s speech. If he’d had a cape, it would’ve been sweeping as he left the room, fabric rippling.
You don’t hate the idea of your boss in a cape. (Odd.)
12:59 AM
It’s not until you leave Jaime to totter through the hallways to the bathroom that you realize Mr. Drake never left at all.
In the dimly-lit marble hallways of the manor, he leans against the wall, one leg crossed over the other as he holds a whiskey glass by the top. The idea of his fire-tasting lips on yours is all too intoxicating, even if he’s looking at you like the devil might an unclaimed soul. His thick silver rings glint on his pale hands, his dark tie tightened all the way to his neck like he wants to cut off a little oxygen.
Mr. Drake clearly takes the chance of your proximity to really look at you, his blue eyes hungry. It sends a shiver down your spine.
“Took you long enough,” he murmurs, yet the words sound like he could’ve whispered them right next to your ear.
“I’m here with someone, sir. I’m not going to just leave.”
“You’ll do what you’re told.”
And unfortunately, like almost always, he’s right.
1:12 AM
His tie’s wrapped tightly around your fist as you lead him into his own penthouse, your heels making an extremely satisfying sound on his expensive hardwood floors. Whether you’re not subconsciously ready to see his bedroom or you’re just too impatient to go any further, you perch on the back of his overstuffed couch, leading your boss to his knees.
“Put your mouth where your money is, Mr. Drake.” You spit, eyes flashing as you watch him lower to the ground. You hope he’s got a security feed running—you’d love a replay.
There’s a slight sneer to his lips, and you know clear as day that it’s still over the matter of who your date was tonight. That you showed up unannounced.
It’s hard to hide your smile, but you manage it as you lift your foot and press the tip of your heel into the dip where collarbone meets shoulder. The pain-pleasure grimace on his face has you thinking there’s an angel choir somewhere you can’t see. This is what life’s all about, isn’t it?
“Aht-aht,” you blurt out as his hand tries to make its way up your leg and to the slick spot between your thighs. “Wait your turn.”
1:38 AM
Your hips rock as you ride your boss, your hand clamped tightly over his mouth. His eyes are dark as he looks up at you, and it only spurs you to go faster. He looks furious.
“You don’t get to act,” you start, exhaling hard through your nose as his hips buck. “Like I’m yours.” A stern look has him pressing them back into the couchseat again, but you’ve stopped. Can’t let him forget who’s in charge, even if his subsequent whine is almost enough to convince you to keep going.
It’s laughable, the way he’s trying to talk through your hand. The muffled sound seems like a protest, and you’re not having any of that. His tongue darts out, wetting your fingers, but you’re unperturbed.
“What was that?” You tease, rolling your hips once more. Taking your sweet time with him. After tonight, you want him panting for it like a dog, begging you at the point of tears, before you give in. “Might wanna speak up.”
A frustrated look comes over his features, and you know that means the teeth are gonna come out next. You giggle as he nips at the smooth flesh of your hand, making you clench down around his cock.
1:39 AM
That clearly does it for him—
Because he’s hooking an arm around your back and rolling you on his massive couch until you’re underneath him. You’re distracted, mouth open in shock as he pushes your thighs to your chest and your ankles find their way over his shoulders.
His thumb finds your clit and not long after you’re writhing underneath him, your fingernails dotting half-moons into his biceps.
“See,” he growls, lips ghosting over your ear. You’re glad you don’t have to look him in the eye right now. “You know I can treat you right.”
You’re silent and it gives him the chance to continue as you attempt to fight through the haze of pleasure clouding your mind. “Take care of you.”
“Take care of me?” There’s a sneer on your lips that you wish he could see as you reply. “I’ve given you the chance to. A thousand of them, Tim.”
The next roll of his hips is particularly vicious, sending the tip of his cock to kiss your cervix like it’s got a mind of its own. The moan that rings out of you in response is equally involuntary, but it doesn’t clear your mind.
“I should move on,” you whine, “if you can’t give me anything worth something.”
“What’s this, then?” He asks, and it’s vulnerable, too vulnerable for you to want to give into.
“This is nothing, Tim.”
And that, somehow, in between all of the emotional layers and painstaking conversation, does it for both of you. Your body tenses as you finish, your eyebrows gathering in the middle of your forehead as your back bows.
The sight of it is enough for Tim, his responding groan coming from somewhere deep as he pulls out to finish on your stomach.
2 AM
Mr. Drake sits before you, reclining in an expensive leather armchair, a glass of whiskey held to his knee by his hands. He’d put his slacks back on, and it’s too much of a mental image to think of him bare beneath. His button down sits open, giving you a prime view of his toned chest and stomach. The bare muscles ripple as he speaks to you with the kind of confidence only a man of his social stature could have.
“I’ll put in a fucking request to HR, if it means you’ll let me take you out on a date.”
All you can do is stare at the man in front of you. Your boss, your lover. The man haunting your workplace and most desperate waking dreams.
“One fucking date, beautiful. Please.”
Again, there’s nothing you feel like you could say that would be right.
“..And if that’s not what you want,” he continues. “If we go on the date, and, and you hate it, I can guarantee you a spot, any spot, in a different department or at any other company in this city or fucking North America.”
“Mm-hmm.” You reply, an eyebrow raising. But your mouth stays shut.
“I promise. But just one date, sweetheart. Please.”
Your phone dings, and you smooth your dress back down, moving to stand.
“My car’s here.”
a/n: whoopsie cliff hanger! (cue the evil laughing)
if you want more guess you’ll have to send me an askbox request regarding these two..
lots of love xoxo
ness
p.s. if you love how ridiculously codependent these two are you’ll love casual.
finally watched twisters so naturally i am thinking of clegan in a twisters-inspired au!
john as the obnoxiously popular storm-chasing youtuber, known in equal measure as a heartthrob and a cocky adrenaline junkie willing to drive into pure chaos for the #Content.
gale as the more reserved and serious phd meteorologist who's doing this for Research and Data, but he's secretly even more reckless than john and deadly competitive when it comes to chasing down the biggest and most magnificent tornados.
