won’t be your crybaby
wayne ceo!tim drake x secretary!reader
[ pt. 1 here ]
18 and up we’re playing with morals and ethics like barbie dolls
lines blur, HR guidelines are disregarded, and meetings are tuned out of as you realize your boss might feel for you the way you do for him. your love affair is all-consuming, mixing obsession and lust into a heady cocktail as mr. drake grows vulnerable and does the unimaginable: shows his hand.
5:00 AM
Monday mornings are the worst day of the week—
For everyone but you.
You live by the philosophy that the beginning of the (work) week is a fresh start. That whatever happened last week can be forgotten to make way for new schedules and situations. It makes it a lot easier to face your boss, pretending like you weren’t writhing on his cock all last week. Like if you cover up the hickeys spattered across your breasts, they’re just pretend. A figment of your imagination.
The dress pants you pull on are tight in all the right places, tailored perfectly to fit you. The blouse you tuck into it is flowy, romantic. The type that makes you look like a romance heroine. In your dreams.
Romance heroines don’t have to print copies for their dark-haired bosses.
8 AM
Like clockwork you’re ready, slapping down the company report for last week on your boss’s desk. The sound of it against the dark wood of his workspace is all too familiar, and you’re reminded of last week, the harsh smack of his hand over your asscheek. He’d found you to be far too apologetic to the men in the office that day, and was drilling into you the ideals he runs his company by. The memory’s played in your mind on a loop since it happened.
It takes everything in you not to clench your thighs together. Your stupid boss: he’s all you can think of, and he makes sure of it.
Going out this past weekend was a complete bust, men buying you drinks left and right—but none of them handsome enough to tempt you. Every other man looked ridiculous compared to your boss, the memory of him standing over you with his hair in his eyes pulsing from your mind into the sweet spot between your legs. The look he gets, when you start thrusting back into him.. it’s like you’ve given him the map to El Dorado.
9:04 AM
“Hey, girl!”
“Hey,” you reply, exhaustion seeping from your tone. “How was your weekend?”
“Good, I just stayed home with some wine and my cats,” your coworker says, smiling. “Your weekend looked crazy, though! The pics online were so hot.”
Mr. Drake passes by as the words leave her mouth, and a mental image of you reaching over and covering her mouth with your hand rushes into mind. He can’t have heard that, right?
You huff out a sheepish laugh. “Thank you.”
9:30 AM
An extremely distinct sound hits your ears as you push open the door to your boss’s office: Your own moans. Heat washes over you, your neck growing warm as it spreads up to your ears, your cheekbones.
“S-sir?”
“C’mon in, honey.”
You shut the door behind you, something in your subconscious leading you to lock it before you walk towards his desk. Instead of standing before it, like usual, you’re drawn to circle around the desk, to stand next to your boss to see exactly what it is he’s looking at.
The large screen of his computer monitor holds what’s clearly security footage of his office, dated from last week. You’re bent over his knee, panties at your ankles as his hand cracks across your ass. The camera quality isn’t great, definitely not 4k or anything, yet you can still make out the glistening of your pussy as he punishes you, over and over.
“You’re nasty.” you sneer, a secret delight igniting behind your ribs. He wants you. All the time, without shame, clearly and openly. Fully and totally.
“You like it,” your boss replies, his voice strangled enough that it causes you to look down at where he’s reclined in his desk chair. His fist is tight over the bulge in his suit pants, knuckles white like he’s trying to stop himself, even if he clearly needs relief. Desperately.
“How come only you get to watch this stuff back?” You ask, the words leaving your mouth before you realize the implication you’ve put behind them.
A dark eyebrow raises, and it’s all you can do not to squeak as his hand finds your inner thigh, tracing circles on your tweed pant leg.
“Am I supposed to email the files to you?” He replies, sounding amused.
You roll your eyes, and his hand reaches higher, his index finger pressing the seam of your pants to your slickened folds.
“What’s your username.” Your boss says. (It’s clearly not a question.)
“M-my what?” You stammer out, thoughts causing a traffic jam in your head.
“On the sites. All of them.”
You remain silent, his meaning truly lost on you.
“I think it’s ridiculous that we haven’t disclosed them with each other yet.”
“We don’t even text, sir. Why the sudden interest?” You retort, face scrunched as your hand finds your hip. His tone of voice is making you raise your haunches. He could pay someone to find it, for christ’s sake! Didn’t he make his start with the company in the tech department himself? Can’t code a program to decipher what your username could possibly be?
Yet you’ve gone too far. There’s a glint in Mr. Drake’s eyes, an eerie tone to his regular cheshire-cat smile. You’ve crossed the line.
“I was gonna be nice,” your boss says, his voice dangerously even. “But I think you need to get on your knees, instead.”
The fact that your mouth immediately begins to water at the thought is a little humiliating.
10 AM
Meeting. (Good thing the economy’s so distracting, lest you have to think about the implications of your boss having you grind your pussy on his dress shoe while you gagged on his length.) (Or the way he carefully cleaned up your smeared makeup, wiped the tears running down your cheeks.)
10:31 AM
Meeting. (Blueprints are droll compared to the thought of Tim Drake scrolling through your pictures from this weekend, glittery and scandalous, in one hand while he uses the other to—)
“Did you get that?” he asks you, his pale, strong hand pointing at the pad of paper in front of you on the table.
“Mm-hmm,” you reply, clicking your pen as you try your best to avoid his gaze. Like he’d be able to read your mind if you made eye contact. The outline of the veins on the top of his hand is imprinted on the back of your eyelids.
10:45 AM
Meeting.
10:46 AM
Sprinting to the copy room in your heels because someone (you) forgot to print the meeting agenda. Running on your sore knees feels like torture—they just about buckle by the time you stop, leaning on the copy machine like it’s a fainting couch.
10:50 AM
Trying not to pant as you smooth down your hair before quietly slipping back into the board room.
10:52-11:15 AM
Mr. Drake eyeing you instead of looking at the speaker.
11:30 AM
The final meeting of the day is the business classic: a three-martini lunch. Your boss wants you there, not only as an analytically-minded individual, but as a pretty face. You’re sure.
Sometimes it feels like you’re his security blanket.
But martinis make you lose your appetite. It’s not hard to push food around your plate and make small talk, however, so you always indulge him.
1 PM
Third martini—yet you seem as though you’ve forgotten the lunch part.
Underneath the tablecloth, Mr. Drake’s squeezing a sensitive spot: where your knee meets your thigh. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks as you feel the alcohol buzzing through your system, missing the scolding he’s giving you with his eyes.
Luckily it’s a party of almost ten, allowing you to sink into the background without a whisper as your company’s CEO segues into talking about the deal they’re trying to agree on. It’s taking everything in you, trying not to think about the way he’d been gripping himself thinking about you. Mr. Drake makes a well-timed joke, and you join in on the laughter, auto-pilot engaged.
2 PM
“I will not touch you,” your boss growls through gritted teeth, like it’s taking him great strength. “While you are this drunk.”
He practically had to pour you into the company car, fighting off your hands from his belt the entire ride back to headquarters. He’d find it cute if he wasn’t so worried about you. You’re a professional, capital P. You’ve never been this inebriated around him, ever.
Yet you won’t stop pressing up against him, teasing him like a tipsy girlfriend. It’s worrisome how endearing Tim’s finding it.
“Sir.”
“Yes?”
“I’m not even, like, drunk.”
He sighs, pinching his nose as he peeks at you through the hair hanging over his forehead. He really needs to start bringing a comb and gel to the office to keep in the en suite. What if people think he’s unkempt?
2:03 PM
You’re set on the couch facing away from the window, your heels haphazardly placed as Mr. Drake stands, moving to lock the door.
He’s still exasperated when he returns from his short walk across the long room, dragging himself away from where you lay on the dark red leather and choosing his desk chair instead.
Tim drags his hands over his face and gets to work, the soft clicking his mouse and keyboard lulling you to sleep.
3:30 PM
There’s a glass of water next to you, a takeout container from your favorite restaurant next to it.
He didn’t, you always want to think—but every time, he has. It’s something you’re still trying to get used to.
You can’t see your boss from the couch, the huge monitor he’s pulled to the center of his desktop blocking your line of sight. A quick check to your watch reveals the time, and you’re awash with relief. You’re so glad you didn’t sleep any longer, (even if you definitely need it) you wouldn’t want to take advantage of his kindness.
3:32 PM
“You’re awake.”
“I think so.” You reply, head pounding.
“Drank your water?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hungry?”
The thought makes your stomach roil. “..No.”
“C’mere then, beautiful.”
3:50 PM
Straddling your boss’s lap without him inside of you is not a position you ever saw yourself in. Your head’s on his shoulder, his free hand brushing through your hair, rubbing your back as he reads emails. You could fall asleep again like this, and it almost feels like he expects you to.
There’s a couple of clicks on the mouse, and then he leans back, peering down at you through his wire-rimmed reading glasses that dog your fantasies when you touch yourself.
“What’s going on today?”
His tone is clearly probing but also empathetic, too caring, and you can’t handle it.
“Nothing’s going on, Mr. Drake.”
Acting like he knows you.
“You, of all people, are allowed to call me Tim.”
That’s the nail in the coffin, for you. It’s all starting to feel a little too real. Losing the dream quality that clouded your better judgement. So you stand up. Clamor off of his lap, out of the little perfect bubble he’s made for you, and walk out of his office.
A look backwards would reveal the slightly hurt, shocked look on his face, the sadness set deep in his features. But you don’t look back. You can’t.
You’re losing yourself, acting inappropriately, behaving in ways you never in your life imagined you would at your place of work.
You have enough time saved to take a sick day, and you let the senior manager know with an email you send from your computer without even sitting down.
It’s probably time to start looking for a new place to work.
WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN???
send me a headcanon about these two, my inbox is OPEN!!
(( credit to mimi again for this. everyone thank her, seeiously. there would be no ceo!tim fics without her 🤎🤎 ))