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fuzzyclink · 3 months ago

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Rules and Regulations

A self indulgent one-shot Ceo!Au fic to celebrate the launch of Keir and Cirrus's second chapters tomorrow!

Tags: Cirrus/Reader, degradation, unethical office relationship, abuse of power, power dynamics, spanking, glove kink, pain and bruising, bad BDSM etiquette, gender neutral reader, reader body not described.

Link to AO3 version

You had been so desperate to find a job in your new city that you hadn’t been especially picky. You’d moved here as a last option, relocating because of the world-renowned hospitals in this area. There was an experimental study opening soon that focused on your life-threatening condition, and you knew that it might be your only option. Certainly, the bemused expression of the so-called “experts” in your hometown had discouraged you from staying. Your condition didn't even have a WebMD page. So it hadn’t mattered to you much at the time that all your funds went into renting a moving truck, paying the deposit on an apartment, and boxing up all your belongings. You had arrived, penniless, and sought jobs as quickly as possible - applying to everything and anything that you could convince a recruiter you’d be good at. You just needed some income while you waited to hear back about whether you were eligible for the medical trial.

Applying to Crescent Consulting had been surprisingly easy. You’d uploaded your resume online, answered a few questions that MAYBE were some kind of personality test (the question “What does the full moon mean to you?” had definitely seemed a little strange at the time), and were offered an interview a few days later.

You pressed down your nerves as you approached the company. You were dressed in your least-wrinkled interview clothes, pulled out of a cardboard box the night before. There hadn’t been time to unpack everything. The exterior of the building was grand. Silvery glass extended high above you, the blue sky reflecting mirror-like off of the eighty floors of windows. The interior matched the prestigious exterior. All around you were gleaming stone floors, elevators that smelled like new carpet, well-groomed and refined staff, and chandeliers that likely cost as much as your apartment.

Crescent Consulting was on the third and fourth floors of the building. You speak to a receptionist near the entrance and she ushers you into a small, private office to the left of the door. You smile politely as the hiring manager seated inside looks over your resume, asking about your experience, your career goals, and previous successes and difficulties. Pretty standard stuff. The pay and benefits seem good too. You try to recall the information you’d read about the company, peering down at the job description you’d printed out and brought with you.

“From what you’ve said, I think this company would be a good fit for me,” you say, trying to infuse your words with an air of confidence you didn’t really feel. “. . . but the job listing was a little sparse on details. Would you mind going over exactly what this position would entail?”

The routine atmosphere of the interview dissipates. The interviewer grows far more serious, fixing you with a stern look over the rim of their tortoiseshell glasses.

“This position is essential to the success of our company. Crescent Consulting is directed by Mr. Cirrus. As our CEO, he leads us, guides us, and makes decisions that keep us at the forefront of consulting in this city. He’s an exceptionally talented man.” She regards you with her steely gaze as if you would dare challenge her statement. You nod at her meekly.

She shifts in her seat. “But he’s also exceptionally busy. Too much of his time right now is taken up by scheduling things, answering emails, filing documents…we’ve all tried to help where we can, but eventually, it became clear that it was time we hired someone to do it full-time. So, that’s where you come in. The job position is to work as his assistant. He has exacting tastes, and expects the finest work.”

You can practically see the job opening slipping away right before your eyes. The words spring from your lips.

“I assure you, I am someone who is deliberate, detailed, and focused. Crescent Consulting is my top choice and it would be an honour to assist Mr. Cirrus as he continues to lead such amazing work.”

She nods at that, relenting a little. “We’ll hire you for a probationary period. Let’s see how you do after a week on the job. If your work is satisfactory - and Cirrus takes a liking to you, we’ll offer you a full contract.”

After that, the first week goes by in a blur. You’d seen Cirrus’s emails and calendar plenty of times, but hadn’t even met him face to face. They gave you a cubicle in the corner of one of the floors and you toil away diligently, working your way down a seemingly endless list of tasks. The hiring manager was right - there was plenty to do. You spent your time reading the employee handbook, completing new employee training, learning about the different clients, trying to remember which employee names and titles, and archiving documents that hadn’t been looked at in years. You’ve just started working on a summary of consulting projects completed in 2017 when you feel a presence just over your shoulder.

You jump in your chair as you spin around looking up to see a man looming over you. He’s tall and lanky, even taller from your current position. Long white hair slinks down over his shoulders, stopping near the waist of his suit. His accessories stand out against his dark clothes - a gold metal snake that encircles his finger, two chain bracelets that glimmer from beneath the cuffs of his sleeves, and thin hanging earrings. A tailored waistcoat highlights the way his broad torso narrows at the waist. The man’s arm rests casually against the wall of your cubicle, a thin pen between his fingers. He's undoubtedly handsome, imposingly so. You finish taking him in and meet his gaze, an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Hurriedly, you introduce yourself. “I'm very sorry, I didn't notice you there! I’m a new hire, I’ve only been working here for week, I don't believe we've met?”

Surely, you'd be able to remember someone who looks like THAT.

“I thought it was about time I came to meet you,” he says politely, watching you through nearly translucent lashes. “You've already begun to prove yourself useful to me.”

“Oh, are you… Cirrus? I'm really thankful for this opportunity, sir, the company seems great and everyone has gone out of their way to be helpful…” flustered, you’re immediately thrown off your game. So this is the man you work for. You had to admit, you'd assumed that Cirrus was some older, stodgy executive- someone thoroughly unattractive. It was shocking to be confronted unexpectedly with someone so… well, different!

“I'm glad to hear it. It's important that Crescent Consulting cultivates a welcoming environment towards newcomers.” He spins the pen between his fingers a little, playing with the clip on it. “How are you finding the work so far?”

“It's been easy enough,. It seems like it's just a matter of checking over everything carefully and making sure that -”

His pen falls from his hand with a clink, sharp and startling against the waxed tile floor.

You bend in your chair, leaning to pick it up without a delay. You hand it to him, reaching up. It's hard to miss the way that his eyes flick from the pen in your hand to your face, but he takes it without comment.

“Please, reach out if you have any questions. And ask the hiring manager you met with earlier for the full employment contract. You're a good fit. I look forward to our work together.”

And just like that, you're officially hired. ------

The next Monday, you're at your desk for only a few moments before his shadow darkens your screen. Cirrus, the same outfit as you saw before - dark and stately in the fluorescent-lit office. His placid smile is at odds with the weight of his presence, a heavy, frozen thing that spills out through the weight of his shoulders and the cant of his head. It urges you to bow to him. Or grovel, your mind unhelpfully supplies. You end up half jumping out of your chair before settling back into it and dipping your head in acknowledgement. Embarrassing.

"I emailed you a list of tasks on Sunday for you to begin this week. We're entering into our busiest quarter of the year, so I'll be depending on your work. As always, please reach out to me if you have any questions."

"I've already skimmed through it to familiarise myself with the tasks before I arrived today." You smile up at him a little. There's no need for him to worry about your accountability. You want to do well. Especially for him.

…But only because he’s your boss, of course.

He responds with a gentle nod towards you. "Good. Eager to get started, hmm?"

“I'll send you an update on what I've accomplished by the end of the day. Let me know if there's anything else I can do to meet your needs, sir."

His hand falls onto your shoulder for only a moment, fixing you into your chair. His golden eyes dart towards yours, serious. “Let’s start with the list for now. Don’t want to exhaust you before the end of the second week.”

With that, he leaves, returning to his office. The firm press of his hand lingers on your shoulder. You raise your own hand to it, fingers ghosting over the sensation. Would meeting his needs really be exhausting? You’re determined to dispel any doubt he may hold about your capabilities.

As you adapt to your job, your list of duties starts to expand. The hiring manager wasn't kidding. Cirrus seems to be particular about everything. He cares about the scent of the soap in his bathroom (lavender), the way he takes his tea (no sugar, one and a half creamers), and the height of the window blinds in his office before he comes in each morning (lowered to the height of your knees, raised to shoulder level after lunch). Rather than resenting the numerous rules, you find joy in the structure they give your day.

And he certainly is gracious. He’s kind to you, thanking you for the tasks you complete. Polite, yet reserved. Always controlled and professional. His occasional praise makes you glow a little. It's proof that he notices and cares about the effort you put into your work. It's a little addictive. It drives you to be increasingly exacting, hoping to impress him. You find yourself wondering whether there’s something hidden behind that polished facade of his. He reminds you of a Greek statue. Beautiful, unyielding, and with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

You find yourself staying late at the office recently, struggling to get everything done during the day. Eight hours doesn’t seem like a lot of time when it’s stretched over so many tasks. But Cirrus stays late too. Your coworkers file out of the office one by one until it’s just you and him in the building. The light shining through the frosted glass of his office door there to keep you company. You remember the first time you stayed late. You had sat in your mesh desk chair, bones stiff and weary from their long hours of inactivity. The sound of his office door opening had been a welcomed interruption. Cirrus wore his coat, warm wool fitted closely to his body, and was in the process of pulling on leather gloves. He hesitated on his path out the door, clearly surprised to see you.

“I hadn’t realised you were still here,” he had said, coming around to your desk.

“Oh, I’ll be heading home soon, sir. Just finished summarising the documents I received this afternoon so you can look them over tomorrow before your morning meetings.”

“Such a devoted employee.”

His smooth, rich voice sent shivers down your spine. You laughed it off.

“It’s no trouble to me, sir, I like to be kept busy.”

“You’re not keeping anyone waiting at home…?” Sharp eyes had betrayed his interest in your response.

“I’ve just moved to the city, so no - living on my own for now. I can stay as late as I need to. Haven’t really had the time to try and meet anyone.”

“That’s a shame. We’ll just need to make the work here worth your while then, hmm?”

You nodded at him, and he had left, sliding the gloves the rest of the way on his hands.

His questions made you wonder if he cared about your dating life. That was the first personal question he’d asked of you. You’d certainly wondered about his - but no wedding band was seen on his hand, and no family pictures in his office. You kept your ears and eyes open for information after that night. You would ask a coworker but given the speed of the office rumour mill, you were sure he’d learn about your prying questions. After days pass without clues, you doubt it. After all, he spends the most time with you out of anyone. With the long hours he keeps, he’d struggle to find the time to meet a partner, just as you have. You can practically imagine his response. I’m married to my work, he’d say. That is, if he wasn’t offended by your impudence.

As the month goes on, you shadow Cirrus more and more during his daily tasks. He started by requesting that you take the minutes for his meetings with clients. It's simple enough and you enjoy getting a better idea of the actual objectives of the company. Plus, during quiet moments, when he or the client refer to documents about their work together, you get the chance to really look at him. The slender line of his neck. The way his muscled back can be seen beneath the expensive fabric of his shirt, shifting as he leans over the table to read. The soft pink of his lips, through which you can see pointed canines flash as he speaks. You see why everyone at Crescent Consulting has such a reverence for him. It’s electrifying to be swept up in the energy and admiration that surrounds him. He's impeccably focused on his tasks and clients are thrilled with the work he does for them. Good thing that you’re kept busy. Spending so much time near him is becoming increasingly distracting.

You're just coming out of one of these meetings, a little breathless. The client had spoken exceptionally quickly, stuttering and prone to long tangents that left your head spinning. You’d done your best to take notes, but you’d definitely have to edit them later on in the afternoon. At times you'd just slumped over the table, desperately listening and typing as best you could as the conversation ricocheted between the two of them.

“My office, please,” Cirrus requests, as controlled and peaceful as ever. Immediately, your pulse jumps, anxiety spreading through your body. Cirrus hardly ever asks to speak with you privately - he’d email you, or casually drop by your desk to discuss business. Even confidential matters about his work were discussed between the two of you during your meeting together every morning, not off the cuff.

You step inside after him, pulling the door shut. His office is a place you’ve grown familiar with, though never comfortable in. It was always too quiet. The decor is utilitarian and minimal. One side is entirely windows, partially covered with blinds. A coat rack near his door has a few discarded wire hangers from dry cleaning. There are etched glass awards on his mostly barren bookshelves. A whiteboard is fixed to the wall with a scribbled timeline on it. Cirrus’s desk in the middle of the room, empty except for a few folders and a chair across from it. You choose to hover awkwardly in the doorway. It feels safer, like you could escape if you needed to.

He takes a seat behind his desk, the expansive piece of dark wood now separating the two of you.

Cirrus regards you coolly as you start to pick at your fingers.

“I've been quite happy with your work up to this point, don't be mistaken. However, as my assistant, your conduct and decorum reflect directly upon me.” He steeples his fingers in front of him. “Clients notice if you have poor posture. Clients notice if you wander ahead of me in the hallway or speak out of turn. Clients notice-” his gaze falls to your fingers, picking nervously at the edge of a nail, “-when you fidget”. Your hands still immediately.

You knew that he was aware of you. But you hadn't realised that he paid such close attention to the behaviours you displayed. Had you really acted so unreasonably? Had maybe a client confided in him, or expressed their displeasure with you? Your heart beats wildly in your chest.

“I'm sorry sir, I haven't been on my best behaviour as of late. I'll work on improving my posture and habits in the office. I hope it hasn't negatively impacted your work…”

A smile streaks across his face. Sharp, furtive, misplaced, and gone as you peer at him nervously.

“Please see to it that you do,” he replies. There's a lightness to him, an excitement that pulls at the edges of his expression. Something dangerous. “That’ll be all.”

Your hands, sweaty with nerves, pull open his door and you exit quickly. It's the first time you've really been reprimanded by him. How could you have let yourself grow complacent? Still, it seemed unfair. You drop down at your desk and pout a little, staring unseeingly at the backdrop of dolphins on your computer monitor. You already do so much for him and follow all his silly little rules, and now he’s getting on your case about fidgeting? What is this, finishing school? Your thoughts swirl as the day goes by. It was embarrassing to be called out on your behaviour. But moreover, it was embarrassing that you had become increasingly reliant on him and his praise. You hadn't fully realised it up until he withdrew it this afternoon. You'd become dependent on him too quickly. He’s just your boss. Nothing more beyond that. And why did his expressions in that conversation seem so… odd? It was unsettling.

After that conversation between the two of you, Cirrus’s expectations skyrocket. Every day there are new rules. New subcategories that emails need to be sorted into, preferences on the alert sound for his calendar notifications, the type of lightbulb for his desk lamp, the way you structure your notes for him. It feels endless. And at times, when he gives you feedback - always in that same controlled and polite tone - you catch a glimpse of that same fleeting expression you had seen earlier. You're diligent, dutifully noting down each preference as they come. You walk two paces behind him in the halls. You mind your tone, your facial expressions. You sit at meetings rigidly, still and quiet unless addressed. Your frustrations at his restrictions, once something small and easily cast aside, grows by the day. The amount of care that you direct towards your work is immense. Cirrus is polite to you. Often kind. But the structure from the rules that once felt supportive now feels like a tangled net, restricting your every move. You feel taken for granted. The majority of his requirements are silly preferences that you're sure have no influence on his (or the company’s) success.

When he interacts with others in the office, however, things seem easy between them. They fawn adoringly at whatever he says, and he replies to them - always calm and kind. You find yourself a little disgusted with their eagerness. And it's quite simple for them, isn't it? They do their basic job responsibilities and he praises them, values them. That same response from him requires such an extreme amount of effort from you. You scoff to yourself. They might not admire him as much if they ALSO had just gotten an email that read: “In the future, please only order Oleander Co.’s organic fair trade oat milk creamer in low fat. I prefer it over the brand you currently purchase.”

You are capable of the work he asks you to do. But your sense of justice rankles at it. It's not fair that he asks such an astronomically higher level of work from you. At times you wonder if he delights in messing with you. It seems inevitable that one day you’ll forget one of his many rules. You're not sure exactly what makes you decide to do it. The last sliver of your pride, perhaps.

You order a different type of soap for his bathroom. Your courage wavers a little when you go to order, so you decide on lilac as a replacement. Suitably similar to lavender if you need to defend yourself. It's silly how nerve-wracking it is. You've never directly gone against anything he’s asked you to do. And it’s just soap, after all. You doubt he’ll even notice.

—---

You place the soap in his bathroom that next Monday after it's been delivered. You look at it, where you’ve set the bottle neatly by the sink, evenly spaced from the wall. You spin the label to face away from you before you leave. Cirrus and you have your morning meeting, as usual. He’s just the same as ever and you find yourself both relieved and disappointed. You’d expected some kind of reaction from him… some reprimand maybe, or a reminder. Something to show you again that he sees you and your work. Something to break the pattern that you’re in with him. But the meeting ends quickly and everything remains as it did before.

You’re seated at your desk, about to head to lunch, when Cirrus stops by.

“A word, please. Now. Follow me.”

He’s very still. Nothing about his face was kind or gentle.. A coworker at the neighbouring desk glances up at you, startled, before they catch themselves and pretend to be engrossed in their salad.

You stand abruptly, silently, fingers fumbling with the notepad on your desk for a moment before you decide to leave it.

You follow him to his office. Two steps behind him, of course, posture, impeccable. Your hands, forbidden from fidgeting, are held stiffly at your sides.

He shuts the door firmly behind you. The click of the lock is grimly final. The bottle of soap is on his desk. You exhale, shakily.

Cirrus leans back against his desk, the bottle next to him. His arms are crossed. You’re not truly afraid until you see his expression. His eyes hold a wildness to them, intense and sharp. The mouth, normally in a polite smile, is stretched wider, sardonic. Your unease grows when you see there's even a light flush across his cheeks. His finger taps rhythmically where it rests along the edge of the desk. His entire appearance has an electricity to it that arcs off of him in waves.

“Explain this to me.”

Your fear is tempered by the frustration at your mistreatment. “My apologies, sir, I seem to have made a mistake. There’s a lot of work I’m doing currently, I must have simply selected the wrong one.” Your voice is deliberately polite but you’re unable to hide your irritation.

His wicked smile grows. “You’ve never ordered the wrong one before.”

“Yes, well, I know others make mistakes here, too. I don’t see any of them called into your office over something like this, I mean, it’s, it’s - I do my best, sir, I apologise if it’s just not enough for you.” Your cheeks are hot from the defiance burning within you.

The tapping of his finger ceases.

“I'm quite certain it wasn't a mistake. No. Not from you, my star employee. Always obedient. Always careful. Attuned to my preferences, my rules for you. When I restricted your decorum in meetings, I wondered if I had gone too far. If maybe - you’d recoil. Hmm.. instead, you grew more pliable, eager to please. Desperate for my praise. Willing to be moulded by me. You question me, why I ask more of you than the other staff here. Well, my star. It’s because you enjoy it. And,” he draws closer to you, less than an arm’s length away, “because I can.”

All the blood in your body seems to leave you and you sag, leaning against the wall. Suddenly, everything becomes clear to you. The constant increasing requests. The minute details he requires you to remember. His attention to your posture, your every mannerism. Each of them feed into his power over you. And the part that makes your heart pound and ears ring is that he's completely correct. You crave it.

He takes in your shocked expression with something akin to glee.

"So eager for me. And now, acting out. Silly little ploy to try and catch my interest. You've already had it. Had it from the moment I met you, when you leaned down and handed me that pen. I wanted to see if you would. If you'd bend for me, right from the start. Don't I give you enough of my attention? Or would you like something more concrete - a reminder you're mine?"

It feels almost impossible to speak but you try, urging your breath back into your struggling lungs.

"Please, sir, I - I…" A reminder that you're his. You are his. The way you speak, the way you walk, every hour of every day, all in service to him. Intoxicating to learn that he's orchestrated it this way. Cirrus has seen you to your very core and it is paralysing.

He raises his hand to your throat, fingers soft, and pins you against the wall. "Don't worry, my star. I'll give you what you desire. Even if words have failed you."

His touch is nothing more than gentle pressure at the base of your neck, but the sensation makes you release a choked gasp.

"Something to remind you, hmm? I'll give you a gift then. Pretty bruises that you can take home. "

Cirrus's hand is tighter around your neck now. Your pulse hammers against his grip. All you can do is nod, the edge of his thumb sharp against your jaw. He releases you, taking a step backwards. His cunning eyes scan the room.

"Place your hands here."

He gestures to the whiteboard and you stumble after him, legs trembling. You place your hands flat on the surface, just below shoulder height, glancing at him questioningly. He traces around your fingers with a marker, outlining each hand in red. It reminded you a little of grade school art projects, and the absurdity of the situation makes your face flush. What if this was all some kind of cruel joke, just to see how much you'd agree to?

His voice breathes low in your ear. "It's in your best interest if you don't smudge any of those lines. Do so and you'll leave with more than just bruises."

Immediately, the levity drains out of you. "I'll try my best, sir."

His hand smooths down the plane of your back. "You always do."

Behind you, you hear him walk over to the coat rack by the door. You twist, your hands fixed in place, and watch as he pulls on his fine black gloves. The leather shines softly in the light of his office.

"Please attempt to be quiet. You know how much the office ladies love to gossip."

You grit your teeth and turn, facing the board once again. Watching him was too much. You close your eyes and exhale a long, shuddering breath.

He brings his hand down swiftly, your clothes and the gloves muffling the sound where he strikes your behind. It's ferociously hard. The force of the impact rocks you forward on your toes and your eyes fly open, checking the lines around your fingers anxiously. A dull ache answers the sting that spreads through you. Your desire spreads too, burning. You'd known he was strong, assumed it from the way he fills out his impeccably tailored dress shirts, but the power behind the slap surprises you. Your breath hisses through your teeth.

A second strike comes, placed right where your butt meets your thigh. It's harder than the last. It forces a gasping yelp out of you, barely stifled through your gritted teeth. Your hands curl just the slightest bit on the board. Your breath comes faster now, panicked. Legs twist where they stand, shying away from him, unable to fully move with your hands pinned.

"Excellent. You're doing well."

He has said that to you so many times before. When you’ve finished your work early, when you've taken minutes for meetings, when you've reminded him of some small important detail. You'll never hear it the same again.

Cirrus waits to deliver the third strike and you try to anticipate it, flinching at every small sound he makes from behind you. He laughs at that, watching you closely.

"Patience."

When he hits you, it spreads across your skin, burning where it lands. You bow forwards, leaning away desperately. The sensation after the strike is just as bad - a second wave of pain that makes sweat prickle at your forehead and brings tears springing to your eyes.

"In my haste, I forgot myself," he muses, stilling behind you. "How can I see when I've fulfilled my promise?"

He slides your clothes off your waist, the air of his office cool on your skin. They bunch tightly around your thighs. You hunch forwards between your arms, humiliated. You're sure that your behind is just as flushed as your face. One gloved hand traces over the reddened skin, the leather like a soothing balm.

The next strike is more targeted, hitting right where your skin is the reddest. The sweat on your hands causes them to slip just the slightest bit on the board and you rock back towards him, trying to lift the weight off your unreliable arms. The outlines remain complete for now. You throb, each heartbeat bringing with it another crashing wave of pain.

"Fuck."

"You know better than to curse around me. Haven't I made my expectations for your etiquette clear?"

He smooths one hand over you, just below the small of your back. Your skin sings at his touch. You feel the weight of him follow, the hard plane of his body pressed up against you. His hands grip your hips. One slides up the front of your chest, pausing for a moment at your throat. It continues, gloved fingers finding their way into your mouth. The bitter taste of leather follows. His other hand grips your hip tightly. He presses down on your tongue, making you gag. Your saliva slicks the material. Cirrus's breath is hot against your ear.

"I'll help you behave yourself."

He withdraws his fingers from your mouth, smearing the wetness across your face. When he moves to the side, you catch the first glimpse of him since you placed your hands on the board. His flushed cheeks are the only sign of his exertion. Not a hair is out of place. You watch through teary eyes as he bites the tip of his gloved hand, pulling the leather from his skin. The glint of his sharp teeth shine from between pink lips. Glove off, he presses his fingers cruelly into your cheeks, prying your lips open once again. His removed glove is pressed between your teeth, silencing you. The material is thick, forces your jaw to spread.

He hits you again before you're really ready, ungloved hand anchored on your hip. The force of the blow shoves you forwards while Cirrus's nails dig into your hip bone, leaving deep grooves. A muffled sob breaks free. Your hand slides down the board, erasing the lines surrounding it. You stumble forward, gasping. His hand creeps under your bent waist, supporting your weight.

Cirrus lays into you without any reservations. He spanks you, hand crashing down again and again. You thrash, hands clutching desperately at his supporting arm where it lays steel-like against your stomach. Twisting, flailing, as he brings you back in line. Drool spills down out of your mouth from around the fingers of the glove. He kicks your legs apart when they clench together before beginning again. The blow blend together. You are ablaze. Writhing in his arms. Needy with desire and aching all over. Your eyes are a mess of tears and you gasp desperately around the glove, nose running. Both of you breathing hard, he takes a moment to examine you before pulling the glove out of your mouth.

"I think you'll be pleased, my star. Once you've come back to yourself. Proof of my ownership pressed into your skin. You won't be able to sit without remembering whom you belong to."

Every part of you throbs. Pain, pleasure, and obedience all searing through your veins in equal measure. You're limp, resting nearly your full weight against him.. You cry softly, stuffy and worn out.

"Come here," he tells you, as he hefts you towards the chair behind his desk. As if you'd have the strength to deny him. He sits and reclines the chair fully, laying back. He holds you against his chest. A moment for you to calm down. You press your damp face into the safety of his shirt while his arms rest softly around your shoulders.

"You shine in your obedience to me."

His voice is quiet against your hair. You lay there, boneless, listening to the gentle thump of his heart. Feeling the solid ridge of the button of his vest imprint itself on your cheek. Gradually, you come back to yourself. Breathing in his scent as he continues to hold you. You test your limbs, achingly shifting them. Wipe your eyes softly against the back of your hand. A sharp cry springs from your mouth as your raw skin scrapes against the material of his pants. If the way you feel is any indication, you’re probably covered in speckled bruises, soon to shift into blooms of blue and purple. You flinch as you feel a scarlet bead of blood inch down your inner thigh. He shushes you, hand coming up to card through your hair.

“Does this mean things have changed between us?” Your plaintive question hangs in the air.

Cirrus’s hand stills. “It doesn’t have to. Continue to serve me. I won't mark you where others will see.”

You nod at that, accepting it without complaint. He was to remain your boss. At least for now, you find yourself thinking. You long for something more. And you suspect he might feel the same, though he’s reluctant to admit it. His rules, so many designed to constrain and rankle. The attention he pays to you. His satisfaction from putting you in your place. Those fleeting moments of tenderness. Nothing about it was casual. Perhaps, with time - and enough tactical disobedience - his commitment to professionalism will crumble. It’s a challenge. Rules and regulations then. A path to something more.

#obscura fic #cirrus x mc #cirrus obscura #obscura vn #cirrus #Ceo!au #cirrus x reader #cirrus x vesper #obscura visual novel #obscura #obscura cirrus #let me know ur thoughts! and i hope you all enjoy chapter 2<3 #giving jumin han energy #jaehee I'm sorry

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