Inspired by: 2002 film 'Secretary'

Au: Either modern AU without superheros/superpowers OR Pre-Mecha Man downfall/Pre SDN

You’d just taken a new job working for this isolated, sardonic man who somehow still needed a secretary. He kept a low profile, spoke only when he had to, and carried himself like someone who preferred being left alone. Still—he needed help, and you fit the bill. Your typing score was immaculate; you’d even won an award for it. You genuinely enjoyed quiet, repetitive tasks. When he asked if you were sure you wanted the job, you nodded before he even finished the question.

Everything about it seemed perfect—routine, calm, predictable. The only thing you didn’t understand was why the secretary before you left the office crying on the same day you arrived for your interview.

You worked politely and quietly, making his coffee, drafting his letters, handling anything that required his signature or attention. He was, in his own way, a decent boss—distant but not cold, occasionally sarcastic but strangely friendly. Until the day he wasn’t.

He had seen you on a date with another man. You didn’t know he’d been anywhere nearby, but apparently it bothered him—more than you could’ve guessed. And he took it out in the way he knew best.

“Typing errors.” Robert dropped a stack of papers on your desk, red sharpie circles everywhere. You stared at him, then at the pages. There were mistakes—enough to make your stomach twist.

“I let it slide those first weeks because you were new. But this can’t keep happening.” His eyes narrowed just a little, sharp enough to make your breath hitch. “Rewrite them,” he muttered before turning away.

So you did. Obediently. Again and again and again.

Until the day he called you into his office while you held yet another freshly typed letter.

“Bend over the desk. Palms flat.” He stood there waiting, expression unreadable. You froze, unsure if he was joking. “While we’re still young,” he added with a look that made arguing pointless.

So you bent forward. He stepped behind you, his presence close enough to feel on your back.

“Read it.”

You started reading, slow and confused. Then— Smack. A sharp sting across your backside. You gasped, stunned by the audacity… and by the feeling itself.

“Keep reading.” His voice was rough, low. You swallowed and kept going. Over and over. And every time you started again, he brought his hand down again. And again. And again.

It was new—strange, intense—but you didn’t exactly mind it.

Weeks went on like that. He treated you better, in his own rough way. You worked inside his office instead of out front. He gave you orders, praised you some days, tore you apart with sarcasm the next. He even told you what to eat, and, for reasons you couldn’t fully explain, that thrilled you. Some days you even let yourself slip an extra typo in, just so he’d reach for that red sharpie again.

But then one day… he stopped.

No more corrections. No red circles. He tossed out all his red sharpies except for one he left buried in his desk. You kept making small “mistakes,” but he didn’t even glance at your work. Didn’t proofread. Didn’t comment. Didn’t look at you when you bent over his desk on purpose.

Did you do something wrong? Was he angry? Or worse—done with you?

He used to hang your corrected letters on the wall. Used to talk to you. Used to command you, push you, see you. Used to treat you like you were his.

And now… what? You were supposed to believe you were just a regular secretary again?

After everything that had happened—everything he’d stirred up—you couldn’t be. Not anymore.