#The assistant

[woobiewoo]

Draw Frankie protecting his assistant from Monster Frankie lol

HERE U GOO🫵🫵🤩

😋

[maria-crossover]

The assistant and Frankie again- but doodles made on paper that I have had for a while ^_^🙏✨

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Assistant * Epilogue

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, cheating, creep behaviour, violence, anger, necophilia. These warnings are not exhaustive and some triggers may not be specified for plot reasons.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As an assistant at the Daily Planet, you’re rarely noticed. Until you are.

Characters: Clark Kent

Note: We came back.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Lord Farquaad loves unnecessary vowels. Take care. 💖

🖊🖊🖊

The red blaze sears into the large stone at the edge of the cliff. Clark huffs and reins in his fury, balling it up in his chest as he heaves. He blinks and looks up the burnt husk in his hand. Her body dangles from his grip, lifeless as what's left of her skull is a pile of ash on the ground. 

He drops her and recoils, grasping his skull as he snarls. Why did he do that? No! Why did she run? All these months, up here, living together, building their dream, and it ends in dust. 

He staggers and leans against a tree.  

He’s back in the office, hovering his fingers aimlessly over his keyboard, staring at a flashing cursor. Then he hears her voice. He didn’t know who she was then. Or what she was. His everything. 

He sees a hint of her pink plaid skirt as she passes by his office. She’s getting the tour. He stares for a moment then returns to his blank page. 

He can’t focus as he hears her muffled laugh. He sighs and grabs his cold mug. He takes it out into the hall and into the lounge. As he dumps it, he hears her getting closer. 

“And this is the kitchen, or lunch room, whatever,” Glenn explains. “And our star reporter, Clark Kent.” 

Clark looks over his shoulder as he rinses out his cup. He smiles and hesitates to get the quip out as he gets a look at her. Her eyes round in amazement at him. He can’t remember the last time his own wife looked at him like that. 

“I think you should reserve that for Lois,” he scoffs. Glenn chuckles in that bootlicker way. 

“Don’t let him be humble,” Glenn says then introduces her.  

She gives a small wave and a wiggle, “hi, Mr. Kent.” 

He smiles. He’s in love. 

He sits up suddenly and nearly lets out a wail to the trees. It’s those other voices that keep his muted. He closes his eyes and hangs his head back. Everything gone. Everything he sacrificed for her. 

His job, Lois, and his child. He saw it inside her. Growing. She didn’t know yet. He was going to surprise her. Again. He loves giving her surprises. 

Loved. 

He looks over at her corpse and whimpers. He’s seen the worst of this planet, of these people. Blood, marrow, bone, bruises... he’s faced the worst villain from across the galaxy. This is unlike any carnage he’s ever seen. He is the greatest monster he’s ever known. 

He’s not some farm kid. He’s not some saviour. He’s a twisted fucking alien. 

He exhales and stands. He paces, mindless of his naked form. He can see beyond the cliff, the outline of the swimmers, he can see for miles the wildlife and thick trunks. 

He swallows, his mouth acidic. He keeps his back to her and head back toward the trees. He’ll tear the place down. Burn it. He’ll go somewhere. Somewhere not earth. 

He stops before he reaches the trees. He can’t leave her there. He wretches as he makes himself turn back. He brings his fist to his mouth as he crosses back to her lifeless form. The top of her neck is melted and black. Her flesh stinks from the burns. 

He drops to his knees beside her. He slides his arms under her gently and scoops her up. He hugs her to him and his eyes tingle. He stands with a wobble. It takes several steps to find his balance. 

His heart thumps as he turns and carries her into the trees, the sway of the leaves, the shrill joy of the swimmers, muting into a bitter silence. His footsteps echo through the forest as the chain links tinkle over the ground. Her warmth is draining from her. 

He lays her at the threshold of the house. He should burn it with her inside. Burn the whole damn planet. 

He can’t. 

He starts digging with his bare hands. It doesn’t take long. When he’s done, his nails, his knuckles, his knees are dirty. 

He reaches to her as he stands in the hole. He doesn’t look as he drags her over by her ankle. He takes the chain off her before he puts her at the bottom, between his feet. She’s flat, her arms limp, legs too. He looks at her, unable to make himself leave her. 

His body moves on its own. He’s blinded with tears as his grief overflows. He’ll never feel her again. He wants to feel her. 

He’s between her legs before he can think. He curls an arm under her, crushing her as he guides himself along her cunt. She’s still warm enough. He closes her eyes to block out her stubbed neck. 

He ruts into her as the dirt tamps down beneath the shape of her. His knees sick as he pounds with everything he’s lost, everything he ever wanted to give her. He cums quickly but doesn’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop. 

The night falls and passes over him. He stills but doesn’t leave her. He stays inside her until he feels the stiffness in her. Until the chill has overtaken her completely. 

He grunts as he forces his way out of her. He winces and digs his fingers into the dirt wall to help himself stand. He hops out and goes inside. He finds the plaid skirt. The one he went back for when they got here. 

He brings it to the hole and slips it onto her. She doesn’t look like her. Not just because the missing part. She’s truly gone from him. He feels her death inside him. 

He’s numb as he shovels the dirt with his hands. He covers her, fills up the hole, then sits on it and watches the house beneath the sunlight. He can hear people. All the way down at the lake. They’re happy. Why the fuck are they so happy? 

He’s not. 

Darkness comes again. The house is still standing. He goes inside. 

He doesn’t come out. Not for a while. Not at the days grow cooler. Not as the snows come. Not as the thaw softens the earth around her body. Only when the sunlight wakes him does his hibernation end. 

His hair is messy and long, his beard too. He has no mind for it. He hears the splashing down at the lake. He can see the women diving from the dock. He stands and goes to the door. 

He walks out into the summer haze. The grass has grown over her grave. He stomps past it without a glance and heads for the trees. 

He can’t get her back, but he doesn’t need to be alone. What he is, he doesn’t need love. Love? It’s so human. So pathetic. 

He won’t make the same mistake twice; a cage will do better than the chain. 

End. 

Read the sequel. 

[archie-sunshine]

lambs and wolves.

[tf2occontest]

Elijah King & Egon; The Assistants VS The Reverend

(Full matchup list here)

Alright team, here's a recap: This is a contest to determine who amongst you will take the top of the leaderboards and be hired at TFI! Simply put, whoever gets the most votes gets to move on, and whoever doesn't... Well. They'll be put down swiftly and cleanly. :}

So, mann your stations, because here are your next contestants! Vote for your favorite mercenary who you want to win the TF2 OC Contest! - P

OC INFO UNDER THE CUT!

We highly encourage you to take a peek to make your decision!

Elijah King & Egon; The Assistants

@gordonfreemanreal

Image credit: @/gordonfreemanreal

The Assistants, while an unassuming class, are a valuable part of not only their respective teams, but the administration! You could count Pauling herself as the Admin Assistant, but regardless, my girls are here to lend a helping hand (as their emblems suggest)! In battle, they take on a sort of subclass role with anyone who needs an extra set of hands! For example, when helping the Demos, they take on something akin to the Demoknight subclass, a Trapper to help the Snipers, a Batter to assist the Scouts, etc etc. This even goes for any 10th classes (I’m looking at you, TF3)! When not in battle, however, they usually do a lot of paperwork to help Miss Pauling, or go on any special contracts that’s asked of them (usually transporting cargo).

Now for a bit about the girls themselves. Elijah King (she/he) was raised in a lab by none other than….(drumroll please)....the RED Medic! (We do love a nepo baby.) Soon after the doctor was forced to leave the facility after becoming too close to Eli, she escaped, got a fun little bout of amnesia, and started living her life in New Mexico! She bounced from job to job, getting experience in all kindsa places; mechanic, bartender, and bouncer were just a few jobs she had. But, one day, she was approached by a lovely woman in purple and offered a job. She took it, and the rest is history! Now this bubbly, flirty, fun-loving gal finally has a home…and maybe one day, she’ll realize she found her father as well.

Egon (he/him), in short, is Eli’s clone. He has a fun little secret, though: he remembers Everything. He doesn’t have amnesia! It kinda kills him to see Eli on the other team with their father and not even knowing it! The only thing more frustrating than that is the fact that their father is Intentionally keeping it from her! …It doesn’t help that he completely rejected Egon when he tried to reconnect. That definitely won’t give Egon issues about Technically being Eli and having to cobble a new identity for himself in a very short period of time. It certainly doesn’t make him sad and bitter. Lucky for him, the entirety of the BLU team is sad and bitter in some way, so he fits right in! Now he’s just gotta keep everyone from finding out he’s a clone…Not that eventually getting temporarily kidnapped and re-experimented on helps his odds. Now he’s got even More unnatural eyes, along with other problems. Eh, he’s probably fine.

So, I bet you’re wondering: Why should you vote for these gals? Their backstory seems weird and tragic and probably doesn’t fit at all in line with your interpretation of Medic! Well, my friend, come close and I’ll tell you.

BECAUSE IT’S FUN, DAMNIT!! VOTE FOR THE ASSISTANTS TO HAVE FUN AND WHIMSY IN YOUR LIFE!!! GO GO GO!!!!!!!

The Reverend

@coopster3d

Image credit: @/coopster3d

The Reverend is a religious fanatic hailing from Southern Italy, where he was raised in a commune by a group of reclusive nuns. Where, according to him, he was taught the basic necessary skills for life, which include but are not limited to: Small sword combat, butchering, and Ecclesiastical Latin. It is unknown how exactly he was ordained as his denomination remains unclear. He often fails to mention that throughout his travels, he's made some adjustments to the standard Bible, adding his own footnotes, amendments, and even on occasion, pages which he believes are the true gospel, taken from a multitude of other religions, leading to a mishmash of ideals and beliefs full of unexplained rituals. Within the team The Reverend plays a heavily supportive role, serving initially as on-base staff in the form of a “Therapist” to the Mercs, which unfortunately or not, was not clearly conveyed leading to a sacrificial killing in the Intelligence Room. Now, he is a full time member of the Mercenary team!

CLASS INFORMATION

Primary Stock: Thurible/Censer A golden Thurible, which, when held, creates an aura around The Reverend. Teammates in range, when damaged, contribute to a shield meter. When full, the user can activate a direction shield [stylized as a building mist which hardens into a thin shield the size of three heavys stood shoulder to shoulder] that protects against projectile damage and protects The Reverend from "Hell-fire" [Pyro's flames] while active. In order to use this effectively, The Reverend has to directly put himself in front of the front line, only properly using this shield when putting himself in a direct line of fire beforehand. When not activating his shield, The Reverend uses his thurible similar to that of a flail, creating a mid ranged weapon which is used to protect himself and others in a select radius around him.

Secondary Stock: The “Mercy Kill” Dagger Modeled after a sword used in early battles to put soldiers who were suffering grave injuries out of their misery in a quick and efficient way, The Reverend uses it similar to The Medic's Ubersaw. Instead of contributing to the thurible’s meter, it instead contributes to its own meter, which, when full, can be used to activate The Reverend's "Dying Wish." [Inspired by Priests being seen as undertakers, guiding souls to heaven or otherwise while on their deathbed.] When used, The Reverend can target a specific teammate under half-health and for a short time grants the target guaranteed Crits, but does not heal the target, nor protect them from any damage type other than the one the target themselves is dealing. [I.e. Heavy receives a buff against bullets, Pyro-fire, and Demo- explosives]

Melee Stock Options: Bible/Rosary The Reverend is against the use of guns and prefers to get up close and personal with his damage dealing. [Used as an excuse to personally "send people off" to the next life while praying for their soul.] He either uses his Bible to bludgeon his victims or, on occasion, wraps his Rosary around his knuckles to boost his hand-to-hand damage.

Support Slot Stock: Holy Water Mister Modeled after a garden mister used for plants, the bottle is instead filled with Holy Water blessed by The Reverend himself. Mechanically used to rid teammates of ailments, such as Jarate, Pyro's Fire, and works to undisguise enemy Spies. [This also has an ammo limit similar to Pyro's flamethrower]

EXTRA INFO

The Reverend, or as he is rarely called, Father Angelo, is known to be an enigmatic figure even among bizarre groups like the Mercenaries. He's rarely seen loitering in public spaces around the base, choosing to reside in his homemade "service" room, complete with a makeshift confession booth. When prompted, he'll say he prefers the quiet as it allows him a moment of reflection. He seems well put together and always walks through the halls with an upright rigidness, always seeming to peer down at people when speaking with them. That is of course unless he is genuinely interested, in which case he'll lean forward to inquire further, often expressing himself with his hands which he kept firmly laced together just moments before. The Reverend does not see most of his fellow men as solitary beings, in fact, most if not all of the Mercenaries are seen as a challenge to him. After all, what's more difficult than getting a group of cold-blooded murderers to repent? He's convinced himself he's already chosen for heaven, and that God put him on this earth for a reason, and the tribulations he's faced working with MANN CO. might just be that exact mission.

Of course the Father isn't a stranger to violence, on the field he maintains his saintly demeanor when grouped with his colleagues, which seems to be most often given his support role. Until he's given a chance to take matters into his own hands. The Reverend is incredibly vengeful, with an excellent memory for faces, he takes the time to chase enemies who he understands are close to death, and he finishes them off himself, usually bludgeoning them to death. He doesn't enjoy the act of killing, what he takes the most pleasure in is when his team finds him knelt over the dying victim, his hands gripping theirs as he prays for their safe travel to heaven, asking them to repent in their last moments.

FUN FACTS!

-The Reverend often wakes up at dawn and has a very specific morning ritual that includes tending to his small flock of chickens. -Despite his attempts, he is often shadowed by a murder of crows who he believes bring him bad luck, or more accurately, bring him a bad name. -He speaks Italian most fluently, with Ecclesiastical Latin and English following behind. He learned both during his time studying the Bible and its origins when he was younger. -His class emblem is known as "the all-seeing eye of god." -The specific translation The Reverend uses as the basis for his text is The Douay-Rheims Bible. -The Reverend’s full given name is Angelo Caruso, but he is rarely addressed by it, and instead was only called by his first name for most of his life. -When signing his name, he often uses the “o” of his name as a flourish, which leads to his signature looking closer to “Angel.” -The Reverend can play the tambourine verily well, he enjoys tambourine dancing and encourages people to join in for the purpose of worship.

[gmikaelson]

The Assistant 3 (Preview)

I love these two so much already.

The posted part 3

𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚⋆˙˚◞♡ ✮⋆˙ ₊˚⊹♡ : ̗̀ 𐙚

"What? Klaus, l'm starving. At least let me grab something," she pouts.

Klaus' eyes darkened at her pout, something flashing across his features before he masked it with irritation.

"Fine." He moved with vampire speed, grabbing an apple and tossing it at her with deliberate force. "There's your breakfast. Now-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Nik," Rebekah interrupted, rolling her eyes. "She can barely stand, let alone negotiate with werewolves. Let the poor girl eat."

Klaus turned to his sister with dangerous intent. "Since when do you care about the dietary needs of my assistant?"

"Since watching you pretend not to care is becoming painfully obvious," Rebekah smirked.

Klaus' jaw clenched as he turned back to Y/N. "Five minutes. Then we leave, whether you've finished or not. And do remove that ridiculous beanie - you look like a lost tourist."

[viridescenttemple]

OC DUMP [some humanizations as well

[verypersonalscreencaps]

JULIA GARNER as Jane THE ASSISTANT (2019, dir. Kitty Green)

[cupfullofpapas]

WIP of the next fics illustration happy Copia, is it a dream or reality?

[taintedtowers]

DOATKTOBER DAY 22 - THE SUPERGONERS / THE PARTY GUESTS THE DESOLATE (& THE ASSISTANT)

[16-04-16-daily]

Statement 0240728-C of the Assistant

The following is the written transcript of the recorded Statement 0240728-C of Dr Arian Baumfield, the assistant to the late Dr Apollo Cadence of Mary Bell Medical Facilities. This statement is regarding the domicile of one Dr Andrew Sandgrass, better known as "Unpaid MBRA Intern 2012". I begin.

STATEMENT A

STATEMENT B

[As the tape recorder clicks on, the assistant gives a sigh and walks over to the light switch. It gives a click, and the house is illuminated.]

Hello? Anyone here. [Silence] I find myself inside the house. My apologies to Dr Sandgrass but I find it to be rather pallid and not very lively. Well, I suppose he is unpaid and not one who possesses a lot of wealth. Yet, he does own a house in an acceptable neighbourhood and if he does not have any income at all, it seems surprising that he could own something like this. Perhaps he has an inheritance? His employment papers do not have much detail about his family so I cannot be sure.

I am standing on the foyer and from here, I can see two doors, though I suspect that there may be more if I venture further. His front door opens to his living room-cum-kitchen. His interior design appears to be austere but again, it could be for the lack of material wealth. Everything is in varying shades of gray, white, and brown — there, however, is a pop of color on the paintings he owns. Across his walls are several paintings, aligned neatly, all with various colors. They are all depicting various scenery and landscapes. They are rather pretty and very well-made.

I walk to the living room. A cream-colored six-seater sofa takes most of the space of the living room. Upon closer inspection, I notice that only one seat looks as if it is sat on often. The other seats look untouched. I suspect that he must not have many visitors over. In front of the sofa is a credenza. It is a rather grand arrangement — on top of it is a pristine gramophone, golden and brown. By far, it is the most extravagant article in his house. And it appears to have a record still on it, not yet removed even though the owner of this instrument is dead. [The tape recorder is set down by the gramophone. The room is silent, except for the soft whirring of the tape recorder. The Assistant moved the needle slowly to continue the music playing. The record spun around, the silence of the room being enveloped by the soft violin from Danse Macabre. He let it play on for several seconds before he stopped it with a sigh. He picked up the tape recorder again.

Well, continuing on. By the gramophone, there are several books, neatly arranged, all of them hardcover. Most of them are history books, mostly delving into the subjects of the 1950s and the mid and late 19th century. There are a few books of fiction as well, notable titles being Carmilla, Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, and As I Lie Dying. The credenza does have drawers to it — [Setting the tape recorder down again, he kneels on the bare wooden floors and pulls open a drawer, his hand moving through its contents.]

Just a lot of records, mostly classical music pieces. Nothing of note in the living room, except we have an idea about Dr Sandgrass' interests. I don't suppose that his kitchen could offer anything insightful but it is still necessary to check. The kitchen is not anything special either. Brown wooden wall cabinets, marble countertops, a stove, a microwave, a dishwasher, an oven, and a refrigerator. [The assistant opens and closes cabinets and drawers.] There is not much in his kitchen, only a few appliances and canned food in the cabinets. He keeps his plates and utensils in the dishwasher and they are rather few. Three plates, three bowls, three sets of forks and spoons. Well, that is better than what I possess. Only two sets of everything, one for me and the other for any guests that might come. Though I do not have many visitors.

[The fridge is opened and the sounds of the assistant going through different items can be heard.] There are not many things here. As Dr Sandgrass had died several weeks previous, it is imaginable that the items have started to spoil. You can smell it as soon as you open the fridge. A carton of milk that had long since expired, a container of rotten strawberries, rotten lemons and vegetables. Thankfully, he does not seem to own any meat, that would rather be malodorous. One moment.

[He pulls another cabinet and pulls a black garbage bag. Promptly, he opens it and gives it a flick. Slowly he throws the contents of the fridge inside the bag, closing the refrigerator. He ties the bag up and puts it aside.] Now that that is out of the way, we can move past the living room and kitchen.

I had been inaccurate in my assumption that there were two doors to this house; in actuality, there are three identical doors. I don't know which each leads to. I will have to take my chances. [At random, he swings open a door and pokes a head inside.] The bathroom, it appears. Very ordinary. A shower, a toilet and basin. The wallpaper is pale blue, his toothbrush is a red, and the toothpaste he uses is of a generic brand. Nothing here. [He closes the door]

Now, the door next to it. So far, there is nothing in this house that is of note. I cannot pretend that it does not make me rather frustrated. I expected to learn something about Dr Andrew Sandgrass, something that explains his situation. Instead, I still have so many questions. Goddamnit, I am a scientist. Learning is what I am best at, but my talent is failing me now. Why is he so different? Why is Andrew here while he is not?

[He sighs and puts a hand to his heart.] I fear I cannot be sentimental. I must keep going. [He opens another door and steps in. He clicks on the light switch.] This is quite obviously the bedroom. And it is largely... empty. Yes, it does have a bed, a chest of drawers and a bedside table — but those are the only things in his bedroom. Most bedrooms, they have other articles of note, don't they? A desk perhaps, paintings or additional storage. There is nothing except three pieces of furniture. He owns an oversized twin bed, the comforter is a mellow cream color. The bed is neatly made and very tidy. Right next to the bed is a bedside table, with a lamp and a copy of Frankenstein. He appears to have been reading it as there is a bookmark. [He picks up the book, flipping to the bookmarked page.] With a black pen, he had underlined a single quote. The underlined quote reads — "The world was to me a secret which I desired to devine."

[He sets the book down, walking towards the chest of drawers.] Clothes, most of them I have seen him wear previously. I don't want to look through his clothes too carefully, for obvious reasons. Once again, I find nothing. I am considering returning home and putting the tape away. Perhaps I should stop caring about Andrew — something to put in the back of my head, something to only think about in sparse amounts only when it's convenient. Well, it's almost over. I have only one room to look through, and then I am never returning here again. It's almost half past eleven, I did not notice that the time had passed by so quickly.

[Soft footsteps towards the final door — as he stands before the door, he gave a sigh. There is a silence as he simply just stands there.] Here goes nothing. [He opens the door.]

[The assistant does not speak for several moments as the door slowly swings open. Silence continues.] Uhm, this room surprised me, to say the least. I had thought this room to be a guest bedroom of sorts, perhaps even a room for storage. It is neither. Unlike all the other rooms with their clinical neatness and organization, this room is in disorder. It appears to be a radio studio, of sorts? A lot of appliances and gadgets related to radios and stereos. With the gramophone in the living room and just this room, it is a very fair assumption that audio visuals appear to be one of Dr Sandgrass' leisure activities. There is a desk, several radios on shelves, several other apparatuses I cannot even name and identify. It is all rather a lot. I don't believe Dr Sandgrass has ever made it aware of this hobby. Well, I wouldn't know. We had a strictly professional relationship, only encountering each other a few times, all for the sole purpose of work.

On the desk, there are papers, stationary and a rather antique radio. Now, I know nothing about radios but even I know that the thing is rather beautiful. Very pristine and it's so old, it does not even look like the radios we are used to seeing today. [Gingerly, the assistant picks it up, his hand trailing the service.] It's rather heavy too, and Oh! I can feel something under my fingers, something like an etching or an engraving. [He puts the radio down and it makes a deep noise as it is set down. Turning around, he blows a puff of air against it.] The engraving reads... Sandgrass... 1898. Uh, well. Perhaps it is a family heirloom. Well, moving on. [His hands quickly leave the radio and he moves them to the closest thing. The closest thing appears to be a closed drawer.] Well, let's see what I can find. [He opens the drawer and gingerly rummages through it.]

Three photographs. Of Dr Andrew Sandgrass. [He sets them down on the table, his movements sound quick and hurried.] It is unmistakably him in those photographs, the facial features are the same, the similarities are too uncanny for it to be one of his ancestors. The photographs are sepia in tone, his clothes are old-fashioned, two of the photographs are just him and the other one, he is with an older woman. Behind those photos, there is the year where the photographs were taken. 1883, 1887, 1890.

There is a journal too. [With a motion too quick, he grabs it. He accidentally proceeds to drop it. As it hits the floor, it makes a loud noise.] Uh, sorry. I really am. I will not pry too deeply into it, I just need to know. [He opens the first page, almost in a flurry.] It's his handwriting, I recognize it from the reports. The heading says — it says — January 23, 1890. [For the first time, the assistant appears to have lost his composure. His grip on the recorder is unusually tight, and when he speaks again, his voice is turbulent and almost fearful.] I — I don't know... what this means. I end this statement here.

[operation-f-a-u-s-t]

Put Faust on the back burner for now in favor of a villain character since life is a trashfire atm.

The Assistant.

Every CEO of an evil corporation needs someone to keep his mind straight and decluttered, especially so that he can stay home with his kids.

Enter Briar LeNoire.

LeNoire's position is several roles all rolled into one and they are the true second in command at Father's enterprise, regardless of what the vice president thinks. They hold a special spot that makes some question who they are to Father and why he can trust them with such importance as they just appeared one day years before. Those pale blue eyes of theirs hidden behind dark sunglasses may be the key to an unsettling truth.

Calm, collected, and downright ruthless when needed, LeNoire keeps Father's affairs in order and the company headed in the right direction, only calling him when dire necessary. Their cynical, no-nonsense approach keeps those within the company on their toes and if the employees want to keep their jobs, they better not provoke the assistant.

Every so often, LeNoire's dark form can be seen at the Delightful Mansion to report the company's status or see to another task given to them by Father. From time to time, when not accompanying Father on the occasional business trip or event and to the dismay of the Delightful Children, LeNoire babysits them, however, no one outside of the mansion knows what this entails. The DC are tight-lipped about it when asked. Perhaps they know LeNoire's origins as well.

On record, LeNoire is the only one who has directly conflicted with Father and lived to tell about it as he often seeks their opinion which involves cold logic he may not want to hear when he calls them at 3 a.m. while drunk on rocky road ice cream. They have gotten away with sassing him with dry humor with zero consequences, either showing that Father has a soft spot for them or, more likely, that he knows their worth to him. Anyone else who has tried this approach with him within his company has been met with third-degree burns and a pink slip.

The villain community learns quickly that LeNoire is not to be toyed with when Father is unavailable and not to dismiss them as "the secretary." All it takes is one phone call and their lives will take a downward spiral. Being Father's assistant has its perks with making connections all over in his absence.

LeNoire detests being touched, doesn't like but tolerates children, hates incompetence, and would rather ask forgiveness than for permission from their employer as they tend to know what needs to be done before anyone else does to a terrifying degree. This makes some theorize that they may not be human but perhaps a robot/android created by Father.

While Father has proven to be, well, a dick, LeNoire tends to soften his image in the public eye by sending gifts and making contributions in his name. The better he looks to the adult community, the better his plans will go over, something they have constantly fought with him over and won. This is also why most adults haven't chased him out of town. LeNoire reminds him each time that his father's tactics don't work as well with the public as they once did.

To date, LeNoire has excelled at every task Father has given them, though they have never encountered the KND directly. Father has kept his professional and personal life separated enough to keep LeNoire focused on the company, though he has wondered what would happen if he allowed the two to cross.

[maria-crossover]

"Win or DIE!"

—Let's go for the next season!

Version without text and only with The Assistant (also with the characters)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Assistant 13

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, cheating, creep behaviour, violence, anger. These warnings are not exhaustive and some triggers may not be specified for plot reasons.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: As an assistant at the Daily Planet, you’re rarely noticed. Until you are.

Characters: Clark Kent

Note: We came back.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Lord Farquaad loves unnecessary vowels. Take care. 💖

🖊🖊🖊

Your new life is more of a death. The old you is dead and can never be again. Not quite a true death, it’s a purgatory you’re slogging through, waiting for the ultimate end. 

Your first days are bleak. The house is filled with a stagnant pall as you wile away the hours playing your role. It’s easier when you pretend you're a character in a book, just like you did as a girl. When you became Elizabeth Bennet or one of the Pevensie kids. You escape in your mind because there is no other way out.

A routine quickly falls into place. You wake up, though sleep is sparse and hewn in wretched nightmares that mirror reality, and wait until Clark stirs. He never rouses very long after you. You open yourself to him, laying on your back, legs splayed as he grunts and ruts.

Tender, you dress in one of the thin dresses he collected for you and you go to work. You cook him breakfast. Sometimes, he takes you back to bed after he eats. Others, he pins you to the counter or the table. Then you clean up; the table, the dishes, and yourself.

When he stays, he sits and reads. You hover around him, busying yourself with a broom or just watching him, weighing the minutes. Not yet, not yet.

Lunch comes and you take care of that too. Then him. His appetite never wavers. The heavy pain sticks in your pelvis but he can’t think the limp is from anything more than the chain tugging at your ankle.

You pace, restless and wait. That’s all you do. Wait. For the first chance or his next whim. Whichever comes before the other.

You stand at the window and watch the wildlife. You feel him watching you in kind. When he leaves, he closes the shutters, latching them tight on the outside. Locking you in like a toy in a chest. A doll he can pick up to play with whenever he likes.

Dinnertime. Another meal. You’re not very hungry but you make yourself eat. If he lets you have a bath, you can puke it back up when he goes to get a towel. That is the last marker of time before bedtime…

Sleep is not won without a final surrender.

That day, as you wrap potatoes to cook in the oven, all noise seems louder, every movement more strenuous. The staleness in the air is suffocating. Your ears buzz from the constant silence. You crinkle the foil around a potato and drop it, rubbing your lobes.

You keep your hands on your ears and stare at the counter. You could scoop out your brains with a spoon. Are you going crazy? Your head feels itchy on the inside and you would be all to happy to scratch right through the bone. 

“Honey?” Clark’s voice ripples through the air. “Is something wrong?”

You close your eyes and cringe. You drag your hands away and wrap the other potato, wincing at the aluminum's raucous wrinkle. He stands and you shudder. He’s coming close.

“It’s too quiet,” you say at last.

He nears and looms beside you. You put the potatoes aside and drag over the pan of marinating steak. His large hand rests on the counter.

“Can I help?” He offers. You shake your head.

“No, thanks, I got it, honey,” you reach to touch his hand. You just want him to back off. Sweat stains your skin as his proximity sets you on fire. 

He leans in to kiss your crown, his hand dancing down your back. He gropes your ass and growls. His hand lingers and you brace yourself. It isn’t unlike him to interrupt.

“Love you,” he grits before he draws away.

You let your breath out in short spurts. You don’t want him to hear the relief in you. Your thighs quiver, bruised and raw. You carry on without pause. Keep yourself busy and he’ll let you be. For now.

🖊

The next day, Clark leaves you. You don’t know what he does when he isn’t there. Sometimes he brings back groceries or little things he’s forgotten. Others, he’s gone for hours and returns only with stress in his shoulders. You try not to think too much about what happens outside these walls, that only makes them close in tighter.

When he comes back, just around lunch time, he presents you a radio. An orange and black radio you’ve seen used by those in remote regions. He sets it on the counter as he flicks it on and adjusts the knob, searching for a station through the crackle. You cross your arms as you watch around his elbow.

The stringy tune comes through and warbles against the static. The music soothes you. You only realise then, you’d never thought you’d hear it again. Clark turns to you as you stare at the speakers.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

You nod and unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, “yes, thank you.”

Is this all you have? A radio?

“Do you… wanna dance?” He murmurs shyly.

You look at him. You reach for his hand in acceptance. Nothing he gives comes without a price. He takes you into his arms wordlessly, his face brightening as he leads you into a slow shuffle.

‘I bless the day I found you I want to stay around you And so I beg you Let it be me’

The song is older. You’re not sure who it is. By your guess, it’s even older than your parents… you know you won’t see them again. Even if you do get your chance, you can never go back to the life before this.

“I remember the first day I saw you,” Clark says as he pulls your head to rest against his chest, “you were wearing that little pink plaid dress…”

His words hang in the air. You remember the day too. The day you thought you’d figure it all out. You’d pay your dues as an assistant, work your way up to a writer one day, and maybe, in your wildest dreams, an editor…

“I love you, honey,” he pets your head.

“Love you too,” you eke out.

He pulls back to look down at you. You gaze up as he brings his fingertips under your chin. He leans in to kiss you and draws away reluctantly. He hums as his other hand closes around yours.

“Let’s take a bath,” he lets go of you and follows the chain to its end, unhooking it from the loop in the floor. He tugs you after him as he lets the radio play.

You let him take you into the bathroom. He’s intent on his mission. He drops the chain, the links hitting the floor heavily. You stare at it, just for a second, not too long for your heart to spike.

He bends over the tub and cranks the faucet. You watch him, fingers tingling, as he puts in the stop and holds his hand under the water’s flow. Stay calm.

You move closer to him as he undresses. You help him lift his shirt and you pet the soft hair along his torso. He turns to you, that foggy look in his eyes. You bring your hands to his pants and undo them, biting your lip as you hold his gaze.

You pull down his pants and let them fall down his thick legs. You tilt your head at the sudden thought, tweaking your ear towards the music. He reaches to stroke your chin.

“What is it, honey?” He snarls.

“This song,” you stop and listen to The Ronettes' iconic beat, “can I turn it up?”

He rolls his thumb across your chin and exhales, “sure, honey. I like this one too.”

You smile and shift your head, taking his thumb into your mouth. His eyes round as you swirl your tongue around his salty fingertip. You pop your lips off as he sighs.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Mmm, baby,” he breathes.

You turn slowly, measuring your steps and your heartbeat. You go out into the kitchen, the chain rattling with each step. You peer around, taking in the place. You hear the water swish as he lowers himself into the tub. You peek over as the end of the chain trails just outside the bathroom.

You stop by the radio and glance over your shoulder. Now. You turn up the radio, just loud enough. You bend and tug the chain inch by inch towards you, the noise disguised by the drumbeat. You coil it around your hand, allowing enough for you to walk.

You peer over at the bathroom doorway.

“I’ll bring towels,” you call over the music.

“Hurry,” he booms back as he lets out another gritty sigh, “baby, I need you.”

You turn without hesitation. This is it. You march into the front room and to the front door. Of course he wouldn’t lock it, not with the cuff on your ankle hooked to the loop. You glance over at the hook in the floor and steel yourself.

You open the door, lifting it on the hinges to keep it quiet. The radio drones behind you as you let yourself out into the cool air. You take one step, then the other, each one quicker than the last. You approach the trees and take a breath.

It’s now or never.

You plunge into the woods, your gait uneven as you run with the chain yank with each step. You don’t know where you’re going or where to go, you just need to get far away from here. You can’t live like this. You can’t die like this.

Your feet hit the forest floor, unfeeling to the jab of sharp rocks and the scratch of twigs. Don’t look back, just go, just go. You sprint until your lungs burn, until your mouth is parched and scratchy, until your limbs ache.

You stumble onto the ground and gulp. You can’t go any further. You’re too weak.

You shake on your hands and knees, fighting to catch your breath, trying to urge yourself on. 

Then you hear it. A giggle. A chirpish yelp and the splash of water. People? You crawl forward towards the noise. You lift yourself to look over the overturned trunk at the edge of the incline. There’s a lake below, there’s bodies splashing through the waters, screaming and laughing.

Oh, god! You stand and throw your hand up, mustering your strength to cry out. Help!

As you open your mouth, your voice shrivels up as your throat is clamped in a vice. You're dragged back away from the drop off and turned to face your villain. Clark stands naked amid the trees, seeming as towering and thick as any of them, as he grips your neck. He lifts you off your feet, your toes dangling above the ground.

You claw at his forearm as you wheezes. Your eyes well as he glares at you, shaking with rage. The chain falls from your hand and hits the floor, weighing on your ankle. He bears his teeth and hisses.

“Why would you do this?”

You can’t speak. Your head throbs as you reach to bat at his chest, begging silently for him to release you. ‘Sorry…’ you mouth, ‘sorry…’

“I love you, sweetie, I love you so much,” his voice quakes as he squeezes tighter, “why did you do this?”

Your lips open and close as your head swells violently. Your arms feel heavy as you grasp at him desperately. I can do better, I can do better. Just one more chance, honey. Please.

“You’re the one, you’re the one,” he chants tearfully, “I never loved anyone like I love you.”

“Cl-Clark,” you force out, “ple-ease—”

“No,” he crushes your throat so not a single wisp can get through, “I will never… love anyone that way I love you. Never…”

Your cheek twitches as your lashes glazes with tears. Your heart pounds in your chest as your mind swirls. His eyes fill with red light, glowing hotter and hotter. You see yourself in the scarlet glare; you in your tub, reading your favourite novel, that first day at the office when you nervously introduced yourself, your days in school, running between classes, your high school graduation, the little girl dancing in the fields, a princess out of time.

You see it all behind you and you see the emptiness ahead of you. You shake your head above his grip and use the last of your effort to mouth the words to him. The truth.

‘I….’ you make certain the movement is clear, even as your eyes threaten to roll into your skull, ‘hate.’ Your lips twist in a cruel smirk, ‘you.’

Your head lolls and you stare into his glowing irises. You’re ready. This is ever after. 

The world is consumed in a red flash and a striking heat. It sears to the bone and ends just as quickly. All is black and gone. A life burnt to cinder.

Stayed tuned for the epilogue

[archie-sunshine]

again and again and again and again