#The assistant

[maria-crossover]

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

[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

[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?

[folditdouble]

Women in Film Challenge 2023: [100/52] The Assistant, dir. Kitty Green (USA, 2019)

They told me you were smart. Act like it.

[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.

[incaseimakeit-daily]

this is a drawing of the assistant, aged down !! in reality, he is like 44 but since i can't draw old people, i drew him to be in his early thirties.

[bloomyex-art]

You thought the robot was my first pressure oc, but there was one BEFORE him!

I present to you: The Assistant.

She's secretly the DNA tube baby of at least two people (one being an OC and the other being Sebastian for shits and giggles 'cause it would make interactions even funnier once they find out). Basically, this lil gal was created in the Hadal Blacksite as an experiment for making supersoldiers from scratch. It didn't work too well, and her brain is very scramble. Sebastian found her hissing and huffing at him during one of his item collection runs and basically adopted her like a stray cat. She's tasked with gathering data from other parts of the facility which she's able to go to via ceiling ventilation shafts. And yes, she is baby. Plus, she is very DNA absorbent, and by that I mean anyone or anything with DNA she makes enough contact with long enough will eventually imprint on her literally. Fusing with whatever else she has. Base DNA includes but is not limited to: Piranha, Cat, Hagfish Searchlights, (Insert other person's OC here), Sebastian's (trace amounts) etc etc whatever other thing or person she hangs out with I guess.

She's my little baby and I would kill for her <3

[maria-crossover]

Here's the Assistant's uniform!! YEPIII!! ^_^✨

If anyone wants to use him to be Frankie's assistant, you're free to do so!! :3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Assistant 12

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, cheating, creep behaviour, violence, anger. These warnings are not exhaustive.

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: Another one.

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 crickets keep you awake. The flutter of bats and the sway of trees swirl together and set an eerie lull. The scent of pine wafts in and eludes to the freedom withheld from you. A serene atmosphere tainted by the coil of heat twisted around you.

Clark snores into your hair. Unbothered by his strange surroundings or the circumstance. It almost maddens you to think he can act so normal on the surface yet be corrupt to core. It's all so sickening but frightening.

You think of Lois and the crack of bones, Richard and the smell of burnt flesh, the fury in Clark’s eyes. You know you can’t resist him. Not without getting hurt. You’re too weak, you’re too afraid. You don’t want to die, not like this. You don’t want to leave this world behind without getting to tell all the stories in your head.

You lay awake, waiting for his eventual rise. He grumbles, patting your hip before he sits up. He bends over his lap and rubs his eyes before climbing to his feet. You watch the strain of flannel across his shoulders as he cross to the door and pulls open the door.

He returns with a copper kettle. Water drips from the edges of the lid as he hangs it in the fireplace, rebuilding the burnt out fire beneath. You shiver as you sit up and tuck yourself into the corner.

He moves around, searching through the bin he put in the opposite corner. He takes something out and brings it to you. He hands you the small notebook and searches his front pocket for the short pencil hidden there. You see the redness in the rims of his eyes and note the unkemptness of hair and clothing unlike. He is not the straight laced journalist you thought you knew. 

"Make a list. What we need."

You nod, mouth too dry to speak, brain too fuzzy to think. You blink at him as you cradle the notebook. You’re not sure what he means.

“Food, soap, whatever,” he sighs as he turns on his heel, dragging his feet to the fireplace as he sets his hand on the mantel, “gotta hook up the water… grabbed enough coffee and some granola…” he’s mostly talking to himself, “a bed, I’ll get a bed for sure.”

You write bed at the top of the first page. Then you stare at the next line. You can’t put freedom there. You have to keep lying. You write down eggs. Eggs are good, you can make breakfast tomorrow, that might keep him happy.

“I’ll make the coffee,” you offer, “where is it?”

He inhales and goes back to the bin. He fishes out a small glass jar of instant grinds. You try not to show your disappointment. It’s something. You know better than to not play along. He’s shown you the consequences for not.

“Cups?” You ask, gently, putting pen back to paper as you remember a few other things.

He returns to the bin again. A sleeve of paper cups. Alright, that will do. You stand and keep the notebook in hand as you near the fireplace. You write down cups.

“You’ll have to find some proper ones,” you say as you put down the book and grab the jar. You read the label and set it down as you kneel in front of the fire. You hold up your hands, it’s cool despite the summer sun outside. “And some pretty dishes.”

He’s silent. You try not to give yourself away. He can’t see through your act. You rub your hands together and shiver. He moves and you fight not to wince. He grabs the blanket and brings it over to drape over your shoulders.

“I’ll some nice ones,” he promises as he lowers himself to his knees beside you, “I didn’t get to show you the tub…” he puts his large hand on your back as you watch the fire, waiting for the kettle to boil, “I got it just for you, baby.”

“That’s nice. I’m excited,” you almost believe yourself as you keep a chipper chime in your voice, “I really have to pee.”

His hand slips down and he lowers his chin.

“Like I said, water’s not… gotta run a line down to the lake…” he sniffs, “I’ll take you out, you can go by the trees.”

“Alright,” you nod as you pull the cups over and open the plastic sleeve.

You pull out two then uncap the lid of the jar. You tear back the seal and carefully measure out grinds into each cup. You smile and twist the cap back on. You set down the jar as Clark looms close.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says so quietly you barely hear him. You flinch but hide it as you reach past the blanket and touch his side. “I wouldn’t… wouldn’t do what I did… to you. I did it for you.”

“I know,” you wilt out, snaking your arm around him, “look at all you’ve done for me…” you look up at the rafters, then the walls, and the fire crackling before you. He doesn’t see your other hand, how it grips the chain around your ankle, “you’ve made a whole life for me… for us.”

-

Clark is gone for a few hours, or so you guess. The sunlight shifts a little through the windows, at its peak as you estimate about noon. A rush of air signals his return and you stand at the window watching as he drops a whole industrial container in the dirt, at least twenty times his size.

You watch him. It’s unsettling how inhuman his strength is, but what’s more, is how inhuman his mind is. Something’s disjointed in him. That he can justify all he’s done; not just to you but to his own wife, to another human being.

He twists back the bar on the door and cranks it open on its hinges. He goes inside and emerges with another bin matching the blue rubber one in the corner of the front room. He approaches the cabin and lets himself in. He puts down the heaping container.

“Food,” he announces, “I grabbed a few other things but I’ll sort it out. For now…” he stops to brace the back of your head and kisses you, “you can deal with the kitchen.”

He passes you and unhooks the chain from the floor. He leads you as if you’re on a leash into the next room. It’s a large kitchen with wooden counters and a tall faucet over a sink; there’s a fridge and stove, and everything else you could ever need. You can’t believe he’s turned a pile of dirt into all this. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so disorienting.

He hesitates but keeps the links in hand as he guides you onward. He turns back at another door, smiling.

“I did say I’d show you the tub,” he preens, “while you put everything away, I’ll get it working. But you should see…”

He waves you closer as he twists the handle and pushes in the door. You near warily and look around the door frame. There’s a tub against the wooden slats of the wall, a curtain hung around it. It’s big, bigger than yours. The tub you’ll never see again.

You try to smile and your lips quiver. You cover your mouth to hide your despair. You flutter your lashes, desperately holding back your horror. You can’t let him see.

“Honey,” he touches your shoulder as you pull back.

“I’m okay,” you squeak, “I just can’t believe you did all this for me.” To me…

“Of course, I… I’d do anything for you. Don’t you see?”

You nod, gulping down the wave of terror. You fan yourself and face him, hoping he can’t see right through you. Your heart is thumping wildly. Didn’t he say he could hear it?

“I’m just so overwhelmed. No one ever…” you trail off, “Clark, I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid that… I’m not enough for you.”

His forehead stitches and he tilts his head. A scoff scratches in his throat. Shit, he doesn’t believe you. He drops the chain, the metal clanking loudly on the floor.

“Sweetie, of course you’re enough,” he grabs your hands, making you jolt. “You’re everything I ever dreamed of… I’ve written pages for you. I can’t stop. I just dream of our life together and… you did this. You made me want to make our story more than words. I’m building it around us. All of this.”

He looks up dreamily, “we can live happily ever after. Just us. No one will get in our way.”

“They won’t,” you rasp and you squeeze his hands, legs wobbly as your head spins. “They can’t…”

They won’t find you. They can’t save you. That’s what you really mean. 

He searches your face. You measure your breathing, urging your heart to calm. You cling to him, afraid you might collapse. The crushing weight of surrender lays over your shoulders. You don’t have a choice but that doesn’t make it any easier.

“Sweetie,” he lets go of your hands and brings his grip around your waist, “I knew you just had to see what I see. What’s inside my head. That you would get once I made it more than fiction.”

“I do,” you croak, running your hands up his arms and across his chest, “I see it. It’s amazing.”

He leans in, growling over you as he draws you closer. He bends to nuzzle your hair and lets out a hot breath over your scalp. He inhales your scent and sways you. You are nothing, you are thin as air, you dissolve in his arms. 

“I forgive you,” his lips tickle your forehead as he pulls back just a little, “honey, I love you and I forgive you.” His hand slips down your side and his fingers curl beneath the denim of your waistline, “I missed you so much.”

You swallow, eyes welling as you dip your chin, hiding your dread. You caress him through the flannel of his shirt. You know what he wants. All his sweet words only ever lead to pain.

“I missed you too,” you brush your hand up to his neck, feeling how he trembles at your touch. That is your power; you cannot win, but you can survive.

You drop your other hand onto his and pull it away from your waist. You turn, sure to keep your face down, tugging him with you as you approach the counter. You let him go and unbutton your jeans. You bite down on your disgust.

You bare your ass, planting an arm on the counter as you bend against it. You touch your ass and dig your nails into the flesh with a hum. You wiggle your hips at him.

“Please, Clark, you said you miss me, right.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he comes up behind you, placing his hand over yours, groping you around your own, “I’m sorry about last night. I’ll never… I’ll never hurt you like that again.”

He shifts his hand, tickling along your ass, down along the crease, and between your folds. He pushes his fingers against your cunt and you step apart, as far as you can against the restraint of your jeans. You look down as he pokes into you, groaning as he feels you around his knuckles, spreading them so you stretch around him.

You grip the counter and look down at your ankle, the chain hanging there, loose. That’s it. You just have to wait for your chance; maybe not today, but eventually, when his guard is down, when he trusts you. When his delusion is too much to suspect the truth.

[demonicdames]

A little writing project of mine that I have on A03 that I'm going to throw here to. Rated: E F/M Papa Emeritus II x F!Reader Cardinal Copia x F!Reader (Later chaps) Part 1

When you reached your dorm room you collapsed onto your couch, most of the rooms were set up the same way and decorated the same way as well. Your eyes stared up at the ceiling thinking about the last few hours thanks to the ache that throbbed between your legs, usually you'd come back get washed, slip into your nightwear, and sleep you barely had enough energy to get back to your dorm room. You willed yourself to get up to perform your nightly routine.

The warm water felt nice on your skin, your eyes looked down at your thighs seeing the bruising starting to darken touching them you flinched slightly. "Fuck."

You cursed under your breath your head lying against the back of the tub. When cleaned you got out of the tub and headed out grabbing your towel and drying off before slipping into your nightwear for the evening. As soon as you settled into bed, you heard a knock at the door making you grumble several curses under your breath, figures just when you had gotten comfortable.

Getting up finally you answered the door only to be face to face with Sister Imperator, the sight of the older woman made you stand a bit straighter. "Sister." You greeted to which she nodded."I've come to congratulate you on your years of hard work for the ministry, at first I had my doubts about you but you have made quite the impact and I felt that something needed to be said." You didn't know what to say to that, it wasn't often that others acknowledged your work, well aside from the Papas. You and Sister Imperator exchanged words before closing the door, well you felt a little better now which made falling asleep easier. The next day started the same; get up, get dressed, collect your things, and head to your job with Secondo. "Sorella!, sorella!." You heard Copia call jogging down the hall. "Cardinal careful not to trip!." As if on cue the Cardinal did just that but thankfully you caught him in time, keeping him from hitting the hard floor. "Sorry sorry sorry." He spoke righting himself fixing his hat, leather gloved hands held up as he checked you over to make sure you were alright. "It's fine, no worries Cardinal I'm okay, what's up?." He paused thinking his mismatched eyes looking left to right. "Ehhhhh..... ah oh! sì sì sì yes ah-." The Cardinal held up a folder. "Sister told me to deliver this to you personally." You looked at the folder it wasn't like the other's that you handled, black with the grucifix symbol in the center. "What is it?." You asked taking the folder from him and looking it over.

"Ah eh- I don't know she told me not to look at it." You couldn't help the smile that came to your lips, Copia was cute and sweet almost innocent. "Thank you, Cardinal I will take care of it." "She also told me to tell you not to let the others see it, apparently it is top secret." "Top secret." You repeated. He gave you a thumbs up which you returned with a laugh before he headed off. With a sigh and shaking your head, the folder was slipped into your messenger bag as you headed to Secondos office. You slowly opened the door and saw him sitting at his desk. "Evening Sorella." He greeted "Evening Sec-." You paused as he looked up at you his eyes holding their usual cold stare. "Sir." You corrected yourself as you moved to take a seat twitching slightly at the small pang of pain between your legs. "Are you alright?." He asked not looking up from the page he signed and set into the newly emptied basket. "Yes, I'm okay Sir." You replied as you started in on your work for that evening, your mind going back to that folder that the Cardinal had given you, wondering what was in it. You looked over at Secondo watching him, pausing in your work your mind wandering, going back to the night before when Secondo had you pinned to his couch. You breathed in as you felt a throb between your legs this one however wasn't of pain and it made your face grow warm.

You adverted your gaze as Secondo looked your way studying you, the way your hair moved when you looked from page to page, how your eyes darted back and forth while reading. He could remember how you were laid out on his couch moaning and calling out his name in pleasure, how many times he'd tasted you and lavished your body. Secondo could feel his cock twitch in his pants in response to his thoughts, his mind traveling further making him want you again there on his desk. Secondo cleared his throat as he looked over at you. "Sorella?." He asked making you look up from your work. "Yes Sir?." Standing from your seat hands folded in front of yourself. "Come here cara." He beckoned you over with his pointer and middle as you approached he then patted his lap. You felt your face getting warmer as you continue, taking your new seat upon his lap your back against his chest, Secondo's chin resting on your shoulder soft painted lips pressing a kiss on your neck. You could feel his hard cock press up against your ass making your cheeks burn bright. Secondo smothered his face into the crook of your neck his hands traveling the length of your body your habit being inched up.

"S-Sirr." You gasped as he pushed your legs open. "Pl-Please sir I-I'm still sore." You whispered as his hand came down to cup your aching pussy. "Aww, my little assistant is sore, eh?." Secondo spoke against her neck. "Why are you so sore cara?." He asked making your face go bright red. "You-you know wh-why Sir-." His hands gave your thighs a tight warning squeeze a growl followed, demanding an answer. "You fucked me." You replied quietly gasping as Secondo slipped two fingers into your panties, slipping them between your lips and rolling them over your clit. "You are already dripping for me cara mia." You hated it, you hated that he was right, between his touch and the thoughts of the night before your body was aching in more ways than one. A knock at the office door made the both of you stop and look forward, Secondo fixed himself up as the door started to open, you didn't have enough time to run back to your desk so you slid down under his.

You could hear a one-sided conversation starting, one of the voices you recognized was Sister Imperator's, you tried to listen closely but the tent in Secondo's pants caught your attention. A sly grin appeared on your face leaning over pressing a kiss against the bulge, Secondo's hand slipped under the desk in an attempt to shoo you away, which was unsuccessful.

Working it free from its clothed prison you could hear Sister ask if Secondo was alright that he seemed a little jumpy and certainly out of character. Reassuring the Sister he was fine. 'Fine for now' you mouthed before leaning forward and licking at the tip of his cock head collecting the bead of precum. For once you felt in power as you sucked the Emeritus's cock into your mouth his leg giving a twitch as he settled in your throat. Pulling back you swallowed him down again and again, up above Secondo remained calm cool, and collected his lips pressed into a thin line as Sister Imperator went on and on. He wasn't paying attention to her or what she dribbled on about, his mind was on the soft throat that was currently gagging on his cock.

Finally, after what seemed like hours Sister Imperator finished and left the room. Secondo, wasting no time slid his chair back his cock being pulled free from your messy lips. "You, my little minx are in so much trouble."

Secondo had you bent over his desk. "Don't move Cara." His hand slid down along your sides before leaving to lock the door to avoid any more interruptions. Secondo returned pushing his chair away with a tap of his foot your habit being slipped up around your waist. The Emeritus's hands moved to slide over your asscheeks squeezing, palming, and kneading each globe before giving your ass a hard smack causing you to jump gasping out a whimper as his hand smoothed over your reddening cheek.

  Secondo hooked his fingers into your panties waistband tugging them down slowly, watching as the fabric came away from your pussy. Secondo leaned over resting his chest on your back, his lips against the shell of your ear cock resting against the folds of your cunt his hips rolling slowly covering his cock in your wetness. 

The Emeritus pulled away leaving your cunt throbbing with need, your legs shaking you wanted him to slam into you and take you as hard as he could. Your body jumped feeling something cold against your cunt tapping your lips with the hard corner following the edge of your slit up the curve of your ass. You were about to ask when the object came down stinging your ass making you cry out, a ruler, he was spanking you with a damned ruler! you looked over your shoulder at him gasping as he smacked the wooden tool against your ass again making you curse under your breath. 

 This was downright degrading you were getting a ruler to the ass like some misbehaved child. "Second-." He gave you a harder smack of the ruler making you whimper.  "It is Sir in the office, remember Tesoro?." He smirked as he struck you again your hand balling into fists against the desk. "S-Sir." You breathed biting your bottom lip as another smack was given to your rear. 

You blinked as the smacks stopped- or so you thought, Secondo's hand replaced the ruler as he spanked your ass stinging it again and again alternating between the blows and rubbing. His breathing was getting heavier the next spank went right to your pussy stinging and making you jump, he didn't stop until your ass and sex were both bright red. 

 "I think you've learned your lesson eh?, cara mia?." Secondo chuckled as he moved from you sitting back in his chair. "Redress Tesoro, it's almost time to leave."  You turned and pouted. "But-but-." 

"No, butt's cara." frowning you pulled your panties back up and dropped your habit back into place smoothing the skirt out, grimacing at the stinging and the wetness between your legs while you left the office walking a tad bit funny, unaware that there were eye's watching you your scent attracting several ghouls attention. --To be continued--

[behaemoth]

She is making this so difficult