#a lost cause

[arealphrooblem]

A Lost Cause Part 2

Synopsis: The trusted keeper of all the Heroes' secrets, Civilian's existence is kept a tightly guarded secret itself. So how did the villain find her? And how will she withstand the attempts of his scientist to break her open and discover those secrets himself?

CW: nonconsensual drugging, medical whump, medical experimentation, needles/IV insertion, mentions wounds from torture, torture recovery, captivity

The anticipation of what might happen each time he walked into the room was almost worse than actual torture. His words ran on a loop in her head as she dozed in and out of deep sleep.

I am dying to create the tools that will break you open.

But each time he visited, he did nothing but check vitals, change bandages, survey her progress, feed her. Slowly she worked her way up from broth to solid food, from sleeping most of the day to sleeping at night, from needing a catheter to walking to the bathroom herself once the bottoms of her feet were healed (and that was not a fun day, no sir).

The scientist refused to answer her questions outright unless she offered up answers of her own. Each day they ended in a stalemate, which he seemed to find amusing.

He refused even his name. Eventually she just started calling him the doctor, because he treated her like one. Despite her captivity, despite the ominous warning Vanderbilt gave her in the interrogation room, despite her overwhelming vulnerability, he treated her with polite and patient professionalism.

She tried to give him the same courtesy. Whatever his future plans were, he had given her the space and time to heal back to full strength. She would make sure he regretted that. But first she had to look cooperative and weak.

A few days after shedding both the catheter and the bandages on her feet and thighs, the doctor strolled in not with his usual stethoscope, but with a clipboard and a pen.

Her gut did not like that.

“Your recovery is chugging along quite spectacularly,” he said, clicking the pen. “Which means we are almost ready to start the clinical trials. Of course, before I give you anything, I will need you to answer a few questions about your medical and family history.”

“Clinical trials for what?” she asked, feeling like she swallowed a stone.

“For my experiments, of course,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Why did you think I’ve been helping you recover? Pity? The goodness of my heart?”

“What experiments?” she demanded.

“Oh I have several in mind for you. But first, a few questions.”

“Sure, of course,” she said, deeply scathing. “Let’s make it easier for you to torture me. I’ll jump right on that.”

“You should, if you want greater chances of survival. I need to know your allergies, cancer risks, medications you’ve been on, previous surgeries, or else I could accidentally kill you. You’re a very special experiment. I’d rather not lose you so soon to such a preventable cause.”

It made her blood run cold, the casual way he voiced her probable death, as if  he equated it with the disappointment of prematurely expired raspberries. An inconvenience, but there’s always more.

The worst part was that he had a point. What would be the purpose of her team rescuing her in a blaze of glory if she had died of anaphylactic shock?

So through gritted teeth, she answered all of his medically relevant questions. He wrote each down dutifully on his clipboard.

“And your name?” he asked finally.

She pursed her lips into a thin line and glared at him. He nodded.

“Not today, then. No worries. That will be the first thing you give me with the success of my first experiment.”

A knot formed in her stomach. “What’s the first experiment?” she couldn’t help but ask.

He smiled enigmatically. “You’ll find out when the time comes.”

She waited a few minutes after the door shut before she tip-toed to the window. The only thing she could see outside was a sheer cliff and water for miles. Probably the ocean, but she couldn’t open the window to tell. It was nailed shut.

Wherever she was, it looked far from civilization. Maybe that was why, after what had to be at least a month if not more, that her team hadn’t found her yet. They were city people. Superheros rarely had to venture into the rural countryside, let alone a place this remote.

Such reassurances did not cure the unease in the back of her mind that something didn’t add up.

Now that she had recovered, fatigue did not weigh her down so much and boredom began to creep in it’s place. The doctor offered her a handful of novels, mostly pulp scifi and dystopian literature. She read them and re-read them so often she could quote passages from each one. When the doctor finally appeared in her room with a small, rolling table of syringes and an IV needle, the jolt of adrenaline was almost euphoric in the face of the mind numbing monotony of her days.

“You seem eager for our first experiment,” the doctor said with a bemused quirk of his lips.

“Ecstatic,” she deadpanned, ignoring the jolt in her heart. “I can’t wait for you to kill me with whatever ungodly chemical is in that.”

He chuckled, pushing the cart next to her bed.  “You’re right in that God has nothing to do with what I create. But it is not my goal to kill you —  the opposite in fact. I try to limit risks as much as possible. There is only one you, after all.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“Is it not?” It was almost comical how he blinked at her in innocent confusion.

She just glared at him in return, which he cheerfully ignored as he slipped the latex gloves on with a snap. He even hummed a little as he pulled open the packaging for the IV needle and the alcohol wipe.  

Meanwhile her gut churned and frothed in horrible anticipation. She had gone through literal torture but this scared her more. When knives or brands or electric cattle prods came out, at least she knew what they did. No one knew what would happen as a result of this experiment, not even him. At least the goal of torture was to keep you alive as long as possible. These experiments could kill her. These could be her last living moments.

Fear tainted her every breath but just as she did in the face of her torturers, she refused to let it show on her face. Instead she stared resolutely out the window, at the glint of the water in the sunlight.

“Deep breath,” he murmured just before she felt the sharp pain of the IV needle.

Her gaze darted to him, drawn like a magnet to the sight of him tapping the air bubbles from the syringe. Nausea roiled inside her.  She fought hard against the urge to rip the IV out before he could inject the serum. Instead, she could only watch in horrified resignation as it flowed through the IV drip.

“And now we wait,” he said, flashing her that polite smile, as if they were sitting in a doctor’s office.

He removed his dark tinted glasses and sat down at the love seat.

“We wait?” she cried. “Wait for what?”

The anticipation of the IV alone nearly drove her mad and now this?

He shrugged. “Ideally your mind should relax into an altered state where you forget you’re not supposed to keep your secrets and you tell me whatever information I desire. However, that didn’t work well back with Vanderbilt and I’m not expecting much success this time. I just want to see how you react to these sorts of chemicals.”

“So you’re just fucking around with my brain?”

“In a manner of speaking, I suppose.” He crossed his legs and tapped his thumbs on his knees, the picture of nonchalance. She never wanted to hit him so much.

“What if it does nothing? What if you failed?”

“Failure is just important data I didn’t have before. I’m not afraid of failure.”

You should be she thought bitterly.

But of course it wasn’t his life on the line.

When the effects hit her, it wasn’t nothing. All the muscles in her body locked up and spasmed. She could do nothing but writhe in the bed and scream. It felt worse than all her other torture combined.

By the time she finally blacked out, she couldn’t scream anymore.

[thedaily-beer]

Beachwood x A Lost Cause Party Crusher IPA (Picked up at Windmill Farms). A 3 of 4. A nice West Coast IPA that delivers the hop profile you'd expect on a lighter, clean body. Lots of orange citrus, tropical fruit, and just a touch of pine in the background, and a body that drinks super easily and carries some moderate bitterness towards the finish.

[sing-me-under]

Take the idea that “Bruce Wayne is friends with most of his Rogue Gallery”

and shift it into “Batman doesn’t kill because he believes in second chances”

and then you get something along the lines of “Even when everyone believes they are irredeemable, Bruce personally knows his Rogue Gallery and genuinely cares about them and their well-being, so he’s willing to give the benefit of the doubt and second chances to even the worst of the worst because he can’t be biased and believe the best only of the people he is friends with. Everyone has the potential to do better and do good and be kind even when it’s not obvious because Bruce personally knows the Rogues that have that potential.”

And also “Bruce’s goal later in his career isn’t to pursue revenge but to prevent crime and save as many people as possible, including his rogues. He can’t reverse the damage and the lives taken, but he can try to make things as livable as possible. Batman is a symbol of fear, a deterrent of crime, and a front-line first responder, but Bruce Wayne is the one actively helping Gotham.”

But I also raise you “Gotham is legitimately cursed” and “Joker is the only Rogue who Batman doesn’t know the real identity of. Batman is partly convinced that Joker isn’t even a real person but the physical manifestation of a curse that will forever plague Gotham”

[skz-streamer]

A Lost Cause -1/3-

- Next->

Pairing: Felix (skz) x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, slight smut?

Warnings: mentions of suicide, scarred wrist, pain, car crash, PTSD, abusive/toxic boyfriend, substances, abuse, bruising, crying, um... lmk if I missed anything else❤️

Notes: ITS HAPPENING!!!!! Chap one!!!!! I'm so excited to finally let u guys in on this ficcc 😆. Chap 2 will be released July 9th... ill keep yall updated :) Had to use Deep End as inspo🥰

Summary: After an abusive relationship you head to the bar for refuge...only to find yourself in another relationship, but is this one "A Lost Cause"?

-please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people

Word count ~3k ;)

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You stumble into the dimly lit bar, the weight of your broken heart heavy upon your shoulders. It's been a long and painful journey, escaping the clutches of an abusive relationship. Determined to drown your sorrows tonight, you settle onto a barstool, desperately seeking solace in the bottom of a glass.

The bartender, a kind soul with gentle eyes, approaches you. "What can I get you?" he asks, his voice carrying a hint of genuine concern.

You force a smile, attempting to conceal the turmoil within. "Whiskey," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. He nods, recognizing the ache in your eyes, and pours a generous shot. The fiery liquid burns your throat as it cascades down, but it's a welcomed pain, numbing the emotional scars.

As the night wears on, the weight on your chest becomes unbearable. The alcohol has begun to unravel your defenses, and the pain spills out, refusing to be contained. In between sips, you find yourself speaking softly, as if hoping your words will dissolve into the air.

You recount the torment you endured—the words that cut like knives, the bruises that painted your skin, and the suffocating fear that held you captive. The bartender listens attentively, his eyes filled with compassion and understanding. He doesn't interrupt, allowing you to release the pent-up anguish that has consumed you for far too long.

The tears come unbidden, streaming down your face like a river of anguish. You feel exposed and vulnerable, but in the presence of this stranger, you find a strange solace. And as your voice trembles with pain, he reaches out a comforting hand, a silent reassurance that you're not alone.

You let yourself surrender, crying into the comforting fabric of his shirt. He holds you gently, offering the safety and warmth you've been denied for so long. It's a respite from the storm that has raged within you, a moment of solace amidst the chaos.

Eventually, your tears subside, leaving behind a fragile sense of relief. The bartender, still cradling you, whispers, "You're going to be okay. You're stronger than you know."

He guides you towards the door, summoning a cab to take you home. With trembling gratitude, you manage to express your heartfelt thanks. As the cab pulls away, you catch a final glimpse of the kind bartender, his eyes filled with empathy and a silent promise to protect you from the darkness. 

You slowly open your eyes, wincing as the morning sunlight streams through your window, intensifying the throbbing pain in your head. As you attempt to sit up, you're struck by a wave of dizziness, causing you to collapse back onto your bed. Memories from last night flood your mind in fragments, a chaotic jumble that refuses to form a coherent picture.

One memory remains vivid, though—a haunting scene that echoes in your mind's eye. Your abusive boyfriend, his voice laced with venom, severing the fraying threads of your relationship. The pain of his rejection stings your heart anew. That was the breaking point that led you to the bar, seeking solace in the bottom of a glass.

But amidst the haze of your drunken stupor, you recall a glimmer of warmth and kindness. The face of a cute bartender, his eyes filled with empathy as he listened to your slurred words. He offered you a safe space, a momentary reprieve from the torment that plagued your life. That memory gives you a flicker of hope, a beacon in the darkness.

With your body aching from both the emotional turmoil and the relentless hangover, you decide that today is not a day for work. You grab your phone and dial your boss's number, your voice is shaky as you apologize for your absence, blaming it on a sudden illness. They understand, giving you the day off to recuperate.

Now fully committed to nursing your fragile state, you make your way to the store to purchase some much-needed medication. The fluorescent lights and aisles filled with remedies overwhelm your sensitive senses, intensifying the pounding in your head. As you wander the aisles, searching for relief, you hear a voice—a deep, resonant voice that inexplicably soothes your weary soul.

Your heart skips a beat as you turn toward the source of the familiar voice. Standing there is a well-built man, his features etched with kindness. His eyes meet yours, and a strange sense of recognition washes over you. It's as if you've heard that voice before, offering comfort and understanding during your darkest hours.

Though hesitant, you find yourself drawn to him, compelled by the compassionate energy that radiates from his being.

You stand there, face to face with the man who seems oddly familiar, although your pounding headache and heavy hangover make it difficult to focus. He recognizes you from last night at the bar and greets you with a friendly hello, offering his assistance. Your throat feels dry, and you manage to mumble out a reply, grateful for his unexpected kindness.

His presence is a small relief as you navigate the store, desperately searching for the medications you need to alleviate the physical and emotional pain that seems to follow you relentlessly. He patiently helps you locate the items and hands them to you with a gentle smile. At that moment, he catches sight of the scars on your wrist, remnants of your battles with attempted suicide. His smile remains, trying his best not to make you uncomfortable, though you're oblivious to his concern.

As he leaves the store, his smile lingers, a glimmer of empathy and understanding in his eyes. You, lost in your thoughts, barely register his departure. Your mind is consumed by the familiarity he exudes, the feeling that you've encountered him somewhere before. Yet, the pounding in your head and the haze in your mind prevent you from making any meaningful connection.

You make your way to the counter, clutching the painkillers that offer a temporary escape from the torment. The cashier rings them up, their words blending in a blur. You complete the transaction mechanically, your focus still fixated on the man who offered a helping hand.

Exiting the store, you step into the sunlight, its harsh brightness intensifying the throbbing ache in your head. Walking towards your car, you lean against it for support, lost in a whirlwind of fragmented memories and unanswered questions. The man's presence lingers in your thoughts, tugging at the fringes of your consciousness.

Climbing into the car, you sit for a moment, the engine idling. Your mind races, trying to piece together the fragments, but they remain just out of reach.

You sit in your car, trying to shake off that peculiar feeling that's been lingering in the back of your mind. It's like that unsettling sensation you get when you know you're forgetting something important, but you just can't put your finger on it. The more you dwell on it, the more your headache intensifies. It pounds against your temples, demanding your attention.

Feeling desperate for relief, you reach into your bag and grab the bottle of painkillers you just bought from the store moments ago. With trembling hands, you open the bottle and pop a pill into your mouth. You swallow it down, hoping it will ease the pounding ache in your head.

Determined to distract yourself from these unsettling thoughts, you start your car and drive back to your apartment. The familiar surroundings bring a sense of comfort, but that nagging feeling still lingers in the depths of your mind.

Entering your apartment, you collapse onto the couch, seeking solace in your favorite K-drama. The vibrant colors and melodramatic plotline usually provide an escape from reality. You immerse yourself in the characters' lives, trying to forget about the unease that haunts you.

As the episodes play on, your eyelids grow heavy. Fatigue seeps into your bones, and despite your best efforts to stay awake, sleep overtakes you. The television continues to flicker in the background as you drift into a restless slumber, hoping that when you wake up, the strange feeling will have dissipated, and you'll find peace once again.

It’s morning now. You wake up to the sound of your TV blaring, the brightness of the screen piercing your sleepy eyes. A prompt flashes across the screen, "Still there?" You groan, rubbing your temples as you reach for the remote, desperately wanting to silence the noise. With a click, the TV shuts off. The throbbing headache that had plagued you yesterday dissipates. Finally, you can focus on the day ahead.

As you sit up from the couch you reach for your phone, intending to text your ex, (forgetting that he had broken up with you) inviting him to pick you up for breakfast. However, as you begin to type, the memories of your recent breakup flood your mind. It had only been a day since the painful conversation with your ex, but it feels like an eternity. The weight of that terrible conversation crashes down upon you once again. The hurtful words, the shattered dreams, and the realization that you're now single—it all hits you like a wave. Swallowing hard, you fight back the tears, determined not to let them fall.

Your reflection in the bathroom mirror reminds you of the bruises on your face, skillfully hidden beneath ruined makeup. You take a deep breath, attempting to gather strength. There's no time to wallow in self-pity; you have to keep moving forward. With steady hands, you wash your face, scrubbing away the remnants of the night before. As you apply fresh makeup, you're acutely aware of the fragile state of your emotions. You try not to let the tears well up again, fearing they will smudge the carefully crafted facade.

Bag in hand, you head out the door, ready to face another day at work. You work at a fried chicken place, which sounds fun on the surface, but in reality, it often means spending hours upon hours washing dishes. It's a monotonous and tiring job, one that you both hate and love at the same time. There's a certain solace in the routine, in the distraction it provides from the chaos of your personal life.

As you step outside, the world buzzes with activity, seemingly unaware of the storm within you. You put on a brave face, determined not to let anyone see your pain. With each step toward your car, you take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you can make it through this day, just like you've made it through countless others.

You grip the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles turning white as you navigate the familiar streets on your way to work. The radio plays a cheerful tune, but it does little to lift your heavy heart. The weight of sadness settles upon you, threatening to consume your thoughts.

Blinking away the tears forming in your eyes, you try to focus on the road ahead. This is a new beginning, a fresh chapter in your life. Reminding yourself of the toxicity and abuse that your ex-boyfriend subjected you to, you know deep down that leaving him was the right decision. He didn't truly love you, despite the pain it brings to acknowledge that fact.

But instead of finding solace in your newfound freedom, the realization only amplifies your emotions. The tears blur your vision, making it difficult to see the path ahead clearly. And in that moment, as sadness engulfs you, disaster strikes.

With a jolt, you run over a cone on the road, and time seems to slow down. Panic floods your veins as you lose control of the car, swerving dangerously into the neighboring lanes. The sickening sound of metal colliding with metal fills the air as you crash into a nearby truck.

In that instant, everything freezes. It's not the physical pain that holds you captive, but rather the rush of emotions flooding back into your mind. The sharp agony in your chest reminds you of the scars left by your ex's abuse. The haunting memories of his hits and torment resurface, intensifying the pain you feel now.

Darkness creeps in, threatening to engulf your consciousness. Amidst the chaos, a symphony of horns suddenly adds to your already brewing pain. As you lay there, eyes tightly shut, a soft voice breaks through, gentle and soothing like a beam of sunlight. It stirs something deep within you, a flicker of hope.

Yet, the warmth that spreads through your chest only serves to magnify the pain. It's a bittersweet sensation, a cruel reminder of the wounds both physical and emotional. Your body remains still, unable to summon the courage to open your eyes, fearing what you might find.

Strong hands lift you, cradling your fragile form. Though your sight remains shrouded in darkness, you sense that you're now lying on a soft, cushioned surface—the comfort of a stretcher. Unaware of the commotion surrounding you, you cling to the safety of keeping your eyes closed.

Amidst the cacophony, a familiar voice breaks through the chaos, shouting, "I'll go with her!" The words resonate with you, a glimmer of recognition dancing at the edges of your consciousness. But the pain and confusion muffle your ability to discern who it is.

As you're carried away, the soft voice and the fuzzy feeling in your chest remain, contrasting sharply against the agonizing ache. Uncertain of what lies ahead, your mind remains clouded with fear and uncertainty.

You wake up in the hospital after your car accident, and as you open your eyes, you find yourself in an empty room. But right now, all you want to do is cry. The emotions that you've been bottling up, especially when thinking about your ex, have become too overwhelming. Finally, you let it all go, and tears stream down your face uncontrollably.

Suddenly, the door opens, but you don't hear it amidst the loud ringing in your ear and your wails. Startled, you flinch as you hadn't realized someone had walked in. You try to wipe your tears away, but they keep flowing relentlessly. A warm hand begins to rub your back, and you hear his voice, that sweet and soft voice from earlier. He wraps you in a hug, providing comfort, and unintentionally, you cry into his shirt.

At that moment, memories flood back. You remember him—the same guy who comforted you at the bar. The bartender. But how did he end up here? You lift your face from his shirt, completely bare-faced, your bruises and scars exposed. You try to cover your face but he quickly grabs your hands and places them on your lap. Curiosity consumes you, and you ask him how he's here. He explains that he was on the road and witnessed the crash. Concerned, he pulled over to check on the people involved. Recognizing you, he came into the hospital room to comfort you once again. Warmth and familiarity wash over you as you hear his name—Felix. What a sweet name, you think to yourself.

Felix gently takes hold of your wrist, and you flinch hard in response. Worried, Felix asks if he hurt you, but you quickly reassure him that he didn't, concealing your wrist under the blanket. It suddenly dawns on him that when he met you in the store, he saw the scars on your wrist—the remnants of your previous suicide attempts. This time, when Felix grabs your wrist again, it's with a softer and more caring touch. You no longer flinch; instead, you feel butterflies in your stomach. He's about to say something when you both hear a locking sound on the door. Assuming it's the doctor, you and Felix say, "Come in," in unison.

To your surprise, it's not the doctor who enters—it's your ex. Confusion fills Felix's eyes as he gazes at your bruised and puffy (from crying) face. Felix contemplates leaving the room, but you grab his wrist, signaling him to stay. Your ex approaches your side, and now there are two guys on either side of you. You flinch slightly as your ex holds your shoulder, trying to hide it from him. But Felix notices, even though he doesn't want to intrude on your personal affairs. He can tell that you're uncomfortable.

You hold back tears as you push down the memories of abuse from your ex. His nails dig into your shoulder as he scolds you, blaming you for not listening to him and claiming he always knew something like this would happen. He hurls insults at you, calling you a bitch. This is Felix's breaking point. He stands up abruptly, and confusion and fear reflect in your eyes as you look at him. With a sense of urgency, Felix states that you need rest and politely asks your ex to leave the room.

Your ex stands up, his anger boiling over, and he screams, asserting that you are his girlfriend and he can do whatever he wants with you. He questions who Felix is, and it dawns on Felix that this is your ex, the very person responsible for your fragile state and previous suicide attempts. Felix reaches his limit, and his anger rises to the surface. Just as Felix is about to shout, you place your hand on his leg, signaling to your ex that you will talk later. Somehow, your ex understands and mutters curses under his breath before slamming the door shut.

You burst into tears once again, feeling completely vulnerable in the presence of Felix's soft gaze. His sweet face beams at you, although he is suppressing his anger. Soon, the doctor walks into the room, interrupting the emotional turmoil.

Permanent tag list: @eee5533 @mixtape-racha @ot8skz-wifey

lmk if u wanna be added to the tag list ❤️❤️❤️❤️

oooo... What happens after the visittttt (do they get closer...further?) what happens with y/n's ex?

[just-spacetrash]

the 'what if you played it a little risky' post literally Changed my life but i cant fujkign find it in my blog because its. a tiktok screenshot

[greater-than-the-sword]

This is a controversial take that everyone will hate but it's one thing to feed your kid better, more wholesome food than twinkies and hot pockets daily, it's another thing to force them to adhere to a crunchy granola beige colored diet where they cant share the snacks their peers are eating or have a normal childhood or have fun. None of you were raised like that and if you were you know what im talking about.

[salt-baby]

yes, doctors suck, but also "the medical ethics and patient interaction training doctors receive reinforces ableism" and "the hyper competitive medical school application process roots out the poor, the disabled, and those who would diversify the field" and "anti-establishment sentiment gets applications rejected and promotions requests denied, weeding out the doctors on our side" and "the gruesome nature of the job and the complete lack of mental health support for medical practitioners breeds apathy towards patients" and "insurance companies often define treatment solely on a cost-analysis basis" and "doctors take on such overwhelming student loan debt they have no choice but to pursue high paying jobs at the expense of their morals" are all also true

none of this absolves doctors of the truly horrendous things they say and do to patients, but it's important to acknowledge that rather than every doctor being coincidentally a bad person, there is something specific about this field and career path that gives rise to such high prevalence of ableist attitudes

and I WILL elaborate happily

[chloesimaginationthings]

William Afton lost two baddies in FNAF..

[wykonii]

They’re having a nerd-off

[pcktknife]

she could stand to be a bit more sharky

[thebrainrotsreal]

Drew this real quick because I fucking love these two so much ???? Especially Bee. I wish they interacted more so badly. PLEASE.

Also learning how to draw these guys.. slowly.

[arealphrooblem]

A Lost Cause

Synopsis: The trusted keeper of all the Heroes' secrets, Civilian's existence is kept a tightly guarded secret itself. So how did the villain find her? And how will she withstand the attempts of his scientist to break her open and discover those secrets himself?

CW: nonconsensual drugging, medical whump, medical experimentation, mentions of wounds from torture

 They ambushed her at one AM on a Wednesday night. She had just chugged a glass of water and was walking back towards her bedroom when five men appeared like plumes of smoke in the dim light of the living room lamp. 

Immediately she smashed the glass on the head of the nearest one. He stumbled back and tripped over the corner of the coffee table, blood gushing down the side of his face. A second man got a donkey kick to the knees and an elbow to the face. But then she tripped on the baggy hem of her sleep pants and that gave the other three men all the opportunity they needed to hold her arms down and chloroform her. 

When she woke up, mind foggy with cotton mouth, the familiar walls of her home had been replaced with metal. She sat tied to a chair and sitting across the metal table from her was a man she’d never seen before.

It wasn’t the why that perplexed her. Even though she never participated in the famous battles that raged across the cities of the world, or had her face blazoned on billboards, or plastered all over the news like the rest of her superhero brethren, she was the most valuable member of the team for one simple reason:

She knew everyone’s secrets. 

Their real names and social security numbers. Their home addresses and family members. Their bank app passwords. The limitations of their powers and their weaknesses. 

She knew these secrets because that was part of her job. She coordinated their lives. When someone got hurt, she arranged medical treatment. When the teammates that couldn’t fly had to go halfway around the world, she kept the private jet refueled and paid the maintenance crew. When someone’s family was in danger, she put them into hiding. She bought booked air bnb rooms under false names, she ran the grocery lists for their base, she made sure Mother’s day cards and birthday presents were sent on time.

Her teammates trusted her with this because she was a vault herself. Her power nullified everyone else’s in a wide radius around her. She had training in three forms of martial arts, could hack into almost any database around her and thus prevent from being hacked, and could shoot with fairly decent accuracy multiple types of guns. 

And when all of that didn’t work, she had a memory palace like an ancient Greek maze that no telepath could find their way through if they ever caught her at a distance.

But the best protection she had was her anonymity. Her association with her teammates was their most highly guarded secret. So it wasn’t the why so much as the how. 

How did Villain find her? How did he even know she existed?

Of course, no one was interested in answering her questions. 

The man sitting across the table from her gave her a bemused half smile when she demanded this information. It gave him a boyish, non-threatening air despite the dark tinted sunglasses he wore. 

“I’m afraid you have things rather backwards,” he said, voice soft and pleasant. Like they were on a coffee date. “I’m the one who gets the answers and you are the one who gets the questions.”

“You’re not getting shit from me,” she spat. 

Her hands wiggled against the bonds tying her to the chair. The zip ties cut into her skin, tight enough that she worried about her circulation. If the man noticed her testing them out, he did not reveal it. Instead that half smile grew slowly into a smirk. 

“I’m sure you believe that. You seem to have a very strong will. But willpower doesn’t really matter when I’m involved.”

He took his glasses off, folded them with care, and placed them with care inside his coat pocket. Brown eyes, sweet and warm like hot chocolate, looked back at her. He leaned forward, hands clasped before him, and focused those eyes on her. 

“You will answer every question I ask, truthfully, with every relevant detail you can think of.”

His voice was low and soothing, with an easy confidence of someone used to getting their way. It gave her great pleasure to respond to him, leaning forward as much as her bonds would allow.

“You will go to hell,” she murmured, matching his tone, “and on the way there you can kiss my ass.”

The man tilted his head, eyebrows raised. Did he really think she was going to give him everything, just like that?

“Tell me your name,” he commanded in that same soft tone.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Surprise spread across his face. “Do you really feel no compulsion to do as I say?”

“Did you really think it would be that easy?” she retorted.

He just stared at her, eyes wide in delightful curiosity.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, pulling his glasses back out of his coat pocket. “Well, I suppose you and I are at an impasse. I could advise you give me your answers willingly, rather than face torture. But I assume you would not take that advice.”

“Your assumption would be correct.”

“A shame. You have such spirit. It’s a pity they will break it.”

Fear curled in her gut but she refused to let it show. “We’ll see about that.”

He slipped his glasses back on, hiding those sweet brown eyes. “When you feel like death would be a mercy, please remember that I tried to give you a choice.”

That line haunted her as she experienced the worst days of her life. No food, no water, no rest. Endless pain. Even as she burrowed herself further and further into her own mind, the pain followed her through every passage of the maze. She intentionally twisted herself down paths with dead ends, paths that recurved on themselves, keeping herself away from the information they wanted so badly. 

If she could just hold out long enough, her team would rescue her. 

She just had to last. Just a little bit longer. 

The next time she found herself strapped to the chair in front of the table, the zip ties were the only thing holding her up, slippery from the blood. The light from the lamp felt like a laser in her eyes. A different man sat across the table from her, his features hazy from her blurred vision. The man was older, that much she could tell, and dressed in a sharp black suit. 

Villain. She’d seen his face in so many files, in so much research for her team on him. She would know him in her sleep.               

“You are remarkably stubborn,” he said, crossing his legs. “I see why they entrusted their secrets to you. A shame I didn’t find you first. That kind of loyalty is hard to find and even harder to buy.”

She had no quip for him, no scathing remarks. All her focus went to not puking. 

“I am not going to waste any more of my resources trying to break you. That may sound like good news at first, but it simply means you are now completely valueless to me. That’s a very dangerous position to be in. Normally I would kill you and dispose of every trace of your existence, but my top scientist has asked me to spare you.”

He stood up, brushing imaginary dirt from his suit coat. “Again, that may sound like good news, but you will wish that I had killed you before long, that much I can assure you.”

Before she could make sense of this development, something sharp pricked the side of her neck and then she knew nothing at all. 

Life passed in hazy flashes. She was in a bed. She heard birds and felt sunlight. She saw the man in the sunglasses. It was impossible to tell what was a dream and what was real. When she finally fully woke up, the world appeared in stages. 

First the beeping. Then the cozy heaviness of a blanket. A small pain in her hand when she jostled it. When her eyes flittered open, she saw walls of deep green and cream, an IV drip that ran to the back of her left hand, a row of succulents on the window sill. A desk and a man sitting at it, scribbling in a notebook. A familiar, bespectacled man. 

“Where am I?” she asked.

Or tried to ask. All that game out of her dry, dusty throat was a croak. 

The man’s scribbling stopped abruptly and he looked over his shoulder. 

“Are you finally awake?” he asked, standing up. 

Another groan filtered from her cracked lips. He walked over to a side table that held a pitcher of water and poured her a glass, dropping in a plastic straw. His fingers pressed something on the side of the bed and the front half lifted slowly up until she was sitting. 

“Drink slowly,” he said.

He held the glass to her lips and she sipped the water through the straw. It took everything in her not to chug it, not to rip it out of his grasp and drown in it when he pulled it away and set the glass on the table.                        

“Where am I?” she asked again, voice hoarse.

“Ah, here we go again thinking you can ask the questions,” he said with that crooked smile. 

She glared at him, which only made his smile grow wider. 

“I think though, this time I will be more generous with my answers. You are in my personal facilities. This is the medical recovery room. There is also my lab, my rooms, a kitchen. Everything we need, in short, for a long stay.”

Nausea roiled in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure if it came from the medicine he put her on or the implication of his words. 

“Are you . . .the scientist?” she whispered. 

It hurt to talk. 

“I am a scientist, certainly.”

Another glare. Another smile. 

“Why?”

Why was she here? Why did he want her? Why wasn’t she dead? All words that caught in her throat. 

“Why am I a scientist? That story dates to my childhood, and I doubt you have much interest in that. Let’s say that I have a fascination with the rules of the world and how you can manipulate them.”

This man was impossible. If she had any strength left, she would have strangled him with the cord of her IV drip. 

The steady beep of her heart rate monitor spiked with her anger. He glanced over at it with mild surprise.

“Don’t you feel at least a little hypocritical,” he asked, “expecting the truth from me when you refuse to give it yourself?”

Hypocritical? Hypocritical? 

“Are you serious right now?” she hissed.

“As a heart attack. Like the one you might give yourself if you don’t keep your anger in check,” he added. “Take deep, slow breaths. Your body is still fragile. We wouldn’t want to undo all the progress of your recovery, would we?”

She took deep slow breaths, hating him the entire time, if only to keep him from knowing how much he got under her skin. He watched with little nods of approval. 

“That’s it. Good. Now that you’re awake, I will take some of your vitals and check your bandages.”

Bandages? She resisted the sudden, panic laced urge to rip the blanket off and check her over her body. What injuries she sustained, he would reveal soon enough. 

She held herself very still while he listened to her chest with a stethoscope. She realized then someone, most likely him, had dressed her in a medical gown and done away with the tattered remnants of her pajamas. He took her blood pressure, pinched the skin of her forearm for dehydration, took her temperature, before sliding the covers back and revealing bandages on her thighs, her knees, wrapped around her feet. 

“Cuts and burns,” he explained at her morbidly curious expression. 

“I don’t feel them,” she said in surprise. 

“You have very good drugs in that IV drip.” 

He treated her injuries with an antibiotic salve, spreading it oh so gently with gloved fingers. Then he returned the blankets over her lap and tugged up her medical gown. She tried to fight it, fingers gripping the hem as tight as she could manage, but he easily overpowered her. 

“Relax, this is nothing inappropriate. You have bruised ribs.”

He checked her with the cold methodical touch of a professional before gently tugging her dress back down. 

“You’re healing very well,” he said proudly. As if she had anything to do with it. “I expect partial recovery within two weeks and a full recovery within the month.”

He straightened up and slid his stethoscope off. “You should get more rest. Sleep is the most crucial component of healing.”

Her hand snaked out and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Her grip may have been weak and pathetic, but she held on with all her strength regardless. The man considered her, his expression impressible to tell with his sunglasses on. 

“Why?” she rasps throat aching. “Tell me why . . .please.”

It cost her to beg like that. And maybe he sensed that, because he bent down again and brushed an errant curl back from her face. 

“Villain may consider you a lost cause, but I do not give up so easily. You are a fascinating little puzzle box and I am dying to create the tools that will break you open.”

He chucked her under the chin, and made his way out.

[aroaceleovaldez]

i have suddenly become obsessed with a theme that HoO established but never proceeded to extrapolate on, which is:

You are Percy Jackson, and you have been swapped with a boy who was allegedly everyone's favorite person, but they have decided to replace him with you. They just met you. You stand next to his best friend and the people he's known his entire life. In his home. In his cloak. In his place. They stopped looking for him.

You are Jason Grace, and you have just found out you have a long lost sister who completely replaced you in her life with this girl you just met. Your lives and personalities are mirrors. She is you, living the life you were robbed of.

You are Annabeth Chase, and you have just become starkly aware that you have been inhabiting the void left behind by your best friend's long lost brother. You and Luke were just replacements for him. Now you have to look him in the eyes when he has nothing and know you took that life from him.

You are Piper McLean, and you have just found out your relationship is fake and built entirely on the memories of Annabeth Chase. You have been given a boyfriend when hers has been taken away. You have no idea how much of it is real or not but regardless you feel like if your relationship isn't exactly in their image that you have failed.

You are Leo Valdez, and you have just learned that you are the echo of your great-grandfather. You are not your own person. You just exist to be a mirror of him. A doppelganger. An actor and stunt double facing all the danger he never had to but wearing his face. To be there for his best friend decades later simply because he couldn't. You are playing a role. A seventh wheel and a pawn for a goddess who carefully sculpted your entire life for her own purposes.

You are Hazel Levesque, and the only reason you are alive is because your brother couldn't save your his sister. You are a consolation prize. An apology. Your existence here is misplaced in every way but you inhabit it anyways.

You are Frank Zhang, and you are a shapeshifter. Inhabiting your own body feels strange and clumsy when you could be literally anything at any time. You are anything and everything and live your life with the simple certainty of knowing exactly how you will die.

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

Fic Idea where Fiddleford helps Stan rebuild the portal, but Stan finds out that Fiddleford has a wife and he's like

"You have a WIFE?? That DIDN'T marry you to steal your car and money???? What are you DOING here???"

"Yeah, well.... She's better off thinking I'm dead somewhere....."

"A WIFE. That LOVES you. Get outta here and go explain yourself, Idiot!!"

"She and our son shouldn't have to deal with--"

"YOUR SON???!!?!!??"

Anyways, so Stan helps Fiddleford reach out and explain himself to his wife, but expresses that he wants to keep being in Gravity Falls, so his wife and kid go to live with them in The Shack instead.

Blah blah blah, bonding happens, Stan bags Fiddleford AND his wife and becomes a step dad, God bless 🙏

[skz-streamer]

A Lost Cause- Teaser (2/3)

Pairing: Felix (skz) x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, slight smut?

Warnings: mentions of suicide, scarred wrist, pain, car crash, PTSD, abusive/toxic boyfriend, substances, abuse, bruising, crying, um... lmk if I missed anything else❤️

Notes: This is just a teaser!!! things that are in the genre and warnings part might not be in the teaser...be patient 😘. Fic will be posted tomorow :)

Word count: 509;)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Week Later

Your eyes snap open, the clock on your bedside table reads ‘5:00am’ shit. You had a feeling this would happen, sleep early and wake up early. You grabbed your phone giving up the thought of trying to go back to bed again, you had tried that already and it didn’t work. Like at all. Nothing was open at this time. Ugh what were you supposed to do now? You drag yourself out of bed and slug to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. You get your cast off in another week, it was kinda depressing to look at actually. Usually most casts would be decorated with hearts or names and even little messages, but yours was just a plain white. In fact it was starting to get a little gray around the edges. Maybe if you were with your ex he would’ve- the coffee pot loudly beeps interrupting your thoughts, goddd why were you so hung up over him?

You decide to go out for a walk, maybe some fresh air would be good for you, there is actually a really pretty bridge near your house. It overlooked the ocean. It was pretty nice in the morning, known for providing a beautiful view of sunrises and sunsets. You quickly change into a messy outfit, you just throw on some jean shorts and a tank top. You grab a jacket and head out, looking at yourself in the mirror for the first time in a while, you look different. It’s a cleaner look, smoother skin with no bruises or scratches ruining your skin. Your top perfectly showed the little inward curve your waist had, you didn’t have an ‘hourglass body’ but you were happy with what you had. 

Gladly the bridge was a walkable distance from your apartment, you still didn’t have a car. Gosh there were so many things to sort out. You really tried not to think about all of the things you needed to do…not to mention your job, you hoped you hadn’t lost that. All your worries were blown away as soon as you felt the cold breeze hit your hair. You loved the ocean, the idea that so much was hidden in it scared you and intrigued you at the same time. You felt inclined towards it. You continue to stroll down the bridge, the waves crashing against nearby rocks, the sounds of seagulls, it was all beautiful to you. 

Not looking where you’re walking you bump into someone, sending your coffee to spill all over yourself. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry” you stutter out. “No I should be sorry, look at yourself” he replies, it’s a familiar voice almost like Feli- you find yourself looking straight into his eyes. You had tried your very best to not think about him, especially since what happened in the hospital, it was a mistake. Mistake? That didn’t seem like the right word, maybe an accident? You didn’t mean to lunge at Felix after your ex left, but you felt safe with him, warm.

[watermelinoe]

why is it "this is what happens when you tell white boys they're devils :(" when it comes to the white male alt right pipeline but no one calls for empathy for uneducated right wing white women. what about the high school girl to isolated stay at home mom pipeline. where is their loneliness epidemic