#Helplessness

[feral-ballad]

I was furious at my hands. At myself. At my history. At my inability to do anything with those hands.

Victoria Chang, from Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief; “Dear Daughter,”

[envysparkler]

In a world where Batman never joined the Justice League, Superman rescues Robin in Ethiopia.

Batman arrives at the exploded warehouse, too late as usual, but Superman is there. Superman tells Batman he took Jason to Themyscira to heal from his wounds, and Batman demands to be taken there as well.

In this universe, Batman has a strong suspicion of the Justice League. His demand for the League to stay out of Gotham is half-fear, since the League is full of gods and aliens that he cannot hope to beat in a fair fight. To make matters worse, Dick left Gotham for Bludhaven, took a Kryptonian name, and refuses to talk to him.

Of course, in response to Batman's standoffishness, the Justice League doesn't much like him either.

Themyscira is Not Happy that Batman's there. They're happy to heal Jason, but an adult man who radiates hostility? They only let in Batman on Superman's word, and Wonder Woman demands Batman disarm completely and follow all their rules. So Bruce is left weaponless on an island of people far stronger than he is and are predisposed to despise him.

When Jason wakes up fully, he gets into old arguments with Bruce and screams at him to leave him alone. Bruce is forcibly escorted out and more than one person comments on his parenting skills.

Things come to a head at some festival-type thing that Bruce is forced to attend. He drinks something that makes him feel very fuzzy, snapping the razor thin control over his panic, and has a breakdown. Wonder Woman calls for Superman, but that doesn't help, Bruce just begs Superman not to take Jason away from him like he took Dick.

Bruce passes out. When he wakes up the next day, he runs immediately to Jason's room--his heart stops when he sees Superman there. Clark gently asks him how much he remembered of the previous night and Bruce is unable to fully hide his fear. Clark promises he won't take Jason away. Jason, for all his snappishness, is very alarmed at the idea of being taken away from Bruce, and clings tight to his father, hissing at anyone who tries to separate them.

Diana apologizes for their mistaken assumptions and his treatment here, and Clark finally flies them both back to Gotham for Jason to complete his treatment there. Bruce really only calms back down when he gets to the Cave and confirms that there are no Justice League members anywhere near Gotham.

The next day, there's a knock on the door. Dick looks uncertain of his welcome, but Clark was very insistent he show up to correct some misunderstandings. Bruce hugs him tight and refuses to let go of either of his sons for quite some time.

[3eanuts]

January 26, 1957 — see The Complete Peanuts 1955-1958

[uuuhshiny]

Vladimir Verevochkin in Double

Premises: A man that looks a lot like the main character (Artem) is a debt collector, because of him doctor lost his home, his family left him. Artem is soon taken by police for stealing he didn't do, and as he keeps saying that it wasn’t him but a man who looks like him, is sent to the mental hospital. Doctor finds out what he’s accused of and plans revenge.

Next

[whumpster-dumpster]

Caretaker getting drugged ahead of time so when Whumper comes to recollect Whumpee, all they can do is slump weakly to the floor and watch it happen in a blur until everything fades away

[serenityquest]

[super-lupus]

“From birth I was cast upon you; from my mother's womb you have been my God.

Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help.” - Psalm 22

1. Velázquez, Diego. Christ Crucified. 1632, Museo Del Prado, Madrid.

2. Barbieri, Giovanni Francesco. Apparition of Christ to the Virgin. 1628 - 1630, Civic Art Gallery, Cento.

3. Sassoferrato, Giovanni Battista Salvi. Madonna and Child. 1625 - 1700, Louvre Museum, Paris.

4. Story, William Wetmore. The Angel of Grief Weeping Over the Dismantled Altar of Life. 1894, Rome.

5. Bloch, Carl Heinrich. The Crucifixion. 1870, Museum of National History, Copenhagen.

6. “Mac Finds His Pride.” It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, season 13, episode 10, FX Network, 7 Nov. 2018. Writ. Rob McElhenney and Charlie Day. Dir. Todd Bierman.

[angeleyeswide]

Fathom

Ripping tide,

Tried and tried,

To break from,

But I was raptured into,

The skin-rupturing rocks,

Raked acrossed my ribcage,

By their steely peaks,

Canaled and born,

Into the air at the end,

Of its violent thrashes.

Flying, flailing,

With hands clawing,

At the downward current,

Eternal descent,

Into the white waters below,

Until finally,

Blacked out impact.

And after while,

Creaking open mine eyes,

Balled up body and fists,

Dissipating their tension,

Wrapped in sun scented linen,

Light falling in,

Through clearings in the leaves,

Warm breath in my ear,

From a long time love.

Punches to my spleen,

No longer to be had,

Only tender caresses,

To the frayed flesh in my side.

And I froze, eyes wide.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

June of Doom Day 23

"You're doing great." / Trembling / Gaslighting / Rules

Prompts List | Event Masterpost

Hero x Villain Masterpost | <- Previous Part | Next Part ->

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 1300

Tag List: @juneofdoom @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion

@scaewolf @doctorsawyer @pinkrangerv @42questionsandaloafofbread

CW: captivity whump, concussion, blood, swearing, gaslighting, shouting, referenced torture, referenced abuse, helplessness, superpower whump, torture

----------

Villain didn’t struggle against Shapeshifter. Not only because it would be useless to do so, but also because every time the thought of fighting back crossed their mind, they remembered Leader’s warning. Even without Sound Gun around to wave their weapon threateningly, Villain didn’t doubt that Leader would make good on their words.

The worst part was that they didn’t know what would be considered struggling.

Or what Leader would do to Hero should Villain somehow break the rule.

For now, though, they were alone in a cell, the walls, floor, and ceiling blindingly white and sterile. Blood still ran down the side of their head from where Leader had struck them, and although the headache had subsided slightly, the lights and brightness of the cell hurt their eyes, and every time they tried to stand, the entire room seemed to tilt and spin. 

They slumped against the wall, eyes closed, trying to control their breathing and remain calm despite the panic rising in their throat. They’d never felt so helpless before.

Villain’s eyes flew open as the cell door opened without warning, despite the spike of pain from the light. “Where are they?!” they demanded when Leader stepped inside. Alone.

Leader smirked, closing the cell door. “Oh… are we worried about our little friend? They’re unhurt. For now. And as long as you cooperate, it will stay that way. Am I making myself clear?”

“Fuck. You.” Villain spat.

“Ah, a fighter, are we?” Leader mused, folding their arms, an infuriatingly smug expression on their face. “I suppose that’s to be expected. You do keep remarkable control over your territory, despite not having any powers to speak of.”

Villain barked a harsh laugh, ignoring how the sudden movement made the relentless hammering in their head throb faster. “You don’t know anything if you think powers are necessary to protect the innocent.”

“I suppose you are correct about that,” Leader acknowledged. They slowly began to remove their gloves. “However… you misunderstand your situation. The only reason you’ve kept your territory for so long is not through any skill of your own.”

“I understand the situation perfectly fucking well,” Villain snapped, hands curling into fists, “it’s not my fault your people are just so damn incompetent.”

Leader did not respond immediately as they finished removing their gloves, sliding them into a pocket. They casually inspected their fingernails. “Have you ever considered,” they finally said, “that ‘my people’ were simply going easy on you?”

Villain rolled their eyes and involuntarily winced as they accidentally glanced into the light overhead, its brightness temporarily blinding them and causing their retinas to feel as though they’d been stabbed with sharp needles. “Sure. I suppose I have wondered why you only ever sent them in ones or twos. Mostly Hero, for some reason. And then I hear on the news that I’ve been branded as their nemesis. Public attention, then?”

“Correct!” Leader exclaimed. Villain flinched at their tone, sounding somehow both jovial and spiteful. “You’re doing great.”

Villain glowered at the false praise, but Leader continued on. “You were never a threat. Not really. Sure, you had good aim with your little guns, but they really are no match for superpowers, now, are they? Of course not. You were supposed to be baby’s first nemesis, Hero’s first victory against evil in the city.”

“And then Hero wanted out.”

Their eyes still weren’t working properly, but they could see enough to catch the dramatic change in Leader’s expression. Where before it was casually neutral as if commenting on the weather, now it was cold, calculating. Threatening. “‘And then Hero wanted out.’” They repeated mockingly. “The weakling. The coward. I had to teach them a lesson, of course. This line of work is like no other, and the expectations are like no other. They just didn’t understand, yet.”

“You tortured them!” Villain shouted, voice trembling with anger. “I’ve seen their injuries, tended to most of them myself! The extent of their wounds… nobody does things like that in the name of discipline! I’ve been called a villain for years, but if anyone’s the true villain, it’s you. You who perpetuate this cycle of hurt, of violence, who allow your team to harm desperate people who are forced to break the law to survive. 

“You want to know why I chose to do what I do? Because someone has to protect them from people like you.”

Leader watched their tirade coldly, expression unchanging. “That was quite the speech,” they finally said, a hint of amusement in their voice. “How long have you been waiting to say that? Did you give that little monologue to Hero while you tended to their injuries?”

Villain gritted their teeth but did not respond to the dig. They hadn’t meant to say all of that initially, but they’d just… snapped. Remembered when they’d found Hero bleeding out in that alleyway, pursued by Teleporter. Remembered when they’d taken out the bullet, stitched up their wounds, bandaged what they could. Remembered how Hero never had a full night’s sleep, not really. Remembered the really bad nights, when they’d wake up crying, screaming for Leader to stop, and Villain could do nothing but hold them as they sobbed.

The words had just poured out. All the hatred they’d amassed, from years fighting them indirectly and from the weeks with Hero, all of it culminated in such a way that they couldn’t be face to face with them, alone, and just stay silent.

“Staying silent now, are we?”

Villain did not reply.

Leader rubbed their fingers together absently. “Did you know Hero can hear us from their cell?”

Villain blinked. They did not, but what did that have to do with—?

Leader was suddenly directly in front of them, having somehow crossed the short distance between them the moment their eyes were closed. Villain tried to flinch back, but there was nowhere to go. A hint of anticipation simmered in Leader’s eyes as they reached out, slowly, agonizingly, and placed their hand on Villain’s cheek, just below the cut on their temple.

It was a simple gesture. Shouldn’t have done anything. But looks could be deceiving.

The sensation was faint, at first. Barely noticeable underneath the throbbing of Villain’s head and the aching behind their eyes. But it grew. And it grew quickly.

It was like a hundred thousand needles piercing their flesh. 

As if the blood flow had been temporarily cut off from their face and was just now flooding back. 

Stabbing and cutting and jabbing and tearing into their nerves, into their bones, into their very soul. 

Spreading out from the source, Leader’s touch, and reaching every inch of their being.

Someone was screaming.

No, not someone.

They were screaming.

Leader’s eyes locked with theirs, their face a mask of grim determination.

They weren’t going to stop.

All other sensation was gone—drowned out, overwhelmed.

And yet, inexplicably, it continued to grow.

Each imaginary needle grew longer, sharper as the seconds ticked by.

“Do you understand now, just how helpless you are?”

No powers, no weapons, no allies.

“How minuscule you are, compared to me?”

Leader suddenly withdrew, stepping away and pulling their gloves back on. Villain’s breathing came in gasps, their entire body shaking and trembling, the incredible, awful pain dissipating into thin air.

As if it had never existed in the first place.

“You are nothing,” Leader said coldly, “As insignificant as a mite. It’s terrible how you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you could possibly stand a chance against people like me. You couldn’t even save yourself.”

Villain squeezed their eyes shut, becoming aware of the tears dripping down their cheeks as the cell door slammed shut behind Leader. Somewhere, far away, faint shouts echoed.

I’m so sorry, Hero.

They’re right.

I can’t save you.

Can’t even save myself.

[regressioncurriculum]

Adult Grade-School Essay Prompts: On Safety

What three things in the house are most wrong for a baby to play with?

Write a thank-you note to your caregiver for stopping you from playing with dangerous things.

Compose a short poem about an adult baby like you who plays with something they shouldn’t and causes terrible things to happen.

[feral-ballad]

Bedros Courian, from Anthology of Armenian Poetry, ed. & tr. by Diana Der Hovanessian and Marzbed Margossian; "Complaint"

[brumeraven]

🪫: On Fates || chronic illness, decay, exhaustion, depression, fatigue, helplessness, self-harm, the mirror

"Have a nice day-oh..." She trailed off mid-platitude, blinking and looking away as she noticed my Fate. I knew that's what it was; I'd grown accustomed to the sudden loss of eye contact. One quick saccade, realization, revulsion, and finally embarrassment.

For the first time, I allowed myself to become aware of the other figure, standing beside and a bit behind her, like an over-controlling manager.

Old. Tired, yes, but at peace, nothing at all like the vivacious youth she'd once been.

Not a bad way to go.

No one knows where Fates came from, or at the very least if someone does, they're not telling. Maybe they sprung from our collective subconscious. Maybe there was a data breach at the Akashic records. Maybe it was just divine revelation.

Or maybe a Witch decided once and for all that She was tired of explaining Herself, tired of the rest of us not seeing the world through Her eyes.

All I know is that one day, they were suddenly there, just beside and a little behind each of us.

Didn't take long to figure out what they meant.

Even if there'd been the possibility for doubt, well, a sizable majority of that first bunch showed all the hallmarks of a myriad novel and varied means of suicide.

And then all of them came true.

Once people came face to face with an inerrant, tangible proof of their own mortality, well, they just gave up. Taking matters into your own hands was a means of control, of reclaiming agency, snatching back some false sense of free will from the jaws of predestination.

It was paradoxical, come to think of it, all wrapped up in retrocausality. None of them ever saw any other death but by their own choice. Perhaps it was just the finality of it all, but it hardly seems as if that could have driven any to it.

And yet...

It was a matter of proof incontrovertible that one just wasn't strong enough to survive in a world devoid of make-believe, one in which it seemed impossible to forget.

They were wrong. The human capacity for self-delusion and willful blindness should never be underestimated.

I nodded politely to the girl and wandered out of the shop to the street. Those who survived adapted quickly.

It became gauche to even notice another's Fate, much less comment on it, and how could one acknowledge one's own without tacitly, indirectly doing the same to others?

People just ignored them.

If your Fate was to die fast and young, what was there but to squeeze in every last drop of life in the interim?

And if instead one was to die after a long life, why bother thinking of the future? Damn the consequences; apparently they wouldn't matter.

And so it was that, after a short period of adaptation, society all but returned to normal.

All but us, the afflicted.

I peered furtively at passersby, taking in the myriad endings their Fates foretold.

Cancer.

Heart disease.

An overdose.

Vehicle accident.

The usual fare.

For them, death was a state, the finality of an outcome so unlike one's current state as to be near impossible to consider. And as such of no concern to them.

For some small number of us, though, death was a process. Dying, dying was hard. And living in spite of it harder still.

I looked to my side, forcing myself to see what others refused to, what I'd seen every single day since that first.

I saw myself, as I was.

My own life, as I lived it.

All the suffering and resentment I lived with, day after day after day.

Only, it wasn't the same at all.

Decades older, she was nevertheless a mirror of me, a cruel reflection in which every ounce of pain and frustration and resentment had been magnified, every bit of exhaustion redoubled.

Decrepit and decaying, I saw the truth of my future every single day.

Decline.

Despair.

Every time I looked at her, I saw that I would only worsen.

Every time I looked at her, I saw that, soon enough, my bad days would be good ones, and the bad to come worse still.

Every time I looked at her, I knew I would go on existing anyways, spared even the mercy of death.

No wonder then that I walked alone in a bubble of averted eyes down these crowded streets.

With time, they'd all found it easy enough to know that they'd die.

How much crueler a fate to know that you'd never be allowed to live.

~🪫

[3eanuts]

January 23, 1957 — see The Complete Peanuts 1955-1958

[diaryofadissembler]

298: It's the only way my family knows. Image description: a three panel comic with polaroid frames. The panel shows blue sky and a red brick chimney in the middle of the picture. the text on the panel reads: “We open our hearts to the inevitable. Eyes wide and ribcages broken.” Text underneath reads: “J. krupitza / inspired by asofterworld.com” end Image description

[euphoric-pang]

Other side of Indian Wedding

(from my friend's marriage)

[naomiwielant]

If there is hope, there is a way out...