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#imprisonment
winters-dream · 20 days
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“You don't have to do this.”
Villain paused mid-speech—mid-stride—and glanced at the hero. Tied up in the corner of Villain’s lair, Hero watched as Villain had gone on a rather long and boastful speech about their plans for the city. Now that they had Hero captured, nothing stood in Villain’s way. They could set the city on fire if they so wished. Hero would be helpless.
They stood in front of the hero, a smirk wearing at their lips as they stared them down. “Of course I do. I want to run this city and now I can.”
Hero shook their head. “No. I meant this,” they said, gesturing towards themself as best as they could with their hands tied behind their back. “These grand gestures, the holding me hostage, the big talk. I can tell it’s mostly just big talk.”
Villain’s smirk faltered slightly. “It’s not just big talk.”
“But it is,” countered Hero. “I’ve been at this a long time. I know a tough facade when I see one. You’re trying to be impressive. To impress me.”
Villain scoffed and turned their head away, shame bubbling deep within their chest. They’d be lying if they said a great bit of this was theatrics to come off as impressive. They did want to be spoken of in high regard. But that didn’t have anything to do with the hero . . . 
Or at least that’s what they told themself.
“You think you have it all figured out?” asked Villain as they struggled to fight the blush that threatened to color their face and neck. The hero’s giggle made Villian look back at them. They expected mockery for being so painfully obvious, ridiculed for catching feelings for the enemy and wanting to impress them. Shame began to kick in tenfold, unwilling to look their nemesis in the eye. 
But what they saw was the opposite. They were greeted with warmth and admiration instead.
“I do,” Hero stated simply. “I’ve noticed the way you glance at me when you think I’m not looking, Like you’re searching for my admiration.”
Villain’s mouth went dry as they let out an audible gulp. 
“But you don't have to do all of this,” Hero continued. “I already think you're amazing.” 
“You do,” Villain asked mutely. It came out as more of a statement. 
Hero nodded. “Of course. I’ve been watching you through our years of being enemies. And I’ve grown fond of the person you’ve become.”
Villain had to look away from the hero; they couldn’t stand the look in their eyes. The same big adoring eyes they gazed at Villain with so many times now. They remembered the first time they noticed that look. The first time Hero and Villain set their work aside and held a real conversation together. Villain had allowed Hero to perceive them as a human being instead of the villain persona they usually wore around them. And vice versa.
Villain liked to think that’s when their initial crush on Hero had solidified. 
“Villain, come here,” beckoned Hero. And Villain listened without a second thought, kneeling before Hero so they were eye to eye. Villain had their eyes cast down to the ground, Hero’s sweet gaze too intimidating to face.
“You don’t love me,” Villain blurted. “You love the idea of me. How smart I am with a computer. My powers, how you could probably use them to overthrow SuperVillain if I switched sides or something. Or how—”
Something landing on his wrist interrupted his speech; Hero’s hand. Hero had managed to undo their own binds. Villain finally met Hero’s eyes, finding that same affection now mixed with a somberness Villain couldn’t quite place.
“Stop measuring your value based on the things you can do for other people,” said Hero. “You’re more than that, and I see it. You don’t need to convince me to love you.”
Villain let out a long breath, tension leaving their shoulders as well. They almost allowed themself to feel relief, a small hint of a smile making way to their lips. 
“You love me,” they said. 
They received a nod in response, and Villain leaned forward. Their forehead found purchase on Hero’s shoulder as Hero held them tightly yet gently. Their hold radiated a warmth that filled a piece of Villain they never knew was missing until now. They allowed themself to relax in Hero’s embrace and feel for the first time, the warmth of real love.
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pratchettquotes · 3 months
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"It's daft, locking us up," said Nanny. "I'd have had us killed."
"That's because you're basically good," said Magrat. "The good are innocent and create justice. The bad are guilty, which is why they invent mercy."
"No, I know why she's done this," said Granny darkly. "It's so's we'll know we've lost."
"But she said we'd escape," said Magrat. "I don't understand. She must know the good ones always win in the end?"
"Only in stories," said Granny, examining the door hinges. "And she thinks she's in charge of the stories. She bends them around herself. She thinks she's the good one."
Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad
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canadda-uk · 1 year
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“We are talking about people who are not locked away in secure hospitals for years on end because they’ve committed a crime - they’re incarcerated because there is a lack of funding for appropriate care for them in the community.
The noise, the lack of the right kind of sensory stimulation, the sudden changes to routine, being physically touched or even forcibly restrained - all of these are known to be triggering for someone with autism and learning disabilities, and yet all are common practice in the secure hospitals meant to be providing care.
You wouldn’t shine a flashing light in the face of someone with epilepsy, so why put someone with autism and learning disabilities in an environment that is known to provoke a negative reaction?
To make matters worse, if the patient reacts negatively - lashing out, hurting themselves or others - such behaviour might just be held against them and viewed as a justification for keeping them locked away in that environment even longer.
That’s the catch 22 of this whole system: the ‘treatment’ contributes to making the patient worse, but the worse the patient gets, the less chance they have of being allowed out.”
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urdepressedslut · 11 months
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Stray ❝part four❞
♡ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader/The Winter Soldier x Fem!Reader
♡ Summary: It’s the next day and both you and Bucky don’t want things to change. He doesn’t want to leave, and you don’t want him to.
♡ Warnings: angst, fluff, hints to child abuse, hints to character death, hints to PTSD, hallucinations, self hate
Italics are flashbacks
Part 5
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You tapped your fingers against the stone, trying to create a melody. Your vision blurred, the hit to the back of your head continuing to bleed. Wincing from a particularly harsh throb, you started to tap harder against the stone, dust floating around the air.
“Tom—” Your throat was raw from screaming, sending you into a coughing fit, “Tommy… What’s your color?”
You forced yourself to speak, your throat irritated from overuse. Your little brother Tommy was unfortunately trapped into another room, unlucky in avoiding Mom and Dads rage. The wall closer to the ceiling was made of a different material, it was thinner. It was the only way of communication you had with him. You’d check up on him occasionally if you weren’t unconscious, asking him for a color.
Green was fine. Yellow was hanging in there, but hurting. Red was bad.
You halted your tapping, listening for Tommy’s voice. A cry, cough, anything. The sound of your painful breaths were the only thing that could be heard, leaving you to think of the worst. Your nose burned at the thought of your baby brother beaten and left alone on the floor of his room. You were his big sister, and you failed at the one thing you were meant to do as his sister. Protect him.
“Tommy?” You called out again, “You awake? Please Tom, answer me!”
Your attempts continued for hours, sobbing, screaming, despite your throats irritation. You continued to receive no response, no sign of life. You felt defeated, empty of life the longer you sat down here. Your heart felt it was gone, ripped from your frail body as you let your mind fall into the abyss.
You could faintly hear the sound of the door opening from your brothers room, having you perk up at the sound.
Your body jumped as your Mothers screaming filled the two rooms, bouncing and echoing through the small space.
“My baby boy! No please come back!” Your Mother cried.
Your Mother might as well stomped on your heart, crushing it before your eyes. Your eyes filled with tears that you feared would be never ending, and you begun to wail along with your Mothers cries.
It was sick really, listening to a person grieve so violently. Even sicker when it was by their own doings.
You sat on the front porch, waiting patiently for the sun to rise. Your hand holding a picture so tightly, it threatened to fold. Your body shivered from the cool dawn air, your blouse and dress not warming you enough. You found the cold to be refreshing after a sleepless night, waking in a pool of your own sweat.
Staring down at the picture, your eyes watered at the sweet smiling boy, face full of innocence.
With the sadness came anger that he was taken away far too young. Having missed out on his whole life, robbed of memories, experiences, everything.
Sometimes you would catch a whiff of the decomposing stench randomly in the air. Despite being free of that hell, you’d be sent back into that room. Body going into full blown panic, clawing at the air as if the walls were closing in, scratching up your arms in attempt to grab ahold of something. Then in a blink, you’d be standing in the open fields, hand full of crumpled up flowers.
Time would heal. Maybe that was true for some, but it was different when you were alone. Your thoughts seemed louder, with no outside input to interfere. You felt like you were still trapped in that room.
You felt like the same scared little girl from the first day it happened, confused, bleeding, betrayed. You trusted your parents, you loved them. Even now, you wanted to love them because you just didn’t want to believe that your parents would do such a thing.
A hazy figure to your right from your peripheral vision snapped you back to reality, causing you to flinch back from the intrusion.
Your head whipped to the figure, focusing your gaze suddenly on nothing. The figure was gone, the empty front porch the only thing filling your view. You blinked rapidly, glancing around in paranoia, wondering if what you had seen was real. If someone was lurking, watching you from afar.
The creaking of footsteps suddenly sounded from behind you, causing you to jump up from your spot, whipping around to see. Your eyebrows furrowed, eyes going wide, darting around when you were met with… Nothing.
Freaking out you were whipping your head around in paranoia again, breathing heavy from feeling terrified. You turned towards the house and ran inside, not risking another glance back at the door, in fear you’d find the figures following you inside. Shaking your head, you attempted to clear the fog that filled your brain.
Is it possible for an insane person to know they are insane?
Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can just stop. The battle wasn’t about reality. It was within your own mind. You had been molded by bloodied hands, raised to be imperfect, taught to do sinful acts. Though, you had a strong conscience, and you weren’t physically capable to follow in your parents path.
Yes, you were insane. But you were also a person who struggled to remain calm, clinging desperately to the general flow of life, without ever actually being included. You were aware that things didn’t make sense, the illusions of ghosts seeming to be impossible. But there was an overwhelming lack of control, horrifying thoughts overriding your clear ones.
Maybe you were getting used to it, or maybe this was just how things were gonna be for you.
That was the only explanation of how calm you could feel, only moments after dealing with an episode. But it didn’t matter how much you were used to it, you would always feel afraid.
Coming closer to the kitchen, you slowed your footsteps at the sound of loud chewing. It almost sounded like someone was scarfing down food. Tip toeing to the doorway, you peaked your head in, your heart warming at the sight of Bucky indulging in the breakfast you made.
You had assumed he wasn’t going to attempt to touch anything you had made, but you had hoped in the back of your mind that he’d help himself.
You had caught yourself frozen in a memory, losing yourself to your mind when you had accidentally made enough food for a family of four. The innocent looking gesture was all it took for you to excuse yourself, heading outside to the front porch. That’s how you ended up clinging onto Tommy’s picture in a fraught grip.
Your chest was warm in satisfaction at the sight of Bucky enjoying himself. Happy that at least someone was having a good day. You allowed your mind to fill with Bucky, your mind feeling more at ease with just him wandering your thoughts.
He was mysterious and broken, but behind what appeared to be a soldier, was someone gentle. You didn’t know what he’d been through, and you didn’t know if you’d ever find out, but you still couldn’t believe his words that he’s a monster.
You knew what the real monsters were like, having been stuck for twenty something years trapped with them. You knew what a monster was like, and he wasn’t one of them.
You couldn’t stop yourself from letting a giggle bubble up, the soft sound alerting Bucky of your presence. The sight of this fairly large man hunched over at the island, munching on waffles like he was in love with them, entertaining you.
Bucky on the other hand was slightly embarrassed at you catching him ravaging your homemade waffles. But he found it easy to ignore the awkwardness, from the shock that your sweet laugh had given him. It was the lightest sound he’d ever heard, igniting an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. But the feeling wasn’t unpleasant.
You watched his face go through too many emotions to depict and you couldn’t help the concern you felt for him.
“I’m guessing you like my waffles.” You stated, giving him a gentle smile. Walking further into the room, standing behind the island facing him.
His cheeks flamed with red, using his right hand to wipe the syrup from his lips.
“Yes, they taste really good.” He told you, starting to push his plate away, though he was still hungry. He felt awkward to eat in front of someone.
“Well, don’t stop eating on my account.” You spoke, noticing his discomfort suddenly. “I accidentally made too much food, so there’s plenty for you to eat.”
He nodded, wondering why there was so much food to begin with. With just the two of them, it wasn’t necessary. He still had doubts whether you were being truthful the night before, about your family. He hadn’t wanted to snoop around the house, but your suspicious behavior made him want to. He didn’t sense any other heartbeat, or any other being causing noises besides you. Surely his mind was playing tricks on him, maybe you were just a little odd.
“I was thinking… About uh— Making you some lunch before you go. For the road, I suppose.” You offered, fiddling with your fingers nervously.
Bucky stayed silent while listening, greatly appreciating the gesture. But he couldn’t help the frown that settled on his face, the thought of leaving— scaring him. But the thought that maybe you wanted him to leave, made him feel miserable.
Despite still having just met you days ago, you were starting not to feel like a stranger to him.
“I can make some sandwiches, or I can chop up some fresh fruit, veggies… Well, I gotta go pick some from the fields— But that’s no issue really.” You rambled on, Bucky continuing to watch you with an unreadable expression.
“That’s really not necessary, I have to be going.” Bucky mumbled, scratching the back of his neck with his left arm, exposing the flash of silver.
“Wait— what is—”
Bucky followed your gaze, and realized you had seen his arm. He’d totally forgotten you hadn’t seen it yet.
“Uhh… This— Uh…”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable I just— I’ve never seen a prosthetic arm look like… Well, look so cool.” You rushed out, obviously staring at his arm, taking in all the intricate ridges, the bright red star.
Bucky cringed from your compliment, he didn’t believe it should be given. This arm was stained with the lives of so many innocents, it was tainted by the souls he had taken. It was a weapon, not a limb.
“Are you okay?” You snapped him out of his degrading thoughts, making him realize you’d been calling his name.
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
You watched with worried eyes and made another note to yourself.
Prosthetic arm: Sensitive topic
You would never truly understand for yourself how losing a limb could be taxing, and you’d respect him by not bringing it up. You’d felt guilty for mentioning it in the first place, the shock of seeing it had caught you off guard.
“So um… Lunch? What would you like?” You offered again, not minding to change the subject. His strange behavior was starting not to phase you.
Maybe it did, but you felt like you shouldn’t ask. You had your fair share of secrets, weird quirks that you were sure he noticed. A huge part of you appreciated that he didn’t seem to mind yours.
Bucky found you refreshing, you never pried. The second he was uncomfortable, you’d back off. It was odd to be so respected, especially after seventy years of being treated the opposite. Though he appreciated it, he felt he didn’t deserve it.
“I really shouldn’t stay any longer.” He told you with a frown.
“You running from someone or something?” You asked playfully, but your smile disappeared when you met his serious expression.
“Kind of, yeah.” He confessed shamefully, lowering his gaze to the leftover waffles.
“You’re very mysterious.” You thought out loud.
“It’s not safe for me to be here. It’s not safe for you.” He told you so suddenly, causing you to frown.
“I’m… not safe here?”
“You’re at risk with me around.” He informed you, watching your face scrunch with confusion.
“Why?”
“There are people looking for me. Bad people.” He said, his gaze intense.
“The bad people is who you’re running from, right?” You asked, trying to connect the dots on your own. You didn’t want to pry, but his words that you were in danger had given you the right to investigate.
Bucky on the other hand had felt surprisingly relived talking to you. Despite you not fully understanding how bad of a situation he was in, he was able to let someone else know what was happening. He felt less alone.
“Yes.” He whispered, his flesh hand closing into a fist.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but, I kinda live in the middle of nowhere.” You started, coming up with an idea.
You had obviously enjoyed having someone else around, the company being something you had missed.
Bucky furrowed his brows, a part of him had wanted you to ask him to stay, he didn’t want to get his hopes up. But deep down he knew he shouldn’t.
He nodded for you to continue, seeing as he didn’t have anything to say.
“Nobody ever comes up here— I don’t even think anybody knows there’s a house this way.” You stated, “As for the cemetery… It’s an old one, it’s been years since someone’s been buried here. So… No visitors.”
He listened intently, waiting to see where you were going with this. Again, he didn’t want to assume anything.
“You could stay. Here… With me.” You whispered, anxious that he’d reject your offer, leaving you here alone.
Bucky was taken aback, he was hoping you’d say just that, but to actually hear you say those words was almost unbelievable. Nothing ever worked to his favor. The never ending view of the fields, fenced by walls of towering trees had become something of comfort to him. It was peaceful and private, a place he could hide away.
You weren’t wrong— Yes, he had stumbled upon this place. Merely because he didn’t have a destination, the further the better. But this place was practically invisible, the grass looking untouched by anyone other than you.
He couldn’t help but want to trust you, you haven’t given him a reason not to trust you. He found it slightly terrifying that he was so willing to, but he had been trying to get a read on you the second he saw you. He didn’t come up with anything that might pose as a threat, instead he wondered if you were broken like him?
“You want me to stay?” He asked in disbelief, still thinking he imagined you saying those words.
You walked up, leaning against the island, holding his hesitant stare in a soft gaze.
“You can if you want.” You told him, wanting him to stay because he wanted to.
He had gone awhile without ever wanting anything, he was taught not to want, only to obey. But he didn’t want to obey anymore, he wanted to live how he wanted.
“Yes, I want to stay.” He confessed, the words feeling sour on his tongue. But the relief felt too good to focus on the anxiety. It was an overwhelming feeling of control he suddenly felt he had. He almost didn’t welcome it.
You smiled, watching his tense posture relax.
“Well, I’m gonna go pick some fresh fruit and veggies. I still wanna make you some lunch— And if you liked my waffles, just you wait.” You teased, “Be back in an hour.”
You reached under the sink, grabbing some old grocery bags, and headed towards the door. Beginning your adventure to gather food for lunch. You had a skip in your step, happy that Bucky had chosen to stay.
Meanwhile, Bucky watched your skipping form bounce out the door, and for the first time it felt like in forever… He genuinely smiled.
A/N: ahhh im overwhelmed with the support for this mini series, im so happy y’all like it🥹 let me know what you think of this part🤍
TAGLIST: @delicatecapnerd @buckybarnesandmarvel @viperchick47 @hunitweet @vixi-3303 @mirtaqueen @buckyb-stan @happinessinthebeing
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wangxianficrecs · 3 months
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pale shadows of forgotten names by Chrononautical
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pale shadows of forgotten names
by Chrononautical (@chrononautintraining)
T, 56k, Wangxian
Summary: To protect the Wen, Wei Wuxian throws himself on the mercy of the Lan Sect. To protect Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji marries him. To protect them all, Lan Xichen orders the Yiling Laozu's seclusion in the Jingshi. But the Jingshi had another occupant in the past. One who lingers on, furious to think that history might repeat. Kay's comments: An interesting story that just finished posting! Based on The Untamed canon and characterization, a story where Wei Wuxian marries Lan Wangji/let's himself be imprisoned by the Lans for the Dafan Wens' safety. However, it turns out he's not the only one trapped inside the Cloud Recesses. Featuring lots of Wangxian miscommunication/misunderstandings, Wei Wuxian's need to receive therapy and Wei Wuxian and the Wens being a family. Excerpt: Fortunately, despite the hasty arrangement of his marriage, it had previously occurred to him that learning to prepare those foods favored by residents of Yungmeng might be a valuable skill. In truth, it had been a foolish pursuit at the time. Wei Wuxian had been so thin during the Sunshot Campaign. He drank alcohol eagerly, but seemed to pick at any food not prepared by his sister. Back then, Lan Wangji had been gormless enough to hope that someday peace would come again and with it Wei Ying’s return to proper cultivation. He might visit the Cloud Recesses as a welcome guest, perhaps on sect business as the Jiang’s First Disciple. So someone should be able to make the food he liked. On the off chance that such a situation came to pass. Shamefully, Lan Wangji was also aware of the warm praise Wei Ying always gave to his sister when she made his favorites. He fantasized sometimes that Wei Ying might flatter him similarly, in that easy, honest way. Now, of course, it would be undeserved. As his jailer, offering Wei Ying palatable meals was merely meeting the baseline of his moral obligation. Nothing Lan Wangji did for his husband could be praiseworthy. Not anymore. Even so, when Wei Ying rolled out of bed in his sleeping attire and snatched a baozi from the steam basket with his bare hand before Wangji could offer properly, he smiled.
pov alternating, canon divergence, fix-it, wen remnants live, madam lan lives, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, imprisonment, wei wuxian needs therapy, wei wuxian gets therapy, miscommunication, misunderstandings, developing relationship, mutual pining, married lan wangji/wei wuxian, arranged marriage, getting together, friends to lovers, first kiss
~*~
(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)
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sunnynwanda · 4 months
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Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?
I understand if you don’t wanna write this!! 💜
Soulitary
It was silent. Excruciatingly so. Supervillain could hear his own heartbeat, the rustling of the fabric over his chest that accompanied every exhale, the strained motion of his eye ticking. He could almost feel the darkness surrounding him.
At first, it was painful. Supervillain was so reliant on his powers that getting deprived of them physically hurt him. His limbs were too heavy, his chest too stiff, and his body too weak. He couldn't move for a fortnight and barely ate anything until he had lost enough weight to be able to lift his body off the floor. Movement, as limited as it was in his cage, seemed to keep him sane. 
The pain subsided, drifting into the back of his mind over time. 
He adapted to the constant darkness of his cell, too. The initial nightmares of horrible creatures lurking in the dark no longer occupied his shattered dreams. There were no monsters with long claws and cold, slimy fingers reaching for his neck, looking to choke the last breath out of him. No, there were no monsters in his cage. The monsters were outside. Patrolling the corridors, mocking the beasts they were ordered to guard, spitting at them and laughing like hyenas, beating up anyone who dared to answer. Supervillain learned to tune out their voices and ignore their sneering remarks. 
But human nature is a terrifying thing. Supervillain got used to the weakness weighing him down. It was not as difficult to lift his head or hold a spoon to eat whatever animal food he was getting fed anymore. He came to terms with the absence of sunlight as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He even went so far as to condition himself to tolerate inhumane treatment.
The only thing he could not adjust to was the isolation. Solitary confinement. The actual worst they could have done to Supervillain, who adored the confused commotion of his big family. He thrived in chaotic environments, where people talked over each other, laughed out loud and always had something to add to the conversation. 
Conversation. That was what Supervillain was bereaved of. And he felt it - the need, the yearning of human connection. As little as a hello would be enough. Just a word that was truly uttered – not conjured by his frenzied consciousness. 
When he first hears the gentle knock on his door, he doesn't believe his ears. The guards never ask for permission, they barge right in, not dignifying the captives with boundaries. Animals deserve no respect. Thus, Supervillain waits, allowing his eyelids to drop again. He doesn't know why he bothers to open them in the first place when it's pitch black around him, regardless. 
The knock comes again, this time louder. Then he hears a hushed voice. "I'm coming in." 
When no reply follows, the Guard (Supervillain assumes it must be a new one) turns the key, pushing the door halfway open and entering the cell. 
"God, why is it so dark? I can't even see where I'm stepping... Ouch!" He springs back upon stepping on Supervillain's foot and crouches down to place the bowl of food on the floor. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't see."
With his hands now free, the Guard reaches for the flashlight on his belt and turns it on. Supervillain has to cover his eyes - he did not remember light hurting this much - squinting despite his hand obstructing it. It takes him a few moments to adjust, then he wipes the tears off and focuses his gaze on the Guard in front of him. Too young for this miserable place, he thinks to himself while his captor studies him. It's only when their eyes lock, that the Guard comes to his senses, apologising profusely.
"I am so sorry! I did not see you there. I mean, it's hard to see anything in such darkness, but still. My bad." Supervillain is too stunned to react for a number of reasons. Since when did the guards apologise? It was part of the job to inflict suffering on their subjects. Did this one not complete the training? Or was this a trap? Was he acting deft to catch Supervillain off-guard and wound him unexpectedly? 
The Guard, however, keeps rambling. "I thought you would be asleep when you did not answer. It's not an excuse though. I should have checked. That's part of my job, is it not? Ah, you probably wouldn't know." He runs a hand over his face, clearly distressed. Supervillain is amused and too shocked to react. That's the most talking he has heard in months, and a part of him desperately demands to answer. The Guard rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Anyways, here's your food. I don't exactly know what that is, but you're so skinny, you should eat it."
Supervillain's mind is screaming at him, begging his mouth to talk, to say something – anything. God, move! Talk, god damn you, a word, any word!
But before he can squeeze out said word, the Guard waves him goodbye and locks the door, leaving him alone. 
He never touches the food, too consumed by the incident to think about anything other than the ray of light – literally and figuratively –that walked into the solitude of his cage. He spends the next several hours in feverish dreams bordering reality until the morning arrives, poisoning him with a blood-curdling idea that the Guard was nothing but a figment of his own imagination – a chimaera created by his delusional mind. Yet, despite his best efforts to convince himself it was an illusion, his memory opposes, bringing forth every detail of the interaction – albeit one-sided – that he managed to engrave in his brain. 
Supervillain is still deep in deliberation when a knock on the door attracts his attention. He freezes, breath hitching in his throat as he waits with desperation for it to come again. It does not. Instead, the key turns in the lock, and the door screeches open. 
"I'm going to turn the light on, if you don't mind," the Guard warns. Supervillain is dumb enough to nod in the dark. "Here we go." 
He flicks the switch outside the cell door; the bulbs buzz worriedly, and light floods the ascetic room. Supervillain looks around, seeing his dungeon for the first time. He notices his blanket in the corner and the untouched bowl from yesterday. 
"Hey, you didn't eat at all! Is everything alright?" The Guard chimes into his thoughts. His voice is laced with concern that feels foreign in this place. When Supervillain shakes his head, the Guard smiles – the room, somehow, becomes brighter. "It's bad, isn't it?" 
Supervillain nods, and the Guard chuckles, placing a new hot bowl in front of him. He looks up in surprise and is met with a shrug. "Figured it might taste better hot." 
The expectant gaze of the Guard is the only reason he reaches for the bowl. It's as shitty as before, but it warms his insides. He hums in appreciation, taking another spoonful. The Guard smiles again, now more cheerful. "Should I leave the lights on? Or do you like it dark?"
Supervillain finally finds his voice. "Light. Thank you." 
The Guard nods before exiting, and Supervillain curses himself for not saying more. He should have talked, for god's sake. This is the first person to treat him like a human being for the past eight months, and all he could muster were three words. 
He feels pathetic. This wasn't him, not really. The true Supervillain was voluble, articulate with his words and emotions and loud. Very, very loud. He loved the attention it earned him, loved being on stage. Performance was part of his persona, his public image of a supervillain. The presentation was what gained him the fame. The same fame that led him here. Alas, he sighs, leaning his back on the wall. 
At least he has light now. 
***
It's been almost four months since Supervillain's confinement changed - the granted light and occasional conversation made his exile from society feel less strenuous. His Guard would come in once a day, as per the rules. Aside from that, he gained a habit of sitting outside his door after the evening rounds, telling Supervillain about his day or the news. His cheerful voice would catch Supervillain off-guard at first, but he grew accustomed to it, as well as to the daily dose of prison gossip. The people in the city were dejected - mass arrests that were supposed to bring peace to the streets had a reverse effect. Supervillain couldn't help the foul smile this knowledge brought to his face. He did not comment. 
After two weeks of talking to the wall, the Guard was ready to give up. He had promised himself he would stop trying after the fourteenth night, which ended up being the night Supervillain replied. It was a short comment on the newly installed power dampeners that were to substitute the old ones. Supervillain pointed out that the old ones were more than efficient, leaving him drained of strength and energy. The Guard then asked if that was the reason he was so skinny, and so the conversation flowed. Supervillain told him about the thorny months of his captivity, how it took him countless days and nights to submit to the unfamiliar weakness. 
During one of the many conversations that followed, they talked about his past, the origin of his unnatural power and the reasons for his incarceration. Supervillain never denied being dangerous – he embraced it gladly, though he never used his power against innocent civilians. Sure, he had committed his fair share of crimes, as regarded by the authorities, irrespective of his cause. But there were worse things he could do.
The Guard told him of his past dreams and aspirations, all of which were crushed when he lost his parents and had to step up to provide for his younger siblings. He came from a household where no one got left behind, and Supervillain finally understood where his kindness stemmed from. 
One day, when the Guard came from the last round, Supervillain was the first to speak. They sat on the opposite sides of the door, back to back and separated by thick metal, yet connected stronger than before. 
"So, will you be leaving soon?" Supervillain fails to mask the melancholy in his voice. So much for being supportive!
The Guard pauses for a long moment before shaking his head no. Supervillain can't see him, but the reply is clear as day. "Your brother's graduating next month, is he not? You can stop working here and search for a new job. More suitable for you."
"I can't," his voice comes softer than a rustle. He presses a clammy hand to his forehead to calm the burn beneath his skin. 
"Why?" In all honesty, Supervillain does not want him to answer. He doesn't want him to go either, but keeping him here feels blasphemous. Despite the cell draining his life force and loneliness ravaging what's left, Supervillain would rather be forlorn again than allow his friend to waste his youth here.
"I can't, Supervillain," the Guard repeats, even lower now, not trusting his voice to speak louder.
Supervillain curses under his breath. "Why not?
Do not say what I think you're going to say, they plead. I don't think I have the strength to alienate you or push you away to make you go. 
"Because I won't leave you here alone." The Guard gets up, walking away to avoid being lectured on the stupidity of his reason. He lacks the nerve to be any bolder. 
He doesn't return until later at night. Supervillain is stiff against the door when he hears approaching footsteps and shuffling. Then comes the soft voice. "I'm sorry."
Supervillain sighs, rubbing his eyebrows to ease the tension. "You did nothing wrong." The claim is met with silence, so he adds. "Apart from getting attached to the wrong person, that is."
The Guard chuckles, shaking his head and bringing his knees to his chest. "Are you the wrong person?"
"I'm a convicted criminal." A fact he had to remind himself daily when he first got here. You are a convicted criminal, and the guards will treat you as such. Except the treatment was far worse than that, until his new friend showed up.
"Doesn't mean you're evil," the Guard chimes into his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. 
"You don't know me," he notes, though it's not entirely true. 
The Guard smiles, leaning forward and placing his chin on his knees to rest his neck as he mumbles. "I think I know more than anyone else."
***
The wailing of the sirens forces Supervillain awake in the most unsettling way. The alarm lights under the ceiling flicker red, alerting him further. He springs to his feet with a speed he hasn't had in a long time and then stops in his tracks because it strikes him. The overwhelming force that hits him right in the middle of his chest, spreading all over his body, obstructing his lungs with suffocating constrictions, rushing through his veins and reaching the tips of his fingers and toes to erupt in sparkles of sheer unrestrained raging power. It's surreal. All-consuming. Galvanising. He revels in the agitation that washes over him, wave after wave. His senses are overstimulated and raw. 
He feels lightheaded as he attempts to focus his eyes on his prickling fingers. It takes him a moment to identify the cacophony of sounds outside. 
And then the realisation dawns on him. 
The power dampeners are off. 
In a prison with the worst criminals of the damn century. He closes his eyes to tune out the noise and think, but his mind is too frantic to concentrate. The moment the inmates realise their powers are back, all hell will break loose. Supervillain knows they will revolt. He would, too – after spending months being treated worse than an animal.
The Guard. The image flashes through his thoughts so fast it almost burns him. With renewed anxiety, he bangs on the door. There's no response, and the ideas running through his head coat his stomach with dread, hot and muggy. He knows it's about to get dirty, and, in all honesty, those guards deserve it. But not his Guard. Not him. Anyone but him. 
He presses his palms against the door, channelling all his fears and worries into heating the metal till it melts under his fingers. It drips down to his feet, forming a pool. When the lock is soft enough, he whips the door open, but as he is about to step outside, someone crushes into his chest, pushing him back and shutting the door behind them. 
He lets out a sigh of relief as the Guard presses his back to the door, holding it closed. 
"That's not going to work." 
"Please don't go out there!" 
They speak at the same time, and Supervillain can't help the smirk that fights its way to his face. "Scared I'll harm your friends?"
"I'm scared they'll hurt you." His eyes are enormous as he stares up at Supervillain, who looks much healthier now. He looks alive. His skin is no longer grey, his lips and cheeks are coloured in pink hues, and even his eyes sparkle with new vigour. He takes hold of Guard's shoulders, pinning him further against the door to stabilise his shaking form. 
"Stay here. Be quiet." The Guard shakes his head no, grasping Supervillain’s arms with an unspoken plea. Supervillain softens. "It's okay. I will keep you safe. I promise." 
With that, he moves the Guard to the side and exits the cell, sitting down against the door – roles reversed from hours before. From time to time, the Guard hears people come and run the moment they spot Supervillain's menacing form.
It's only four hours later that the military arrives, clearing the area and arresting the surviving prisoners. As they bring order to the facility, checking floor after floor Supervillain opens the door. He is met by a tear-stained face and hard stare of his Guard. Supervillain huffs out a laugh and draws him into an embrace before pushing him out the door.
"Try not to forget me when you leave," he jokes half-heartedly, but the Guard shakes his head with surprising firmness. 
"I will get you out of here no matter what it costs me."
He never steps foot in the prison again but manages to keep his oath three months later. When Supervillain exits the gates with release papers in hand, he does not expect to be met by a mixed bunch of his siblings and strangers who all seem to be acquainted. It's moments later that he notices another familiar face he failed to spot for lack of the usual uniform. He shakes his head with a cheeky smile and rushes towards the kindest people in his life. 
Supervillain never has to endure silence or solitude again. 
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Alright, there's a lot to unpack here :) First of all, thank you for the wonderful request. It turned out longer than expected, as well as took me longer to finish, but then again, the idea deserved to be worked on. I enjoyed crafting this story immensly. So thanks for that as well. I know other writers have been doing the request too but avoided reading their stories to keep mine clear of influences.
I hope you enjoy this despite the delay. Once again, thank you! xo Sunny
Masterlist
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whump3000 · 3 months
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Caretaker sat crosslegged on the floor, humming a lullaby under their breath as they brushed out the snarls in Whumpee’s hair.
Whumpee sniffled, the chains about their wrists clinking as they wiped their nose. They had laughed, the first time Caretaker offered them the hairbrush. They were imprisoned after all, what difference could it make? Yet somehow, the longer they were here, the more difference it did make.
It didn’t matter how bad things got, Whumpee knew Caretaker would always be here, waiting for them with a hairbrush and gentle words.
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ronanziriano · 2 months
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Kinktober 20: Cell by 67percentobsession
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ayyy-imma-ninja · 3 months
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What did eclipse do to pass the time?? Did he nap a lot or just stare into space
Good question! :D
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philosophybits · 4 months
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Year after year the gates of prison hells return to the world an emaciated, deformed, willless, ship-wrecked crew of humanity, with the Cain mark on their foreheads, their hopes crushed, all their natural inclinations thwarted. With nothing but hunger and inhumanity to greet them, these victims soon sink back into crime as the only possibility of existence. It is not at all an unusual thing to find men and women who have spent half their lives — nay, almost their entire existence — in prison.
Emma Goldman, "Prisons: A Social Crime and Failure", Anarchism and Other Essays
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whumppppp · 3 months
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Silent scream webtoon
Repost
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blackrosesandwhump · 9 months
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Whump Prompt 107
Write something based on this concept:
A demon agrees to form a pact with a human...but the human betrays him and turns him over to a group of demon hunters who imprison and torture him just for being a monster.
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bfpnola · 6 months
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a Black, formerly incarcerated trans woman shares what it is like re-entering society after imprisonment, where she learned about restorative justice practices, and how this all relates to racism
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ammg-old2 · 11 months
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I last saw my old professor Abduqadir Jalalidin at his Urumqi apartment in late 2016. Over home-pulled laghman noodles and a couple of bottles of Chinese liquor, we talked and laughed about everything from Uighur literature to American politics. Several years earlier, when I had defended my master’s thesis on Uighur poetry, Jalalidin, himself a famous poet, had sat across from me and asked hard questions. Now we were just friends.
It was a memorable evening, one I’ve thought about many times since learning in early 2018 that Jalalidin had been sent, along with more than a million other Uighurs, to China’s internment camps.
As with my other friends and colleagues who have disappeared into this vast, secretive gulag, months stretched into years with no word from Jalalidin. And then, late this summer, the silence broke. Even in the camps, I learned, my old professor had continued writing poetry. Other inmates had committed his new poems to memory and had managed to transmit one of them beyond the camp gates.
In this forgotten place I have no lover’s touch Each night brings darker dreams, I have no amulet My life is all I ask, I have no other thirst These silent thoughts torment, I have no way to hope
Who I once was, what I’ve become, I cannot know Who could I tell my heart’s desires, I cannot say My love, the temper of the fates I cannot guess I long to go to you, I have no strength to move
Through cracks and crevices I’ve watched the seasons change For news of you I’ve looked in vain to buds and flowers To the marrow of my bones I’ve ached to be with you What road led here, why do I have no road back home
Jalalidin’s poem is powerful testimony to a continuing catastrophe in China’s Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region. Since 2017, the Chinese state has swept a growing proportion of its Uighur population, along with other Muslim minorities, into an expanding system of camps, prisons and forced labor facilities. A mass sterilization campaign has targeted Uighur women, and the discovery of a multi-ton shipment of human hair from the region, most likely originating from the camps, evokes humanity’s darkest hours.
But my professor’s poem is also testimony to Uighurs’ unique use of poetry as a means of communal survival. Against overwhelming state violence, one might imagine that poetry would offer little recourse. Yet for many Uighurs — including those who risked sharing Jalalidin’s poem — poetry has a power and importance inconceivable in the American context.
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winters-dream · 10 months
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tw: death
“Don’t touch me!” shouted the villain. They scrambled away from Hero to the best of their abilities with a smashed in rib cage and shattered ankle. “Don’t come anywhere near me! Don’t treat my wounds, don’t help me. Just stay away!”
They scooted away from them until their back hit the cold concrete of the basement wall. They heaved in a wheezing breath, they were ninety percent sure their ribs had punctured both their lungs and heart. And the entire right side of their body was a bruise. A deep purple, the same shade as a plum. They weren’t sure of their chances of survival, but they were definitely sure they didn’t want Hero’s help. Not after everything they did.
“Villain, if I don’t treat your wounds you will die,” said Hero. They knelt in front of Villain, medical equipment in hand but Villain used their good foot to kick it away. Hero watched as it slid against the far wall then turned back to face the villain.
“I’d rather die,” sneered Villain. “I’d rather die a thousand deaths than be indebted to you, not after what you did.”
Hero shook their head, confused. “After what I did?”
“Yes, after all of this torture, being beaten bloody and electrocuted and torn apart over and over," Villain said. They coughed, turning their head to spit blood. "You want to swoop in and patch me up just to throw me back to the wolves? Forget it."
Another shake of the head, Hero spoke. "None of that was me, Superhero did this to you."
Villain rolled their eyes with a scoff, the action causing a sharp pain to spread through their chest. They winced from the pain but still pulled away when Hero reached out a hand.
"No, all you did was hand me over on a silver platter," they said. "You walked me in here, watched the other heroes lock me up, disappeared for months while Superhero did what they wanted to me. You're the reason I'm like this."
Hero gazed down at the broken mess of the villain’s  body, their eyes watering at the realization of the truth behind Villain’s words. They turned Villain in, they left them in the agency's care, they lived their life like normal. They were promised Villain would be in safe hands, they didn't know this was Superhero’s idea of 'safe'.  They didn't know.
"Villain, I had no idea you were being treated like this, I thought you’d be safe—”
“Safe—” Villain shouted the word, but that seemed to be a mistake as a sharp pain pierced through their chest, knocking the air out of their lungs. They gasped for air, a hand clinging to their chest as an invisible fist seemed to close tightly around their heart. Still, they pushed Hero’s hands away, refusing any ounce of help from the person who put them here.
“I should have died my first night here,” they choked out. “I’ve been through Hell and back and again. You have a sick concept of the word ‘safety’.”
“I didn’t know,” whispered Hero. “The plan was to only have you imprisoned for a couple years and then I’d help you escape. If I had known Supervillain would do this, I—”
They broke off with a hitch of their breath. They reached out and held onto Villain’s arm, refusing to let Villain shake them off. 
“You’re my best friend, I would never hurt you.” Villain made a noise at the back of their throat, but Hero continued. “It’s not too late. I can fix you up and get you out of here. I’ll keep you hidden, you’ll never have to face Superhero again. Just please, let me treat your wounds.”
Tears had begun to cascade down their face, Villain’s hate-filled eyes, usually so full of life, becoming duller by the second. They shook their head, angling it to face away from Hero.
“How dare you call me your friend?” they muttered. “You lost that title years ago when you literally stabbed me in the back. Piss off.”
They felt a few tears of their own to fall, but they refused to acknowledge them. 
“So you’re going to refuse help that you desperately need just because I’m the one offering it?”
It took more energy than Villain cared to admit to shrug their shoulders, to act like their next words didn’t hurt them as much as they hurt Hero.
“It’s better to be dead than receive help from the enemy.”
That was that last thing they said before they couldn’t anymore. They tasted blood in the back of their throat, felt the thick liquid rise up, cutting off their air supply. They took one last gasp of air, the pain in their chest unbearable as they did. They lifted their gaze to Hero, their crying face the last thing they saw as death finally took them.
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wangxianficrecs · 10 days
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there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears by ghostberry (xmoyashiii)
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there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears
by ghostberry (xmoyashiii)
G, 3k, Wangxian
Part of the Wangxian White Day Exchange 2021
Summary: Even from seclusion, a mother's eyes see much, and her heart understands even more. And she can only sit back and watch for so long. The story of Lan Wangji's devotion, heartbreak, and joy through the eyes of the person who knows him best in the world. Kay's comments: Chanting MAMA LAN, MAMA LAN, MAMA LAN I just love fics so much where she lives and gets so see her sons grow up and especially fics where she gets to meet Wei Wuxian! I just know that the two of them would get along so well! This story is The Untamed canon, so she's witness to all the pining and the mess at the end where Wei Wuxian is left to wander alone, but she's not taking it! Really loved her characterization in this story too. Excerpt: "Hello? Is anyone here?" Curiosity wins, a trait she's never quite been able to stamp out with all her years of solitude and meditation. Not, she supposes, that she's tried particularly hard. She goes to the door and opens it, and finds herself face to face with a teenager in guest disciples' robes, gazing up at her with surprise in his wide grey eyes. "Hello," she says, and the sound of her own voice surprises her in return. It's been so long since she's spoken to anyone but Wangji and Xichen; there's an irrational instant where she half expects Lan Qiren to jump out of the bushes and start shouting accusations at her, just for this one simple greeting. But of course he isn't here — no one is here but herself and the boy. His smile is wide and infectious; she finds herself smiling back without quite knowing why either of them are doing so. “I knew a place like this must have someone living in it! I'm guessing I probably shouldn't be here, huh? I was exploring and I saw the path, and I just had to know, you know?" Belatedly, he seems to remember himself and bows. His form is perfect, but she can tell he's just going through the motions, eager to get back to talking. "I'm Wei Ying, courtesy name Wuxian." Of course. Sheng Lin can't hold back her laughter; it rings through the clearing, loud and bright and unfamiliar to her own ears. "Your reputation precedes you, A-Ying," she says gently, still chuckling.
pov madam lan, madam lan lives, madam lan deserves better, lan family feels, pov outsider on lan wangji/wei wuxian, canon compliant, cloud recesses study arc, thirteen years of wei wuxian's death, hurt/comfort, imprisonment, canon divergence, the untamed compliant
~*~
(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)
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