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fatehbaz · 7 months

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The government of Australia’s northeastern state of Queensland has stunned rights experts by suspending its Human Rights Act for a second time this year to be able to lock up more children.

The ruling Labor Party last month [August 2023] pushed through a suite of legislation to allow under-18s – including children as young as 10 – to be detained indefinitely in police watch houses, because changes to youth justice laws – including jail for young people who breach bail conditions – mean there are no longer enough spaces in designated youth detention centres to house all those being put behind bars. The amended bail laws, introduced earlier this year [2023], also required the Human Rights Act to be suspended.

The moves have shocked Queensland Human Rights Commissioner Scott McDougall, who described human rights protections in Australia as “very fragile”, with no laws that apply nationwide.

“We don’t have a National Human Rights Act. Some of our states and territories have human rights protections [...]. But they’re not constitutionally entrenched so they can be overridden by the parliament,” he told Al Jazeera. The Queensland Human Rights Act – introduced in 2019 – protects children from being detained in adult prison so it had to be suspended for the government to be able to pass its legislation.

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Earlier this year, Australia’s Productivity Commission reported that Queensland had the highest number of children in detention of any Australian state. Between 2021-2022, the so-called “Sunshine State” recorded a daily average of 287 people in youth detention, compared with 190 in Australia’s most populous state New South Wales, the second highest. [...]

[M]ore than half the jailed Queensland children are resentenced for new offences within 12 months of their release.

Another report released by the Justice Reform Initiative in November 2022 showed that Queensland’s youth detention numbers had increased by more than 27 percent in seven years.

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The push to hold children in police watch houses is viewed by the Queensland government as a means to house these growing numbers. Attached to police stations and courts, a watch house contains small, concrete cells with no windows and is normally used only as a “last resort” for adults awaiting court appearances or required to be locked up by police overnight. [...]

However, McDougall said he has “real concerns about irreversible harm being caused to children” detained in police watch houses, which he described as a “concrete box”. “[A watch house] often has other children in it. There’ll be a toilet that is visible to pretty much anyone,” he said. “Children do not have access to fresh air or sunlight. And there’s been reported cases of a child who was held for 32 days in a watch house whose hair was falling out. [...]"

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He also pointed out that 90 percent of imprisoned children and young people were awaiting trial.

“Queensland has extremely high rates of children in detention being held on remand. So these are children who have not been convicted of an offence,” he told Al Jazeera.

Despite Indigenous people making up only 4.6 percent of Queensland’s population, Indigenous children make up nearly 63 percent of those in detention. The rate of incarceration for Indigenous children in Queensland is 33 times the rate of non-Indigenous children. Maggie Munn, a Gunggari person and National Director of First Nations justice advocacy group Change the Record, told Al Jazeera the move to hold children as young as 10 in adult watch houses was “fundamentally cruel and wrong”. [...]

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[Critics] also told Al Jazeera that the government needed to stop funding “cops and cages” and expressed concern over what [they] described as the “systemic racism, misogyny, and sexism” of the Queensland Police Service.

In 2019, police officers and other staff were recorded joking about beating and burying Black people and making racist comments about African and Muslim people. The recordings also captured sexist remarks [...]. The conversations were recorded in a police watch house, the same detention facilities where Indigenous children can now be held indefinitely.

Australia has repeatedly come under fire at an international level regarding its treatment of children and young people in the criminal justice system. The United Nations has called repeatedly for Australia to raise the age of criminal responsibility from 10 to the international standard of 14 years old [...].

[MR], Queensland’s minister for police and corrective services, [...] – who introduced the legislation, which is due to expire in 2026 – is unrepentant, defending his decision last month [August 2023].

“This government makes no apology for our tough stance on youth crime,” he was quoted as saying in a number of Australian media outlets.

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Text by: Ali MC. "Australian state suspends human rights law to lock up more children". Al Jazeera. 18 September 2023. At: aljazeera.com/news/2023/9/18/australian-state-suspends-human-rights-law-to-lock-up-more-children [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

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stirthewaters · 8 months

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Too Sharp to Touch pt. 1

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: slight language

Summary: After getting into another fight, Wednesday has no choice but to come and get you.

Pairing: Wednesday x Reader

It was the second time this month, and you had somehow gotten into another fight?

At this point, Wednesday was beginning to think that you wanted another detention.

She had been on her way to drop off her botany assignment, finished early as usual, stopped by a familiar tap on the shoulder from Thing.

Her eyes flicked to her shoulder, voice hinting at irritation

“What is it now?”

Thing signed a couple times, and Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, a frustrated sigh escaping her.

“Y/N is fighting…again?”

Thing responded with a couple more taps, and she closed her eyes, summoning what patience she’d be able to have for you right now.

“She isn’t my problem, Thing. I have more important matters than deterring yet another trivial dogfight.”

Thing tapped again, growing impatient, almost tumbling from her shoulder when she halted abruptly.

“I do not care for Y/N, Thing, I merely keep Enid from going hysterical over her well-deserved wounds due to her lack of fighting skills.” -she fixed the hand with a cold glare - “Suggest something like that again and I will be locking you out of the dorm again.”

The hand stubbornly continued to sign, causing the raven’s eyes to narrow.

“I agree that Y/N lacks self-control but that does not mean I shall be taking responsibility for it.”

Wednesday began walking again, trying to ignore the ever-frequent tapping on her shoulder, that of which was becoming harder and more insistent.

You couldn’t be that hurt yet. You were tough (though she’d never admit it to you or anyone else). Despite this…she couldn’t ignore the fact that your abysmal fighting skills would indefinitely cause yet another concussion. She knew that you’d never let her or anyone else hear the end of it if you were walking around for the next couple of weeks with a head injury, complaining and whining annoyingly as you always did, and she did not have the patience to go through that again.

Wednesday also knew, irritatingly, that you would not listen to Enid, no matter what her roommate attempted to persuade you with; as close as you two were you tended to be infuriatingly stubborn at times, and now seemed to be one of them.

She turned and glared darkly at Thing, who was still tapping away insistently.

“This is the last time, and I will be doing it solely keep our sanity intact. Say otherwise and I will not hesitate to follow through on my threats.”

She was most certainly not doing this because she was concerned for your safety, which you obviously had no personal regard for.

If she was lucky she’d at least get to see some bloodshed.

As expected, upon entering the quad, there you were, beside the fountain, locked in a fight with a boy almost twice your size; obviously another werewolf by the size of him, and the untamed hair that nearly every male werewolf possessed.

Enid was among the couple of students watching, glaring at you as she looked for an opportunity to step in and pull you away; not that Wednesday thought you’d listen to her.

Wednesday noted disapprovingly that your hits were clumsy; surely this wasn’t the best you could do? She continued to watch as you swung left when you should’ve swung right, and caught a blow to the side of your stomach, rolling her eyes in disgust.

other students looked on with concern, worry, or perhaps exasperation, whereas Wednesday watched as her roommate tried desperately to pull you away from her opponent, the blonde’s eyebrows furrowing with frustration as her attempts were repeatedly proved useless, the faintest of smirks hinting at Wednesday’s lips as she watched her try and persuade you away from the fight, even though your eyes were alive with adrenaline, and what she thought to be a hint of sadism, blood dripping from your nose, and a wonderfully nasty bruise beginning to form on your cheek. Blood could look good on anyone, she observed, somehow even on you.

After about five minutes of what was clearly a pathetic attempt at fighting on your end, she let out a sigh of frustration and swiftly began moving through the quad toward you, muttering under her breath. With one hand she neatly grabbed your wrist and with enough force neatly yanked you backward, placing her heel firmly behind yours, which caused you to trip backward and onto the ground.

Ignoring your look of indignance and surprise, she stepped forward and dodged a swipe from your opponent, kicking out into his stomach and sending him reeling backward, glaring at him so fiercely that he didn’t dare try and fight back.

Turning to you, she fixed you with an equally cold glare, grabbing your wrist once more and pulling you up to your feet. Her eyes darted to the blood dripping from your nose, and the growing bruise on your face, and an irritated sigh escaped her. “What was it this time?”

“He wolf-whistled me,” your response was breathless through your pants, as the faint animalistic glow began to leave your eyes, signaling you were beginning to calm down.

“So you decided to fight him?” the raven raised an eyebrow, annoyed - “The least you could do is fight decently.”

You frowned slightly and began to respond before you were interrupted by Enid approaching, a visible frown of exasperation, annoyance, and concern on her face. Wednesday released your wrist, fixing you with that same cold glare before leaving you with Enid and exiting the quad, returning to her original task.

It was about ten or fifteen minutes later when Wednesday returned from the greenhouse, and when she opened the door to her dorm found you on Enid’s bed, with Enid tending to your wounds..

Ignoring both of you, she sat down at her desk, placing a sheet of paper in her typewriter. As she began typing, her eyes remained locked on the words being type, although unfortunately she couldn’t drown out your occasional grumbles or huffs.

*Smack*

“Ow! Enid, what the hell?!”

“Stop squirming!”

Wednesday continued typing, but the sound of your well-deserved little smack from Enid did bring a slightly sadistic hint of a smirk to her lips as she worked, though your already irritating little complaints were becoming more and more annoying.

“Silence would be appreciated,” she remarked coldly, still typing.

“You’re not going to pay any attention to me?” your voice came out slightly congested; clearly the bloody nose was catching up to you.

*smack*

“I said hold still!”

Wednesday couldn’t help rolling her eyes, continuing to type. The steady hum of her typewriter became more of her focus as she honed in on the sound of it rather than your grumbles; although she couldn’t deny that she enjoyed hearing your soft winces of pain every now and then.

As she tore one of the finished pages carefully from the typewriter and aligning it in the box containing her novel, you complained.

“You’re taking too long on purpose.”

Enid responded with a hint of impatience.

“Then stop wriggling so much! It’s like I’m bandaging a child instead of a damn werewolf.”

“I can do it myself, you know.”

“No, you can’t. If you were in charge here you’d just “let it heal on it’s own” and do nothing. Now shut up and let me work, I’m almost done.”

Wednesday exhaled through her nose; she most definitely did not want to help, but she needed you out of the room so she could focus, and Enid was taking a ridiculously long amount of time to finish what could’ve been done in five minutes.

Standing stiffly and pushing away from her desk, she walked over to Enid’s side, approaching you on the bed; upon closer examination, the bruise on your cheek was beginning to swell, though luckily the bleeding in your nose had stopped. Rolling her eyes, she glanced at Enid, raising an eyebrow.

“You didn’t consider getting an icepack?”

The blonde looked back up at her with a small, indignant frown - “it took me this long just to get Y/N’s nose to stop bleeding.”

Wednesday gazed over at you, eyes narrowing slightly as she sighed

“Thing, go retrieve an icepack from the cafeteria.”

The faint scuttling of the hand obeying her command gave her the confirmation to move on, and she reached out, touching your bruise firmly but carefully, causing you to wince and pull away.

“Stop moving, you’re acting like a child. Even Enid is tougher than you,” she remarked, causing a huff of annoyance from the blonde. “If you hadn’t been fighting in the first place this wouldn’t even be happening.”

Her eyes briefly flicked up from your bruise to your eyes as you responded

“It’s not my fault. He started it.”

“Do I even have to ask?” She muttered, eyes returning to examining the bruise, which, although it was swollen didn’t look too serious. “He was nearly three sizes bigger than you; the least you could do is choose an appropriate opponent.”

“I’d call it brave, taking on a guy that size and leaving him with the marks that I did.”

“Foolish, more like.”

You rolled your eyes, and her lip curled into the faintest of smirks. Thing returned promptly, balancing an icepack on top of him as he hopped atop the bed. Nodding once in thanks, she took it and wrapped it in a handtowel that Enid had prepared, handing it to you and watching with another sigh as you pressed it your cheek.

“Y/N, you gotta stop getting into these fights. Learn to control yourself,” Enid said with a disapproving frown, causing you to scrunch up your eyes with indignance,

“I do control myself.”

“Wrong.” Wednesday glared at you. “You’re impulsive.”

You glared right back up at her. Bold of you. “So are you.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed slightly, “I’m starting to believe you want to become a rug.”

“I would make a lovely rug,” you muttered, eyes darting away. Good.

You got to your feet, still holding the icepack in your hand, and looked down at Enid.

“Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll try and ‘control myself’, better in the future, okay?”

Enid looked back up at you and her expression softened, as usual. She couldn’t stay mad at you for long. “Good. I don’t want you dying on me. Wolves gotta stick together, y’know?”

Wednesday could feel herself getting nauseous at the horrible cliche, and she frowned, eyes narrowing. “Just leave; I have work to do.”

You turned, a small smirk on your face as you mock-saluted, turning on your heel. “See you later, Dr. Addams.”

Rolling her eyes, Wednesday stared at the door for a moment, arms folded, before she noticed Enid with a huge smirk on her face, similar to yours. Raising an eyebrow, she frowned slightly, “what?”

“Nothing,” she said in her dreadfully sing-song tone, which the raven chose to ignore as she sat back down at her desk, returning to her novel, eyebrows furled in annoyance as it took her a moment to wipe the image of you covered in both your and your opponent’s blood from her mind. Odd. Blood really did look good on anyone.

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pt.2 here!

#wednesday addams #wednesday series #wednesday x reader #wednesday #wednesday 2022 #jenna ortega #werewolf wednesday #werewolf #werewolf reader #tstt

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fiercynn · 6 months

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Yasser was 16 years old. His father, Oun Alareer, was tortured to death in an Israeli prison before Yasser was born. With that haunting revelation comes Oun's story, one that is etched into the fabric of our collective memory to serve as a stark reminder of the enduring human spirit—unyielding in the face of adversity—and of the profound impact that one life, one absence, could have. Since the Israeli occupation of East Jerusalem, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip in 1967, about 237 Palestinian detainees have reportedly been murdered with torture, medical negligence, or execution during arrest or an attempt to escape prison. Four Palestinian prisoners passed away in Israeli jails while on hunger strike, the last of whom is Khader Adnan, who died in administrative Israeli detention on May 2, 2023. Administrative detention is when Israel detains Palestinians indefinitely without trial or charge, usually for renewable six-month periods. Adnan is the first person—that we know of—to die from a hunger strike in Israeli detention since 1992. Months after his death, Israel still holds Adnan prisoner. [x]

- refaat alareer for scalawag magazine on june 20, 2023

#free palestine #prison abolition #scalawag magazine #refaat alareer

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obsessivevoidkitten · 4 months

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I don't bring up politics and world events up on here very much, that isn't what this blog is about. This blog is for escapism from reality, but those who are not willing to speak out against brutality are complicit. And this is my largest platform.

Don't continue reading if you don't want to read about war and violence.

Regarding Israel and Palestine I have seen many inaccurate assumptions and outright lies.

1ST CLAIM: One claim I hear ad nauseum is that Gaza elected Hamas and therefore they deserve punishment.

Let's break this down.

A. Hamas was elected around 2006. 17 years ago. They have not allowed elections since.

B. Roughly half of the Gazan population are under 18. This means half the population wasn't born during the last election. This means that of the Gazans who were alive many were too young to vote.

C. Hamas won by a 45 percent plurality, not a majority. This means that less than half of the Gazan who did vote did so for Hamas.

So taking these facts together we can conclude that only a fraction of a fraction of Gazans alive today elected Hamas.

In fact Netanyahu was happy to fund and prop up Hamas because doing so meant dividing Palestinians between the Palestinian Authority in the West Bank and Hamas in Gaza. So Netanyahu is more to blame for Hamas than Palestinians are.

2ND CLAIM: Another thing I hear a lot is that this conflict and all of the casualties are the fault of Hamas. Let me be clear, I do not support Hamas or the October 7th attack that ended up with a civilian casualty rate of around 50 percent, but that one attack doesn't exist alone or without context and nuance as many on the pro-Israel side would have people believe.

No, that attack was one incident in a line of many. Starting with the brutal apartheid, displacement, and ethnic cleansing of Palestinians by Israel.

A slow motion genocide taking place over the course of many decades.

Let's look at some events leading up to and then following Oct. 7th.

It starts with the beginning of Israel. Even the often recited phrase "a land without people for a people without land" erases the existence of native people who had lived there for centuries.

In 1948 you have The Nakba. A mass displacement of Palestinians as Israel took their land. This flew in the face of the UN partition plan, after The Nakba Israel controlled 78 percent of the land, 25 percent more than the UN plan.

This trend of land theft has only continued.

Let's fast forward to more recent events.

2018-2019 The Great March of Return: For over a year there were peaceful marches protesting the Gaza border, this resulted in Israeli forces killing over 220 peaceful Palestinian protesters.

In 2019 Netanyahu admitted support for Hamas to prevent a 2 state solution.

In 2022 journalist Shireen Abu Akleh was targeted and killed by Israeli forces. Israeli forces also attacked her funeral.

Note that during this entire time Palestinians are arrested, even children, and kept in indefinite detention without trial.

In 2023 we then have the October 7th attack. But as you are now aware this isn't where the conflict started.

And clearly not where it has ended.

3RD CLAIM: And that brings us to the 3rd and most blatantly bullshit lie you will here on repeat. The notion that Israel only targets Hamas.

More UN workers have been killed in a 2 month period than have died in any other war since the UN's formation. Over 130.

If they were targeting Hamas then why have so many UN buildings, refugee camps, and hospitals been bombed?

If there goal wasn't civilians then why do civilians make up the majority of the casualities?

Why the medieval style siege/blockade that has caused hospitals to lose fuel and medicine and civilians to go hungry and thirsty?

Why parade civilians around in their underwear? Why laugh and cheer as a UN school is exploded?

Why leave babies in the NICU and force the hospital staff to leave with the promise an ambulance would be provided for the babies only for people to return once the IDF left and find the baby corpses rotting because the ambulance was never provided?

We can even leave Gaza to prove this is not about Hamas. Hamas does not lead the West Bank. And yet Palestinians there are being murdered and arrested at increased rates, their homes stolen by illegal settlers.

Israel officials have called this the Gaza Nakba, they have claimed they will make Gaza inhospitable, they have claimed there are no civilians in Gaza.

Netanyahu has said to remember Amalek.

What is Amalek? Amalek refers to Israels enemy in the bible. This phrase specifically, "Now go, attack the Amalekites and totally destroy all that belongs to them. Do not spare them; put to death men and women, children and infants, cattle and sheep, camels and donkeys"

Israel wants to steal the little land the Palestinians have left. Even now they are herded and concentrated into ever smaller camps with no resources.

Idk what we can do about the situation. This post seems silly for all the good it will do. But maybe it will open the eyes of a couple people. I think that would make it worth it.

#free palestine #free gaza

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turn-up-the-truth · 10 months

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Repost: @stopcopcity> CALL-IN CAMPAIGN: Victor has been stolen by the state again.

After 3 months of being held captive at DeKalb County Jail with no indictment, he is now facing indefinite captivity at Stewart Detention Center, a facility notorious for its horrendous conditions. Stewart Detention Center is owned by CoreCivic, one of the largest private prison corporations in the world.

Call the ICE Atlanta Field Office at 404-893-1290 to demand Victor be immediately released after this cross-agency repression tactic.

You can dial *67 before this number to call anonymously. Other ways to support Victor can be found on the third slide of this post.He was arrested for attending the South River Music Festival on March 5th, where he was violently attacked by a police officer and held in a chokehold.

Victor’s arrest and continued captivity embodies how the State criminalizes Black and brown people for simply existing and profits off of the carceral facilities that train officers and hold people in bondage.

The state has entrenched itself in corporate relationships that make massive profits off of carceral facilities like Cop City, ICE Detention Centers, jails, and prisons.End criminalization of dissent against the state.

End criminalization of Black and brown people for simply existing. End corporate profiteering from incarceration, militarizing police, and all prisons.

#AbolishPolice #AbolishPrisons #AbolishCorporateStateViolence #stopcopcity #defendatlantaforest #FreeVictor

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oliviajdjarin · 10 months

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Sebastian Sallow: Atonement

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Summary: Sebastian attempts to make up for some of his recent behaviors.

"Don't look at me like that." "Like what?" he asked, eyebrows raised slightly, voice gentle, touch against your cheek even gentler. "Like you're pitying me." His face of kindliness slowly morphed into one of fondness, accompanied by his classic smirk. "Trust me, Y/N," he said as he began leaning into you, stopping your heart. "This is not pity." And he kissed you.

Warnings: characters are AGED UP, bickering, kissing, swearing, mentions of Anne's pain, unlabeled relationship, sort of indefinite ending.

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: Sebastian Sallow Hogwarts Legacy has consumed my mind, body, and soul for the last month, and this is what has become of it. I hope you enjoy.

My Writing

If you'd like to leave a like, comment, ask, or reblog, it would be much appreciated <3

(picture from pinterest he's so aaaaaaa)

Moonlight twinkled through the burgundy stained-glass windows of Professor Bin's classroom. His deep voice bounced across the stone and into your half-dormant brain.

"I want each and every essay sorted alphabetically," he stated, adjusting the bifocals on his nose as he glided past your desk. "Precisely alphabetically."

You rubbed your temples and began to sort through your stack, too weary to even roll your eyes.

"I expect both of your stacks to be done upon my return," he said, drifting out the classroom, mumbling, "now where has that blasted poltergeist gone with the rest of my tea."

You breathed deeply, doing everything you could to focus on the letters swimming in your head, and not the -

"It seems Peeves enjoys Binns' character as much as we do."

- Slytherin seated directly behind you.

You didn't reply. Absorbed only in the students' names on the top of the parchment from decades upon decades ago.

"Just wait until he realizes Peeves hid it under my desk."

Once again, you acknowledged him with only silence.

A minute passed. Two. Three.

"Why does Binns keep essays from thirty years ago?" he spoke again.

Another three minutes. Five. Twenty. Almost twenty-five before Sebastian finally broke the sound of shuffling papers with his voice.

You were betting it would only take him five.

"Oh, come on, Y/N," he practically whined, the sound of his palms slapping onto the dark wood making you smirk devilishly. "Loosen up."

Your mood immediately soured. You turned around, eyebrows furrowed, nostrils flaring.

"Loosen up," you responded, "Excuse me if I do not want to talk to the reason I got detention in the first place."

"How is you falling asleep in class my fault?"

"Because of your obsession with that spellbook."

It was true. Sebastian had pleaded with you to stay up with him until the sun began to rise the night previous in the Undercroft, eyes peeling over every word within Salazar's book, researching words he didn't recognize in what had to have been half the restricted section settled in his lap. You helped him as best you could, attempting not to nod off onto his shoulder every few minutes.

He had never even come close to drifting off. Not once.

Until History of Magic, hence your shared detention.

"Don't pretend like I made you stay down there with me," he countered.

That was also true.

He sighed deeply as his gaze moved away from your own, speech now directed more towards himself instead of you.

"We're so close," he nearly whispered. "I can feel it."

You sighed and turned back around, reminding yourself where you were in the alphabet. A few more minutes passed, the silence now feeling more tense than it had ever been before.

"You're still pissed at me," he said, and you rubbed at your temples once again.

"I'm not pissed at you."

He scoffed a laugh. "I find that hard to believe."

You sighed again and spun around, facing him with softness rather than daggers.

"I am pissed," you stated, "I'm pissed that we're here, I'm pissed that we can't figure it out, I'm pissed that Anne's in pain, I'm pissed that you aren't sleeping, I'm pissed that you are resorting to the dark arts..."

His mouth opened in defense, but you halted him, raising your palm in the air.

"...and I'm even more pissed that they are the only thing that is actually getting us somewhere."

He blinked a few times, allowing your words to wash over him, before his eyes began to dart back and forth. His eyes became accusatory, as well as his tone. "Do you really think me daft enough to have no idea what I'm getting myself into? That I would actually use these spells for myself?"

You gripped onto your wooden seat, brain hunting for a way to describe what you had been perturbed by since you first learned of Anne's case.

You exhaled through your nose, intending for your speech to be as gentle as possible, hoping it was enough. "I think that you aren't aware of how comfortable you are with crossing your own boundaries."

He looked at you as though you had slapped him.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he questioned, slowly rising from his seat and leaning his weight onto his desk.

Your eyes fluttered. "You love her, Sebastian. More than anyone in the world. Love like that can cause people to...to act outside of their normal character if it meant that the person that they loved would be okay."

His breathing began to slowly escalate. "And how am I 'acting outside of my normal character?'"

"You're in possession of a book of dark and powerful spells, Sebastian," you stated, standing from your own chair. Only a desk separated you now. "If you found a spell that could cure her - cure her completely - but it required some kind of twisted ultimatum, you would do it. I know you would."

His chocolate eyes met your own, staring deeply into them. "And you wouldn't?"

You swallowed thickly, voice cracking with emotions you thought you had buried a long time ago. "To save someone I love...I would, Sebastian. Of course I would."

"So what the hell is your point?" he questioned, standing up from his lean to begin walking around his desk, robes flowing behind him.

"My point is that what you're doing scares me," you countered. "The fact that spells that require a cost exist scares me. I know you would go any length to save her, and the fact that the length could be harming yourself or other people scares me."

"But you just said you would do the same," he rebutted, now standing directly in front of you, essays long forgotten. His lips pink as well as his cheeks.

"In your shoes yes, I would. But I'm not in your shoes." You stepped closer to him, his scent of green apple, butterscotch, and a hint of clean linen finding its way into your nose, clouding your brain even more than it already was. "I want to help Anne - of course I want to help Anne - but I will not let you do anything you would regret to get there. I know that's what she would want, and that is what I would want you to do for me."

"What about what I want?" he questioned. "I want her healthy, I want her safe, and I want her happy. Besides, do you honestly think I would hurt someone on purpose? Yes, my emotions are very tied into this, I see your point with that, but I am not a bad person."

You sighed, looking into his eyes painted by moon and candlelight. "I know you're not. I wouldn't be helping you if I thought otherwise."

"Then why are we even having this conversation?" His tone became condemnatory once again, his hands going to his hips as he spoke.

For some reason, that's when you finally broke.

"Because I care about you, Sebastian," you said, your voice carrying through the room with a notable ache. "I care about Anne, but I care about you too. Why the hell do you think I went down with you into the Scriptorium, or stayed up with you until the sun rose in the Undercroft, or persuaded Ominis to help us in the first place?"

His face eased, and his eyes widened, mouth slightly ajar. He stepped closer to you, almost as if he was unable to stop himself.

"Yes it's for Anne. But..." you stopped, rubbing your lips together, attempting to recollect yourself. "...but all of the promises I have made to myself that I have broken have been for you. I won't see you spiral into someone you're not. I won't let you."

You couldn't look at him. You couldn't know what his reaction to your words was. You couldn't handle it. Instead, you let your words hang in the air, and a single tear roll down your cheek, blaming your exhaustion for the sudden admission that you hadn't even accepted yourself.

As the tear rolled down your cheek and your mind tore itself apart, cursing itself for beings so vulnerable, a palm slid itself perfectly against your cheek. It was hesitant, as if waiting for you to slap it away. You gasped quietly, quietly enough for only him to hear. Your eyes snapped up to meet his gaze, which was a lake of emotion as deep as your own.

He was so close to you that each freckle on his face was visible in the yellowed lighting, as well as his still slightly opened mouth, and a look in his eye that you thought you understood immediately.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" he asked, eyebrows raised slightly, voice gentle, touch against your cheek even gentler.

"Like you're pitying me."

His face of kindliness slowly morphed into one of fondness, accompanied by his classic smirk. "Trust me, Y/N," he said as he began leaning into you, stopping your heart. "This is not pity."

And he kissed you.

At first, you kissed back, letting your body take over for you. Starting soft, merely pecks and short increments of slotting each other's lips over the other's. It wasn't until he separated his lips with his tongue that you came back into consciousness - overwhelmed with the heat of his mouth, the taste of his lips, his robe between your fingers, his chest pressed against your own, the fact that he initiated it.

You couldn't help it. You froze.

"Sebastian," you whispered, eyes widened as if he had just appeared in front of you, and he smiled. His pupils taking over the entirety of his eyes, his lips reddened.

"Shh," he responded, leaning in again. "I know. It's okay."

He kissed you again, and as he wrapped his arms around your waist, you let yourself go.

You allowed his tongue to enter your mouth, giving him a small whine in return. He groaned back, quiet enough for only you to hear, as your kisses deepened and deepened. He kissed you like an artist - like he knew exactly what he wanted you to feel, and knew just the strokes to get you there. He backed you up slowly, likely catching onto your weakening knees, and lifted you by your waist. You gripped onto the hood of his robes as he did this, even as he set you delicately onto the desk.

"I've got you," he mumbled against your mouth, kissing you hard before moving his lips to your cheek, then your jawline, and finally to your neck.

"You smell nice," he whispered against your pulse, kissing and licking everywhere his mouth could reach. Your nails dug into the wood and your mouth went dry, itching to cover yourself with him. You settled with bringing your free hand to the hair at the back of his neck, smiling at its silkiness.

You knew it would be.

"I care about you, Y/N" he said, moving to the other side of your neck. He had managed to slide his hand deep enough into your robes to massage the skin over your ribs, making your toes curl.

"I would never hurt you," he whispered, moving back up to your mouth, pressing kisses to your lips in between his words. "No matter what. No matter what."

You hummed against his lips, happier than you had ever been.

He kissed you again, slowly, in such a cherishing way. Like he had all day, all night, and all of forever to do so. His lips chased your own like he needed you to breathe.

Your hands framed his face and combed through his hair, pulling him so close to you he had to place his hands on the desk to stable himself, when an indistinguishable humming echoed up the Grand Staircase.

Neither of you hesitated, pulling away from each other faster than you could blink, rushing back to your seats, and continuing your alphabetizing.

Professor Binns halted his humming as he glided back into the classroom. "Ah, and how are we doing in here?"

"Nearly halfway done, Professor," Sebastian answered, a newfound depth to his voice so obvious you had to bite your tongue.

"Ah, good, right on schedule," Binns responded, eyeing the clock above his desk. "One more hour and then you are both free to go - as long as the sorting is done, of course."

"Yes, Professor," the two of you responded consecutively. Binns nodded, satisfied.

As Binns began to exit the room once more, he paused suddenly, and turned to look back at you.

"Miss Y/L/N?"

"Yes, Professor," you responded, folding your hands into your lap.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he asked. "Your neck and cheeks are a bit... flushed."

Your heart stopped for the second time that evening.

"Y-yes, sir," you responded quickly. "I am just a bit warm."

You could feel Sebastian holding back a laugh.

"Well, feel free to take off your top robe," Binns said kindly. "It has been quite a warm winter."

"Thank you, Professor," you responded, and removed your robe, draping it over the back of your chair as Binns left the room.

A minute passed. Two. Three. Before Sebastian cut the air with a snort.

"'Just a bit warm.'"

You turned around and smiled so big your cheeks hurt, face so hot it ached, and laughed with him. "Just a bit."

The two of you laughed and wordlessly went back to your work, alphabetizing faster than you ever had in your life, and occasionally turning to look at the other.

Your smiles lit up the room.

Finally, the clock chimed, signaling another hour had passed, and you tucked your final essay into its spot. Sebastian did the same.

"Right on time," he said, and Binns walked in shortly after to dismiss you both before gliding back down the stairs to the faculty tower.

You gathered your robe in your hand, pulling it onto your shoulders, when a hand on your back halted you.

You turned and were met with Sebastian's lips pressed against your own, and his hands framing your face.

The two of you kissed for a few seconds, pulling away and smiling once or twice, before he pressed his forehead against yours, rubbing your noses together.

"I am sorry you got detention," he said, looking into your eyes. "I hope I have atoned for it."

You smiled, and kissed his cheek.

"And I hope you know that...that you can trust me. I don't want to hurt people, or myself, I want Anne cured." He paused, rubbing his thumb along your cheekbones. "But I also want you. I hope I have proven that."

You smiled, and kissed his mouth.

"You have, Sebastian. You have."

Tag list:

@leahkenobi

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow smut #sebastian sallow x reader #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy mc #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian sallow oneshot #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow fanfiction #hogwarts legacy #harry potter fanfiction

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ciphykiss · 11 months

Text

< incubus (ii) >

blade x f!reader; implied nsfw (only un-explicit part), mdni (implied) somnophilia

a/n: second part of incubus, but stave off the thirst for now XD

“Declined.”

You blink, once, twice, dazed—you count every checkered tile in your peripheral vision, wondering if you’d misheard. Bewildered, you straighten from your previously bowed stance, head tilted to the side. Jingyuan pays you no mind, bent over a fortune scroll stamped with Master Diviner Fuxuan’s insignia. Behind him, Yanqing can only stare, wide-eyed.

“Excuse me?”

Those infuriating, once captivating (but now more serpentine than anything else) golden eyes peer up at you, unperturbed. “Upon careful evaluation, it has been deemed that [Name] of Cloudford’s maximum security detention center is to remain deployed at her post indefinitely—until the case of the stellaron hunter is sealed and closed.”

“By whom?” You demand, fists clenching the fabric of your dress. “‘Indefinitely’? Exactly how long is that? This is ridiculous, and against the very rights printed on Section 35 of the Luofonian Codex—”

“By me.” Jingyuan rests his scroll atop his checkerboard. “And I’m sure you’re aware by now, but the Codex also states every Arbiter General is free to exempt and circumvent said articles when deemed necessary.”

“You can’t be serious,” you hiss, slamming your hands over the table; you see Yanqing bristle, hands cleaving for his sword, and Jingyuan has to raise a hand to temper his retinue that had, no doubt, risen to their feet and aimed rifles at your head. You pay them no mind; the vampire-bruises from last night sting as a reminder of your paranormal plight, caked under layers of foundation and color corrector. There’s an odd sting that shoots up your left leg, making it slightly difficult to stand upright. “You’re making me a prisoner of the flagship?”

Jingyuan sighs, resting his chin on a hand; ah, it’s that attitude again, all unbridled kindness and fleeting exasperation, like waves atop a morning sea. Over time, it spells more patronizing than it does calming, and urges you to reenact the more violent (and less whorish) parts of your lucid dreams. Your fingers twitch at the sight of his unmarred cheek.

“Why must you always assume the worst of me, my dear assistant?”

A droll stare. “You uprooted a fresh graduate from her position as amicassador, took advantage of her naivete to weasel in mutable terms in her contract, had her work an eight to ten schedule with unpaid overtime, and encouraged said amicassador graduate with no background in combat to cross-examine one of the most wanted criminals in the galaxy.”

“First of all, what you are not paid in overtime is delivered to you in the forms of generous bonuses and an exceptional annual raise,” Jingyuan argues, scandalized by your declarations. Even Yanqing looks to him accusingly now. “And as for your meeting with… our newest problem, well, that’s a result of your own belligerence, isn’t it?” He taps his table with his knuckle, the first signs of irritation stretching over his usually composed visage. “You were instructed to meet with me as soon as you arrived on scene. If you had, I would’ve taken the time to inform you of what you were getting yourself into, and the risks associated.”

You throw your hands up in the air. “Well, fuck me for not considering my employer would throw little old me into a foray of top ten most wanted killers! I don’t know what you want me to say, Jingyuan, especially considering how little regard you’ve shown me for my entire career at your stupid post.” Your lips curl. “And you wonder why your turnover rate looks like it crawled out of Tingyun’s first year exam scores. Unbelievable.”

“Mind your tongue; there are children present,” Jingyuan snaps, but neither you nor his blond heir really give a damn. In fact, Yanqing looks like he’s fighting a smile. At least someone found the situation funny. “Regardless—this is a decision that has been agreed upon by both Diviner Fu and I. Thus, your resignation request has been… well, rescinded.”

His lips twitch into an almost-smile, and despite sounding like he meant official business, you can tell the bastard is enjoying this. You gaze mutely at the hastily-scrawled resignation essays you’d filled out at 6 AM over coffee stains and ink splatters, untouched beside a gold, ornate vase on the Jingyuan’s table; the general raises a brow at your lack of ire, likely expecting glares or creative (but politely-framed, as to not earn a bullet to the back of your head) death threats by now.

Instead, you smile. Jingyuan immediately grows wary.

“Article 6, subsection 23,” you purr, “Any defamation or destruction of property belonging to the Arbiter-General of the Xianzhou Luofu will result in the permanent termination of said civil servant’s contract; punishments include, but may not be limited to, a six-month leave of absence from all organized labor.”

You grin. Jingyuan’s eyes widen.

“...whatever it is you’re planning, do no—”

“I think I’m long overdue for a vacation, don’t you, general?” You sing, and the general and his compatriots can only watch in slack-jawed horror as you raise the vase (an armistice gift from the Marshall Hua) and send it shattering onto the tile.

Deathly silence fills the halls of Jingyuan’s palace. Jingyuan doesn’t look up at you when he speaks, low and gritted, as damningly close to murderous as you’d ever heard him.

“Take her away. Solitary confinement. Two hours—then ensure she returns to her duties. This time, I want completion.”

Your smile drops.

“You—!”

And then you’re thrashing, the ends of your heels digging uselessly into the ground. The stupidly beefy arms of his personal guards yank you backwards to your makeshift cell (the infirmary), preventing you from falling backwards on your face.

“You can’t do this to me!” Your shrieks go unacknowledged; Jingyuan is too busy mourning over his dumb vase. “Jingyuan, you bastard! This is a violation of my rights! Terminate me! Throw me in jail! Anything but back there!”

Yanqing glances over the broken shards glinting over filtered sunlight. “General… is it really okay to let her go like that?”

The silver-haired man sighs, weary and a thousand years older than his already-dreaded age; he picks up a shard and examines it for any signs of salvageability (there are none). “Despite her… grievances, Diviner Fu has already determined her ‘likely favorable but not quite necessary’ for this case. I’m afraid she would’ve had to stay regardless. Though I do wish my dear assistant was even a smidgen more… agreeable.”

“—I knew I should’ve let Tingyun leak your 18+ sauna album! Just you watch, Jingyuan, after I’m through—”

“She has what.”

ꨄ︎

“—so please, for the love of all Aeons, I don’t care if it’s your stripper alias or Foxian Beauty & Haircare handle, just please, give me something to work with,” you groan, finding yourself at the mercy of the selectively mute space murderer with both your clothes and hair disheveled from fighting off (clawing at) Jingyuan’s men. Your throat aches from two hours of screeching obscenities, begging for mercy, and finally, prayer (unfortunately, you’d never been pious, and Lan had likely forsaken you by now). You’d thrashed, flipped the nursing cot upside down, shattered glass vials against the walls, and fallen to a half-dead heap on the floor by the time you were dragged in to resume bio-data collection.

If he registers your incessant whining, the space-criminal doesn’t show it; he says nothing for a long while until the void fills with the sound of incessant pen-tapping against your digital clipboard.

His mouth bends into a frown. “Stop that.”

“So he speaks,” you drawl, sarcastic. “Tell you what—why don’t you share your introductions with the class—me—and I’ll stop yammering. Easy as that.”

“Is it necessary?” He inquires cryptically. “Why don’t you just ask that general of yours—I’m sure Jingyuan would be able to sate your curiosity.”

Your rhythmic tapping ceases. “You know Jingyuan?”

That, he doesn’t answer; you observe him as he lapses back into silence, as dark and brooding as ever before, and feel the welts on your neck itch, an obtrusive reminder of your night terror (your dubbing isn’t quite accurate, but the label makes you feel better about yourself). Then, you resume clacking your pen in tribute to the morning show you’d catch glimpses of on the way to hell (work), and observe the tick working on the man’s jaw.

“...Blade,” he says at last, the word cutting like the edge of a serrated knife; you blink. Blade. The name suits him, somehow—all edge and red, like the backdrop of a battlefield. “...but here, Ren.”

You’re tearing through the bio-data form like a storm; two lines is enough. You’ll make it enough. Blade/Ren. Affiliation: likely Xianzhounian. Fabric points to a prime of at least five-hundred years prior; further trace collection is needed. Picture comparison of clothing necessary for evaluation. Suspected relation with Luofu General—unsure if this is an attempt to derail from questioning/true identity. Unlikely, but possible. Discouraged communication style. Psychiatric evaluation necessary; put-off by rhythmic tapping. Likely suffers from heightened senses; could be a result of battle-trauma or mixed genetics (both?). Likely a Xianzhou Native; probable Homo celestinae, blood testing required for confirmation.

“Blade,” you murmur, and the name rests oddly comfortably in your mouth; a strange moniker, but it sounds almost sweet when you say it, as if meant to be spoken. The man—Blade—shifts, not out of discomfort or regulation, but as the first non-forced physical acknowledgment you’d managed to wrench out from him.

His lips curve into a sneer when you continue scritching.

“All figured out, from just a name,” he mocks. You raise a brow.

“Does that offend you?” You tap your pen in thought, conjuring up the next bullet point. Easily offended by assumptions. Possible insecurity?

To your surprise, he grazes a smile—but not your regular, run-of-the-mill grin. It’s malefic, a touch depraved, like staring into a hollow skull. “No. Fantasize all you want. So as long I ruin you in every end.”

You nearly drop your clipboard.

“I could ruin you,” his voice echoes. “I could make it burn. You would dream of me in the waking world, cry for me in the dreaming. A slave to passion, day and night; hardly sleeping, hardly eating, merely breathing…”

No. Impossible. There’s no way—it can’t be—

Gingerly, you finger the skin over your pulse point. The bruised kiss hisses upon contact; you feel the hummingbird-flutter of your own heartbeat.

“Do you dream?”

You don’t know why you blurt that particular phrase; you suppose it’s more acceptable than “did we almost-fuck in my (our?) dream last night”. Still, you observe the intergalactic space criminal with heightened scrutiny, wishing (now more than ever) he didn’t have that cursed blindfold on.

You never realized just how much is missed from the eyes alone.

If there’s any reaction, he doesn’t show it; his next words are mere remnants of what they should be, like bones atop carcass.

“I do not recall the last I dreamt.”

You swallow, the first needles of paranoia sinking into your spine. That should be answer enough. But you wonder why it feels like a dance between confirmation and indifference; anything but denial. Suddenly, you think you hate him; his archaic, cryptic remarks, his riddles and his ambiguity.

“Not worthy enough for recording?” he cuts through the silence, the cruelty of a half-smile gallivanting across your vision. You realize you’d been spaced out, pen hanging between downturned fingers, and curse.

“...think nothing of it,” you mutter. You deem the passage worthy enough for Jingyuan’s approval (it isn’t) and chuck the pen backwards. It dematerializes into the confines of your clipboard. “I should offer you my services once more, but I’m sure neither of us truly wishes for that. A word of advice—behave yourself, and the general might allow you to roam the cell unshackled for certain hours. I’m sure there’s nothing you want more than a hairbrush by now,” you snort. Blade doesn’t reply.

“Danyin,” you murmur, catching the man by his cuff when you exit the hall; he looks frazzled, as if half-expecting you to return with a missing limb (likely a touch disappointed when you don’t; you don’t consider yourself particularly lenient when forced into this scummy duty). “Do me a favor. I want you to place a recording device outside his cell; one of those high-tech thermal ones that can navigate through the dark.”

Danyin pales. “D-digital recordings—any recording—outside what is sanctioned by the general himself is strictly prohibited! I don’t even have cle—”

You unclasp your wristwatch and replace it with Danyin’s own; the man can only babble out a half-hearted protest when you do, mourning his defeat already.

“I’d do it myself, but I’m not exactly out of general douche-canoe’s radar,” you sigh, tightening the clasp. Danyin mumbles something about hiring an underwriter for his will, to which you offer a sunny grin and a pat on the back. “I’m counting on you, friend!”

He mutters something about you being as shitty as Jingyuan. You pretend not to hear it.

ꨄ︎

“A dream demon?” Tingyun snorts, pushing the newly-gifted sunglasses she’d received from a Yaoqing merchant that served as General Feixiao’s retinue down her nose. “You can’t be serious. Please tell me you didn’t make me cancel my hair appointment to play therapist for your psychotic break. How many times did I tell you to just quit and work with me in—”

You yank down the collar of your dress, having wiped off the excess makeup in the restaurant bathroom prior. “Look.”

“For the love of—oh. Oh.” She tilts her frames downwards, viridescent hues assessing the damage. “You got yourself a suckerfish? Careful with those—one starskiff romp shimmied into your lunchbreak and they think they own you.”

“Actually, my very preventable trauma from waking up next to Dai—Daiqiu? Daiqing? Has rendered me unable to pursue any bedmates since,” you sniff. Tingyun rolls her eyes.

“You sure you didn’t wobble into Inferno after your shift and had a couple shots too many? We all know it’s all south after your third martini. And your impairment the following morning.”

“You and I both know I don’t get off until midnight, and you were there when we both got banned from Inferno!”

“Maybe if you hadn’t laughed at the owner’s son and called him fossilized when he asked for a three—”

“He was at least as old as my grandfather, Ting! Without the Jingyuan-tier looks to make up for it!”

“Jingyuan isn’t that old—wait, do you still have a crush on him? What happened to—”

“That’s beside the point!” You swat her hand off the straw of her mid-afternoon cocktail, knocking her jade bracelet against the glass. The heat of it fogs the hexagons scattering rainbows onto the counter, and you are acutely reminded of the matching anklet that dangles on your left, forever warm and secured to your person. “I know you barely passed history—”

“Hey.”

“—but Foxian history can be traced as far back as the Long’s Scions, can it not? Surely there has to be something you picked up over the years. Maybe some old stories, some superstition…”

“[Name],” Tingyun sighs, “are you seriously asking me if I remember any bedtime stories?”

“So there is? Something, I mean?”

“You’re honestly better off taking that to a Vidyadhara historian or a senior Xianzhou Native,” Tingyun admits, to which your face cripples, because Aeons knows your social life had been reduced to zilch after your recruitment (and there was no way you’d press the matter to Jingyuan; you had no doubt he and Diviner Fu could grapple onto the dirtiest details of your midnight escapades). She swishes her drink with her straw in thought. “Foxian lifespans are but fleeting compared to the stories of our other long-lived peers; what are four hundred years, after all, to rebirth and a thousand?”

It’s said with a twinge of envy; you know Tingyun is not like Xianzhou commonfolk who dread their existence and eventual descent to madness. Life is—will never be—enough for her, never enough wine to drink, men to seduce; never enough jewelry and lost merchandise for Whistling Flames.

“We do, however, have our love stories—love and lust and betrayal and wroth, they’re quite similar, don’t you think? And the tales of the Foxians pale in comparison to none.”

“This isn’t about love,” is your immediate response. Tingyun arches a fine brow.

“Isn’t it, though?” With that, she reaches out to redo the buttons on your collar. Heat creeps up your ears. “Passion… this is something Foxians are accustomed with. We love our wine and jade, men and women all the same; I’m sure you know this,” she laughs, and you feel the fox-carving against your anklet simmer. “You know of the Xianzhou belief of soul partners, do you not?”

“Of course.” You reach down, absently, to tickle the jade that had been gifted (shackled) to you on your graduation day. “There’s the, erm, chosen ones, right? Bosom friends, sworn brothers—”

“That’s right; and they’re referred to as chosen for a reason.” She points the end of her olive stick at you. “It is the highest form of love, for some; philia, at the end of the day, is a choice,” she ignores your grumble of “where was mine”, “though, arguably, many believe these soul partners were predestined to be in your life. We gift our jade to these soul partners, and the Vidyadhara share a similar custom, but with bracers; warmth indicates the wearer’s partner is alive and well, and there is a belief that these gifts will eventually bring one back to the other, in life, death, dreams, or otherwise.” She narrows her eyes. “Though there’s no reason, seeing as I’d rather be caught dead than star in your rogue fantasies.”

“Wasn’t ever an option,” you mutter.

“There is another, more outdated; I’ve only ever heard stories about it, and some say the encounter died since the plague of abundance ravaged the long-lived. It’s less of a choice, more a force of nature; or so I’ve been told. A bunch of rubbish, honestly, but there does exist stories of another kind of soul partner—one that embodies a more… debauched role. I suppose soulmate is a loose term; these stories have long since been discarded, scoffed at as crude; these are the stories of scorned lovers, of passion, bedroom woes and death and betrayal; truly, nothing worth writing home about. I’m sure we’ve progressed enough as a society to leave behind such primal relics.”

Your head spins at the sudden onslaught of information; you inhale through your nose, pinching the bridge between two fingers. Tingyun finishes the contents of her drink, suckling the heart-shaped straw dry. “And what… what does that have to do with…”

“With your suckerfish?” Tingyun grins, dodging a kick under the table. “I’m getting to that. There’s a story—just one that I can remember, at least. My Lady wasn’t fond of me rummaging through those particular texts.”

“No wonder you turned out to be so godless—ow!”

“...like I was saying. There exists a…largely banned text. A bit blasphemous, but more so an overreaction, on the elders’ part; I’ll spare you the details, but the story can be loosely translated as The Foxian’s Obsession. Not the most creative of titles, I’ll admit, though it is fitting; it weaves the tale of a long-lived Foxian’s adoration of a short-lived fisherman. The woes of past society would not permit her to seek out a man of such fragility, and eventually, the fisherman married; the Foxian, hurt, enraged, and heartbroken, would curse the fisherman to an eternal sleep.”

“Sounds like one of those ex nightmare stories on Foxian Lipstick Alley,” you chortle.

“Imagine being so obsessed,” Tingyun snorts. “Anyways, the wife and family of the comatose fisherman start seeing ‘love marks’ on him, find him dead one day, bleeding from the mouth; the wife is put on trial until they discover news of said Foxian having passed in her sleep, coincidentally, with the same comorbidity.”

“What the fuck.”

“Creepy, isn’t it? Now, if that were the case with you…”

“Tingyun!” You screech. The Foxian snickers at your distress. “This isn’t funny! What if this dude’s some creepy old Foxy spirit disguising himself as some space criminal hunk to get into my pants and commit murder-sui!”

“Your drawers are in need of a seasonal refresh…”

“Tingyun, you bi—”

“Aeons, relax,” the amicassador slaps your arm in poor reassurance. “These are mere whispers of the past. The first starskiff hadn’t even taken flight when it was published. Besides, does your dream demon present with ears and a tail? You know that’s our one indisputable giveaway…”

“...no, he doesn’t,” you begrudge, a sigh of relief escaping you. Tingyun rolls her eyes.

“Then there you have it. I’m sure this is just a consequence of your ridiculous work hours—how many times must I tell you stress is bad for beauty? You’re even losing pockets of memory…”

“...you’re right. That must be it.”

“So? what happened to your resignation letter?”

“Don’t get me started—”

You vent the happenings of this morning to Tingyun, who, for the first time, appears rather irked; it’s not a common look for the Foxian, as leisurely and unbothered as a nepo-child of Lady Yukong can be, though you suppose even she has her limits on witnessing you falling victim to workplace abuse.

Throughout the conversation, you concoct the margins of your plan; the cameras should be set up by now, if Danyin is at least half-competent. You touch your now-fading love bites and make a mental note to pick up another bottle of fantasia.

If working with Jingyuan blessed you with any positives, it’s your seasoned thirst for vengeance—and the earlier you act, the swifter (and sweeter) your prize.

Perhaps it was a fluke. Perhaps it was a once-in-a-lifetime, paranormal encounter—but on the off chance it isn’t, well, now you’d be prepared.

Because if he can ruin you, who’s to say you can’t return the favor?

#blade x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x reader #hsr x you #blade hsr #honkai star rail smut #blade smut

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probablyasocialecologist · 5 months

Text

Captivity is a constitutive part of Palestinian life under occupation. Prior to Hamas’s attack on October 7th, Israel incarcerated more than 5,200 Palestinians—most of them residents of the West Bank and East Jerusalem—across two dozen prisons and detention centers. Some West Bank residents are incarcerated due to a still-operant military order issued following the 1967 War that effectively criminalized civic activities (e.g. gatherings of more than ten people without a permit, distributing political materials, displaying flags) as “incitement and hostile propaganda actions.” There are currently hundreds of such military orders, which criminalize anything that might be construed as resistance to the occupation. This surfeit of activities made illegal for Palestinians authorizes mass imprisonment: According to a recent estimate by the United Nations, one million Palestinians have at one time been incarcerated by Israel, “including tens of thousands of children.” One in five Palestinians, and two in five Palestinian men, have been arrested at some point in their lives, and, as of 2021, more than 100 Palestinian children faced up to 20 years in prison for throwing stones.

Not all who are arrested face charges. Israel often and increasingly makes use of “administrative detention,” a relic of the British Mandate era, which allows for indefinite incarceration without a charge or trial, ostensibly for the purpose of gathering evidence. It was a hallmark of apartheid South Africa and has been used to repress opposition in Egypt, England, India, the United States, and elsewhere, especially in the context of anti-immigration and “counter-terrorism” programs. “Since March 2002, not a single month has gone by without Israel holding at least 100 Palestinians in administrative detention,” the Israeli human rights organization B’Tselem notes; often the number is much higher. Prior to October 7th, more than 20% of Palestinian prisoners were administrative detainees; 233 of the 300 Palestinians on Israel’s release list negotiated last week were administrative detainees, Al Jazeera noted. According to the Palestinian prisoner organization Addameer, imprisoned Palestinians report being beaten, threatened, strip searched, and denied healthcare and contact with their families. Palestinians currently incarcerated, as well as those freed in recent days, report that conditions have worsened since October 7th. Meanwhile, even as this prisoner release proceeds, Israel continues to ramp up arrests: As of Tuesday, 180 Palestinian prisoners have been released as part of the ceasefire exchange, but during the same period, it arrested Palestinians at nearly the same rate. Today, more than 7,000 Palestinians are incarcerated in Israeli prisons.

Nowhere is Israel’s carceral regime clearer than in Gaza, the 140-square-mile area often described as an “open-air prison.” Gaza’s residents, now an estimated 2.2 million people—80% of whom are refugees or descendents of refugees forced to flee in the mass expulsions surrounding the founding of the State of Israel that Palestinians call the Nakba—have been hemmed in by a land, air, and sea blockade since 2006. As with Palestinians incarcerated in Israeli prisons, who for years have waged hunger strikes, protested, and written about the horrors of incarceration, Gazans have struggled mightily against their confinement. In 2018–19, they held weekly nonviolent protests at the border under the name Great March of Return. Israel responded with brutal violence, killing 260 people and wounding 20,000 others, many of whom were permanently disabled. A week into Israel’s current assault on Gaza, Ahmed Abu Artema, one of the co-founders of the Great March of Return, wrote an impassioned plea in The Nation, calling for the world to “help us tear down the wall, end our imprisonment, and fulfill our dreams of liberation.” On October 24th, an Israeli airstrike severely wounded Artema and killed five members of his family, including his 13-year-old son.

It is precisely in such contexts of radical asymmetry that we find the history of hostage-taking: In the last half-century, under-resourced combatants from Palestine to Brazil to the United States and beyond have used hostages to gain political leverage. Militants, whose own lives are not valued by the powers they face, capture those whose lives they assume are deemed more valuable. This strategy often succeeds in shifting the terms of the conversation—asserting the previously dismissed hostage-takers as political actors whose demands must be negotiated. But the same dynamic that leads militants to take hostages is why the tactic so often fails: The prison state fundamentally devalues life, and ultimately may sacrifice hostages to preserve its rule. Israeli officials have said as much. “We have to be cruel now and not think too much about the hostages,” finance minister Bezalel Smotrich said in a cabinet meeting as Israel launched its war.

#palestine #israel #gaza #west bank #apartheid #emphasis added

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