#fight against police brutality

[benandstevesposts]

What Would You Do?

The police officers appear to react differently in dealing with these people. Individuals, you can see, are alleged to be out-of-control white partiers! Viewers say police would have pulled guns and gone in shooting if the subjects were brown-black, LGBTQI, or anyone who appeared different from those belonging to their tribe, the straight white supremacist brood.

[robinlovexo]

🫣✍🏼

definitely not taking notes

[natandacat]

I wish “french revolution” fans (british and american) would be a little bit more fucking sensitive. And also realize that historical events are not a fandom. Anyway.

[godloveyell]

Jesus Fucking Chris! Are homeless people supposed to just hover a few inches off the ground when they need to sleep?!

Nothing like homeless people to turn even the most compassionate people into devout eugenicists. I’m waiting for some politician to pass a law forcing homeless people to compete in Hunger Games or Squid Games-style shows for the entertainment of the public. Lord knows there will be pundits and others willing to defend this sort of thing, because see previous remarks about eugenics.

Ideally, we’d just give homeless people a goddamn house. It’s literally been proven to be cheaper and more effective than any of our labyrinthine bureaucracies or letting them die in the streets.

But if we’re not going to do anything to address the problem of homelessness, is it so much to ask that we not at least make matters worse for them? They’re just trying to live.

Apparently it is too much to ask.

And who enforces this? Is it just a few bad apples, or is it all cops?

How hard is it for them to find cops willing to enforce this? Do they have to sift through hundreds of heroic cops who refuse until they find the one cop who's monstrous enough to enforce this, or do they easily find cops willing to enforce this because monstrous cops are everywhere and being a monster is part of the job?

"All cops are bad" is not a stereotype. It's literally a requirement for the job that every single one knew about.

[prickly-paprikash]

Kendrick doesn't just hate Drake as a person. He hates the very idea of Drake.

Hip-Hop is rooted in revolution. In defiance. These are the songs of an oppressed group of people, and decades upon decades people have hated it. Accused of being meaningless and invalid. Media outlets took steps to belittle hip-hop and make sure it isn't recognized as an art form and as a means to fight back.

2Pac spoke of wealth disparity and inequality. Tupac was literally a member of a communist organization when he was younger and never stopped speaking against capitalism.

Lauryn Hill spoke of the struggles a woman faces. Not just women, but black women. Salt-N-Peppa. Queen Latifah. MISSY FUCKING ELLIOT.

N.W.A made sure people knew about police brutality and violence against the Black community.

And now, in this day and age, we're also experiencing an explosion of Queer Hip-Hop. Lil Nas X is at the forefront of this. Lil Uzi Vert came out as non-binary and uses they/them pronouns, even when they knew that a lot of their fans would never use it or even respect them for it. Auntie Diaries, a song about a young man who grew up in a transphobic environment and bought into those beliefs, but could never fully do it because his Uncle loved him so much and taught him a lot of life lessons, and that wisdom translated to him accepting his cousin as a woman as well.

Drake is none of that.

He's the perfect representation of what people think hip-hop is. Flexing. Posturing. Objectifying women. A fucker so insecure he bought 2Pac's ring just to feel like he's part of the black community. Rejected by Rihanna publicly. Tried to groom Millie Bobby Brown. Kissed and inappropriately touched an underage girl during his concert. His songs have inspired so many young boys to treat girls like shit. His belief that the amount of rings and chains and cars he has is the true meaning of success.

Additional Edit: This is my fault. If this post gains more views, then it would be remiss of me not to add to this. It was my fault to begin with, not stating this beforehand because while I did know, I got lost in celebrating Hip-Hop in a place that doesn't usually do so, and rightfully so.

2Pac did fight for wealth equality and better social living for the black community. He also has a long, long history of battery, domestic abuse, and sexual harassment against women. Specifically against women of color. He made a song to celebrate his own mother, but outright refused to give the same show of respect to other women in his life. His hypocritical nature was brushed off in later decades, just the way I did now.

N.W.A is the same. Sexual assault charges, violence—they spoke of Police reform, but refuses to give the same treatment back towards the women in their lives.

50 cent refuses to backtrack on any of his misogynistic lyrics.

Modern rappers of today, such as the dead XXXtentacion. 6ix9ine. Kodak Black.

I do love Hip-Hop. I love rap. And the music itself has always been anti-authoritarian at its core, because those are its roots. And I was happy that circles that did not normally know of it or enjoy it were getting into it, even for one thing like this rap feud.

Lil Nas X, Little Simz, Childish Gambino, Missy Elliot, Queen Latifah, Lauryn Hill—rappers who have at the very least consistently tried to put their money where their mouth is. Who have tried to act in accordance to what they rap and write and sing for.

@shehungthemoon @ohsugarsims finnthehumanmp3 were the ones who rightfully clarified in the comments. I know an apology won't correct my hypocrisy or my stupidity. I should have added all of this before making this post, but I wanted so badly to celebrate a genre of music but failed to do my due diligence in showing a better, holistic view of it. If anyone felt triggered, offended, troubled, frustrated or any other intense negative emotions surrounding this, please do block me. I'm sorry.

[g-k444]

Idea: use body paint to paint on a bikini for me before we go to the beach

watch as heads turn at my tits that bounce just a little too freely, and my pussy lips which are shown with every step where my legs part and the little pink slit is revealed a bit more

someone comes over with a mate and points out that im not wearing anything and that they could call the police on me for public indecency. but the stubborn brat i am - i cross my arms over my plump chest and say that they can't prove that im not wearing a bikini.

they take that as a challenge.

they lunge for me, wrestling me down onto the sand and pinning down my struggling and flailing body as i try to fight them off of me, though my nipples pique with a wanton neediness for the way that they assert their strength over my weakness, forcing my forearms down into the ground and pushing my thighs down so that i cannot kick them

the main one who initially pointed out my lack of clothing has his hands on my thighs - and uses them to split my legs apart, parting the orange paint and revealing the pink folds of my pussy.

"How's that for no bikini? Look at this."

I can feel tears welling to my eyes as i hear a gasp, and open my eyes to see passerbys looking - some even stopping their walk to watch as the stranger between my legs opens my fold with two fingers and reveals my slick and wet hole that leaks with cum from just this morning

"What a slut, freshly creampied and already walking around begging for more.."

"Hey, can i take a picture of that?"

the question wasn't addressed for me, and I fought to cover my exposed pussy with my hands as I watched someone level their phone so that it was level with my private parts - but the other man had my forearms pinned down into the sand, and I could only struggle against his unyielding grip as I watched the phone's flash go off, and they took a picture of my drippy pussy against my will

"She has a great pair of tits, look at them shake when she struggles!"

"They really are something..."

the crowd around me looked at me like a museum artefact. they didnt care for my struggle or desperate cries as I begged the two men to get off of me. Nor my scream as I felt something enter my pussy - and looking down I saw the man between my with his jeans undone and cock sheathed into my body.

"That damn bikini top isn't real either, is it?"

the stranger spat onto my chest, a saliva dripping down the side of my boob before his fingers collected the fluid and rubbed the coldness over my hardened nipple, making a cry leave my throat as how merciless he was with how his hardened fingertip rubbed at my nipple as though he was trying to rub a marker pen stain - flicking my nipple from side to side and only making more blood rush to the erogenous organ that hurt from his touch

"It's paint as well!"

He spat once more, this time allowing it to land onto my face, before i felt a cock slap against my cheek and rub that saliva degradingly pver my lip, following the trace of the cock - belonging to the man who had my forearms pinned into the ground

he held both of my arms down with one hand, his other hand then wrapping around his cock and pumping it into his fist with that one hand, only slapping it onto my face every so often to hear that skin-on-skin plap that made him groan.

the sun was going down.

the day was darkening and the crowd surrounding us was only getting bigger, and through tears and screams i could see more and more hands beneath waistbands and cocks freed at the sight of such a young, vulnerable girl being pinned down and forcefucked.

which meant that even after i'd survived that assault, being fucked and humiliated by some douche and his mate - having on cum all over my tits whilst the other replenished my pussy for cum...

there was a lot more men that were going to have their way with me before i could get out of this beach and back to safety...

reminder to send rape threats and brutal messages of what you'd do to me in my inbox or messages <3

[cipheramnesia]

The reason I probably shouldn't be allowed to make movies is I have no impulse control and I would immediately make something called Revenge Of The Dead Tranny Hooker. It would be about a trans woman trying to break into acting, but no one wants to hire her for anything except playing a sex worker who gets murdered. Then one day she does an open casting call which runs her through a series of increasingly bizarre line readings, which it turns out are meant to summon an eldritch demon to grant the movie producer god-like powers.

The culmination is supposed to be sex on the casting couch, but she ditches at the last minute, destroying the ritual and splintering the extradimensional entity across California. She unknowingly receives powerful extradimensional blood, while the rest of the fragments seek out the powerful and violent people of the world. Meanwhile the movie producer uses his new powers to transform his PAs into henchcreatures, and sends them after the protag to finish her off. She discovers her new powers in the ensuing fight, which also seem to be gradually altering her body every time she uses them.

The rest of the movie is a steadily escalating game of cat and mouse between trans woman and movie producer. While the former transformers the fragments into powerful psychic weapons like chainsaws and spiked bats, the later uses fragments to make himself bigger and physically stronger. At first the fights are short and brutal, the protag outmatched and outgunned, but she gets more confident to the point of an anarchic battle of against the LAPD led by a demonic police captain, including a scene where she stands on the roof of a speeding police car and rips the driver through the windshield.

Her eventual form is some kind hyper sexual draconic mantid squid rippling with biomechanoid components. In the fight with the producer he thinks he's winning by tearing apart the last of her human flesh, but this just complete her transformation, letting her easily overwhelm him. It's implied from that point forward she plans to conquer the world.

[horizonsstandstill]

Strategically speaking, if we're fighting against Trump, the whole Europe except some far right and most of the libs will have to fight with us. If we are fighting against Kamala, we can't ally with Trump supporters and we will also be fighting against the ones mentioned above. I think the answer is self evident but not in the ways democrats wants us to believe.

A third party vote is not a vote for Trump. It's a stronger sign of hatred for Trump than any blue vote will ever be. Whether libertarian or green. Liberals stop blaming other people for your own political failures of appealing to them challenge, failed again.

"Finally the dems can be the law and order party!"

"It's gonna be so good when the prosecutor beats the convicted felon"

She literally met with a war criminal

[needanaccount2readarcaneposts]

that fucking amanda overton io9 interview is giving me so much psychic damage.

straight admitting that the only reason they ever bothered engaging with themes of police brutality in the first place is so that it would be the juiciest drama for her endgame cop/convict enemies-to-lovers ship.

caitlyn 'atones' for her little oopsie doopsie foray into fascism and authoritarian violence against zaun by... letting one (1) person go as a personal favour to her girlfriend, and fighting ambessa to save piltover.

don't worry about having to take accountability to all the other people she hurt and whose lives she ruined! she's fixing her mistakes guys!

cait feels the need to live up to her mother's expectations and the kiramman legacy! that's why she finds out about the kiramman vents and immediately uses them to gas the undercity, and also usurps the council's power as Supreme Leader! it's what cassandra would have wanted.

also just. i don't know if this is just me, but...

is this a weird thing to say? a weird way to say it? it feels like a really weird thing to say. and a weird way to say it. why would you say it like that. amanda...

[alteredphoenix]

Some character designs for some more of the girls that appear in the Daemon Familiar’s story in the present day era and whom Airi will meet - and contend with - on her travels to find the Demon King-in-Exile. That I...did during the ice storm and three of the sixteen hours spent in the dark without power, but y’all don’t need to know that.

Locations, and mostly outfits, are not 100% finalized, but written here as a reference point for future material.

A quick rundown:

Rochelle (left): The current leader of a community-driven law enforcement agency out in the jungles west of Esserings that was founded by her ancestors shortly after the Great War, in a direct counter-response to the police brutality and corruption among and enacted by the Displacers. Rochelle is dedicated to continuing her family’s line of work and upholding the peace that they feel the Displacers have failed in their duty to follow since their formation in the Rift War. Although she is willing to give the Displacers an opportunity to redeem themselves of their crimes against the common folk, Rochelle is willing to fight dirty and shed blood against them if it means their corruptive influence and arrogance will not harm her people and fellow officers - including a time-displaced cadet in training such as Airi, whose wanderings with Iryna lead her right into the heart - and the cross-hairs - of the group colloquially called ‘the Displacer Hunters’.

Hikari/Akari (middle): A former Displacer in the Esserings Displacer agency. As one of the two rising stars among their generation, Hikari was considered to be a candidate for promotion as an elite captain of the Displacer Honor Guard, an exceptional honor that is normally granted to more older, experienced members - especially to people that inhabit the islands to the far west and south of the mainland continent. However, observation of the corruption and misconduct committed by not only her own unit but other divisions among the Displacers led Hikari to become increasingly disillusioned, frustrated, and ultimately disgusted with the lack of investigation and accountability toward them, until she became a target of harassment and sexual abuse from the upper echelons. One such crime committed by her unit was the theft of a sword from a demon society, said to be forged under a full red moon, with the spirit of a night gaunt and the ability to drink the blood of people with sinful hearts. Unaware of the crime that had been done save for the claims of its creation, Hikari was drawn to and found solace at the sight of the bloodletting blade. Eventually, she came to the conclusion that the Displacers were a lost cause and must be dismantled. On that day, she broke through the containment housing the Blade, slaughtered her way through the ranks she once called ally, and fled the Esserings a wanted fugitive, taking up the pseudonym Akari. There she finds her way into Rochelle’s community and slowly earns her favor - and her respect - by providing evidence of the ongoing misconduct of the Displacer agencies. At the time of Airi’s travels, Hikari is currently Rochelle’s third-in-command, below her lieutenant and confidante, Marshall.

Eri (right): The second of the two Displacers within the Esserings Displacer agency that were considered for promotion to Honorary Guard. Eri and Hikari belonged to and fought in the same unit and were known to be close friends, to the envy of many that vied for Hikari’s attention. However, whereas Hikari had been relaxed and carefree, Eri is quiet, no-nonsense, and a strict follower of the law, focused on upholding the honor and integrity of her organization. However, she herself was not blind to the rumors and allegations of corruption among the Displacers, and although Hikari struggled to bring to light their severity and calls for investigation from the unions and parliament, Eri could only watch as each request was denied or failed with no follow-up. It is then that news of Hikari’s theft of the Bloodletting Blade and mass slaughter of their comrades quickly spreads through the mainland - news that drives Eri into denial and despair. What became of that promotion is unknown, but presently Eri remains within the ranks not only as an elite Displacer but as a licensed bounty hunter, in the wake of rumblings that the Demon King-in-Exile has selected a new Chosen Hero. Eri bides her time and carries out her duty as seen fit, determined to keep tabs on the time-lost stranger named Airi who is on the move with the return of the Majestic Twelve but root out the corruption of the Displacers from within - and, eventually, come to blows with Hikari, who is equally resolute in supplanting the Displacers from their seat of power.

[la7ma-mafrooma]

I wanted to share something personal because I don't think a lot of you understand the influence of the West and its atrocities on an Arab child's upbringing. English is not my first language; I learnt it initially due to my interest in the language and Western cultures. However, seeing the true face of the West motivated me to continue learning the language to dismantle the false image of Arabs and Muslims which was portrayed by the West. I also talk about how this impacted my standing with the Palestinian cause. Bear with me as this post is long and a little messy, but I need to try and give everyone a clear and full image as much as I can.

I grew up consuming Western media due to my fascination with the English language. However I noticed the lack of Muslim and Arab representation.

When I started seeing representation later on, it was mostly Arabs and Muslims being depicted as 'terrorists' and 'barbarics'.

When a Muslim woman is depicted, she is depicted as 'oppressed' and in need of 'saving'.

I was on social media starting from a very young age. Seeing people online describe my people as 'terrorists' was not only scary, but also confusing. Why am I as an Arab Muslim child -who's living a normal childhood as everyone else- being labelled as a 'terrorist' by the West? Why are people claiming all Arab and Muslim children are trained to use guns by ISIS or/and Hamas? I remember asking my parents as a kid "Is this a real gun with the police officer?" Because I only saw weapons in movies.

I asked questions such as "Why do they think Arabs = Muslims?" The lack of acknowledgment of Christian and Jewish Arabs and non-Arab Muslims confused me.

Why were Muslim women always 'oppressed' in these movies and TV shows I saw? This is not as common as they make it seem. Why are they using the struggle of some Muslim women to demonize an entire religion? Why are they pretending to be saviours when they're actually contributing to further oppression of Muslim women? Why are they weaponizing the awful struggle of some Muslim women against the vast majority of Muslim women? (White feminism is not saving us. It's actually a form of oppression of Muslim women)

Misrepresentation bothered me and made me angry and disappointed. I couldn't finish watching a movie or an episode of a TV show if I saw any mentions of Muslims or/and Arabs, because I knew what would happen next.

When it comes to the Palestinian cause, every Arab grew up watching endless footage of Palestinians being brutally murdered LIVE. Everything and all the footage all of you are surprised to see during this genocide, were a part of our upbringing.

When I was a kid I stumbled upon a newspaper in the house with a headline about a Palestinian father who returned to his house and found all his children shot. And I remember the image very well. The father was holding a prayer mat with people holding him as he broke down on his knees. His dead children were on the floor next to each other. Seeing this image of children my age murdered by the Israeli occupation shocked me. I remember my parents having to hide the newspaper from me because of the impact this image had on me.

I had to start reading into politics at a young age, and I realized that everything that Western media was trying to portray about the West being 'civilized' was a lie. How can you be civilized if you're a murderer or/and contribute to the murder of the innocent?

When I learnt about the history of imperialism, colonialism, slavery,...etc. growing up, I recognized the pattern that colonialists use and I saw that the colonizers of yesterday, are the same as today, except Western media is doing a great job covering for them nowadays, and a lot of people only started noticing that recently.

The West seemed fascinating to me as a child, but after seeing the horrendous false images that're being portrayed of my people in the West, all of my fascination turned into anger and motivation to fight against it.

The real terrorists in the world are not the brown and bearded men, veiled women, or the innocent children. The real terrorists are the ones who set the stage for the murder of innocent people, the exploitation of their resources, using propaganda and painting an image of the innocent that cannot be more false and racist, and the fascists that put on a 'civilized' mask.

I will forever stand with my Palestinian brothers and sisters. I will forever defend my Arab and Muslim brothers and sisters, and I won't give room to any misrepresentation. Enough is enough.

Edit: I wanted to add that growing up, I was scared of telling people about where I'm from, my religion, and what language I speak due to the microaggression and discrimination I was subjected to. Not to mention the amount of times I saw on the news Arabs or/and Muslims getting killed in Western countries (aka hate crimes).

[lemurchick]

Every year on the tourist island of Borkum in Germany, locals organize a celebration called Klaasohm, the purpose of which is to beat women.

On December 5, unmarried male members of the prestigious association “Boys of Borkum” wear huge, up to a meter high, masks decorated with horns, fur and feathers. First there is a ritual fight in a closed hall, where only those born on the island are allowed. Photos and videos of the fight are forbidden.

The winner chooses his assistants and they scatter around the island hunting for women. Any woman who gets in their way will be beaten, I'm not kidding, with cow horns in which grain is poured for additional weight. Bruises remain for weeks. It's fun for men, and pain and humiliation for women.

This brutal tradition is believed to date back to the days of the whalers. They would return to their homes in the fall and beat their wives, reminding them who was in charge of the household. The custom has survived to this day, but outsiders are not told about it: the male population of the island does not want it to become known. Only about 5,000 people live on the island, and those who break the conspiracy of silence will face public condemnation and stigma. But some find the courage to speak out anonymously on social media:

Many islanders hate the festival and are forced to keep their mouths shut because of social pressure.

"As a Borkum native, I have been telling people for years that this actually still exists on the island and no one wants to believe me."

"Everyone has to participate, and those who don't want to, too. They're afraid they'll get hurt if they speak out."

"This island is a big village. I think everyone here knows how communities like this work. If you speak out against it, the whole town will talk about you, you will be ignored and sometimes persecuted. I've seen what it's like for people who have been ostracized. Many people are afraid, which is why this festival is not publicly criticized. The journalists will leave, but you'll still have a reputation as a traitor."

Defenders of the tradition argue that in order to avoid being beaten, women simply need to stay out of the house. However, there are many accounts of men letting the masked participants into houses and apartments or even pushing women out into the street.

For many years, information about the barbaric custom did not leak out. In 2018, journalists tried to report on Klaasohm, but they were literally kicked off the island. This year, however, almost all of Germany's leading media outlets covered what was happening on the island.

Faced with nationwide criticism, the mayor issued a statement emphasizing that “in order for Klaasohm to remain an important holiday and festival that shapes the identity of the people of Borkum, awareness must be kept low. It has always been the task of the association to maintain silence around this tradition. Please be respectful and do not spread the word.”

Borkum's Equal Opportunities Commissioner supported the statement, and the police noted that no woman has contacted law enforcement in the past five years. Perhaps this is because police officers, doctors, court officials and teachers are heavily involved in the festival and women realize that there is no point in coming for help from someone who held you down yesterday, subjecting you to beatings.

The statement from the Mayor's office only added fuel to the fire and within a day the Young Men of Borkum Association issued a new message:

"We categorically distance ourselves from any form of violence against women and apologize for what has happened in the past."

They also noted that the festival “is more than just a celebration - it is a living expression of our community and an integral part of life in Borkum. It is a time when the whole island comes together.”

As we know, nothing brings men together like hunting women.

(translated from russian channel (the author lives in Germany) Damn Ambivalence )

German Sources: video: Das Schweigen der Insel - Wenn Borkum Klaasohm feiert (https://www.ardmediathek.de/video/panorama-die-reporter/das-schweigen-der-insel-wenn-borkum-klaasohm-feiert/ndr/Y3JpZDovL25kci5kZS8xMzExXzIwMjQtMTEtMjYtMjEtMTU) Hei kummt Klaasohm! (https://www.mare.de/hei-kummt-klaasohm-content-446?srsltid=AfmBOooQQfoiSEBEKzBp1VL0M4ZXkMh_bo3jlfz-vy7IUJOjfxmDLfTS)

Wirbel um „Klaasohm“: Wird Frauen auf Borkum der Hintern versohlt? (https://www.rnd.de/wissen/klaasohm-skandal-auf-borkum-maskierte-maenner-jagen-frauen-tradition-oder-problem-44QIIXJFZNB4JNI4L6LWUNUFSM.html)

Wie ist das Klaasohm-Fest auf Borkum wirklich? (https://www.stadt-borkum.de/index.php?object=tx,3480.5.1&ModID=7&FID=3480.34396.1)

Der Klaasohm – Brauchtum auf Borkum (https://www.dein-niedersachsen.de/regionen/klaasohm/)

Klaasohm-Fest auf Borkum künftig ohne Schläge? (https://www.ndr.de/fernsehen/sendungen/panorama/aktuell/Borkum-Frauen-Schlagen-bei-Klaasohm-soll-abgeschafft-werden,klaasohm106.html)

[everything-is-taken-j3gus]

This is literally my first post and it's not like I'm expecting to accomplish anything with it but I just gotta get this off my chest.

I'm from Georgia (the country not the state and I'm so sick of having to clarify that), and everything is going to shit over here.

Back in October the "Georgian Dream" party stole the elections, we all expected them to but that doesn't make it better. Honestly had the elections been legitimate they would've still gotten 40% which is just fucking sad, but at least they wouldn't have had a majority. But they weren't legit, these pieces of shit got 60%, and because of some additional bullshit we now have a single party parliament.

Recently they announced their nominee for president. He has no qualifications for it, no higher education or experience in politics, he's just an athlete. Never in my life have I seen a more blatant pawn.

They also said that they will halt any attempts to join the EU until 2028. Now this is obviously a lie and they never plan to join, but even if it wasn't it goes against the constitution, which says that the government should strive to join EU and NATO.

We've been protesting and have constantly been met with disproportional brutality from the police.

We did not choose this, but our ruling party is determined to drag us kicking and screaming into Russia. They've refused to help Ukraine in the war, and moreover they condemned the Georgian people that decided to fight with Ukraine of their own volition. They're taking away the already very limited rights LGBTQ+ people have in this country. They call pro-western media propaganda, and yet they run on being the only "good" way to join the EU.

They've been hiding their true allegiance less and less these past years and the fact that there's still people who believe the shit they spew frustrates me to no end. They've been in power for 12 years and unless someone real powerful steps in they'll stay in power for at least 4 more because far too many people cared far too little.

[ayin-me-yesh]

lrb I am really bothered by the endless questioning I see of Palestinians about their vision for Israelis in a decolonised Palestine

it always seems to come with the following unspoken undertone: "assure me that decolonisation won't be violent and that settlers won't lose their colonial property or else decolonisation isn't worthy of my support and shouldn't happen."

And the thing that really gets me is that they're coming from a belief that an imaginary future possibility of violence or loss of property towards settlers is 100% unacceptable, but the current, ongoing violence and dispossession of Indigenous people must innately BE acceptable because it is the option they will support if they are not assured that decolonisation will cater sufficiently to the settler.

I'm going to spell out our position as settlers in settler colonies: our current position is completely unjust. It was created and is maintained through unimaginable violence.

Decolonisation absolutely should mean settlers do not get to continue being benefactors of injustice. It does mean that the dispossessed should regain access to their land and regain authority over their resources. That does mean taking them back from the settler apparatus.

How violent that process is is entirely dependent on the settlers. Settlers can absolutely side with the colonised. They can support justice for Indigenous people. They can support Indigenous sovereignty movements.

Working class settlers can understand class warfare through the lens of colonialism and fight for shared freedom from the ruling class and justice for Indigenous people. Marginalised communities can see how their marginalisations revolve around colonial paradigms and fight alongside Indigenous peoples to dismantle them.

But if settlers choose to violently uphold a system of theft and murder against Indigenous communities, those communities have a right to resist. Including with violence.

Where settlers in Palestine fit into a free Palestine is up to them. And settlers in Aotearoa, in Australia, and in Turtle Island also need to make those choices.

But do understand that settler colonialism is always genocidal. Is always police states and police brutality. Is always war. Is always dehumanisation. Is always homelessness and statelessness and loss of autonomy. The status quo IS violence in the absolute most extreme. And Indigenous people have a right to fight back.

[sweets-library]

The quiet hours

Shouta Aizawa/reader. hurt/comfort. wc: 4.2k.

READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. DO NOT READ THIS IF THEY DO NOT APPEAL TO YOU.

content warnings: spanking, punishment, rules, heavy use of daddy as a title, heavy themes of discipline

-

You're not allowed to watch the news when Shouta's not home. It might seem harsh, but after that one awful night—when you spiralled into panic attacks and wore yourself down to the bone over a fight that didn’t even involve him (“Underground pro moved to intensive care after brutal battle—”)—he laid down the rule: no news unless he's there to reassure you. And now, well, you’re breaking it.

Your fingers are raw, nails torn from anxious chewing as you follow the chaos unfolding on-screen. The fight rages on in an area Shouta patrols, and the pit in your stomach grows with every minute that passes. You search the screen, desperate for any sign of him—a dark figure amid the blur of heroes, villains, police, and civilians scrambling in the streets. The news helicopter captures the madness from above, and you try to convince yourself he’s fine. He’s always fine. But after an hour, when the villains are finally subdued, Shouta is nowhere to be found. Instead, you watch helplessly as bodies are loaded into ambulances, and worse, some are dragged away, lifeless.

It’s 3 a.m. now. Another rule broken. Shouta hates it when you stay up for him—he says it leaves you exhausted, strung out for no reason when you could wake up beside him, safe and sound. He’d be livid if he knew, but you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s your boyfriend, your partner, and every day he risks his life out there. Of course, you worry. Who cares if you can barely keep your eyes open at work tomorrow? At least you'd know he made it home.

The coverage is still playing when you hear his key in the lock, and your heart leaps into your throat. You quickly fumble for the remote, switch off the TV, and dive under the blankets on the couch, pretending to be asleep. He’s not going to be thrilled that you didn’t make it to bed, but at least he won’t think you’ve completely ignored his rules.

You hold your breath, listening to the familiar sounds of his boots hitting the floor, the clink of his goggles landing on the table, and the soft swish of his capture weapon being hooked by the door. His footsteps are slow and deliberate as he makes his way into the living room, pausing when he spots you curled up on the couch. There’s a heavy sigh—he’s fondly irritated, you can feel it—and for a moment, you brace yourself for a scolding.

Instead, his arms slip gently under you, lifting you without a word. You instinctively snuggle into him, heart pounding with relief. He’s home. He’s safe.

“Missed you, Sho…” you mumble, your voice thick with genuine exhaustion now that he’s here.

"Hm," he replies, the stern edge in his voice making your heart skip. "Were you waiting up for me?"

You don’t dare look at him. “No,” you lie, nuzzling into his shoulder as he lowers you onto the bed. “I was just watching a movie and fell asleep.”

You feel his eyes on you in the darkness, scrutinizing. "Makeup down your cheeks," he notes, swiping at the streaks with his thumb. "Must’ve been a real tearjerker, huh?"

"Yeah…a dog died," you murmur, barely able to suppress a yawn. His quiet chuckle sends a wave of relief through you—he bought it, or at least, he’s letting you think he did.

“My little crybaby,” he teases, but you can hear the affection in his voice.

"At least kiss me before you start being mean," you grumble, pulling him down for a sleepy, lingering kiss. He hums against your lips, then pulls back.

"Go to sleep. I’m gonna shower and come to bed."

You smile, snuggling deeper into the blankets, eyes heavy as you let the relief wash over you. Somehow, you actually got away with it. You listen as Shouta moves around the apartment—showering, heating up his dinner in the microwave, and finally settling onto the couch. The familiar sounds are comforting, grounding you in the safety of knowing he's home.

And then, you hear it. The soft click of the TV turning on.

Your heart skips a beat. The news. The coverage of the attack is still on. You cringe, suddenly wide awake, the comfort of a few minutes ago evaporating as panic flares up again. You strain to hear every detail, anxiety pooling in your chest as you imagine the look on his face when he realizes what you've been up to.

The clink of his plate hitting the coffee table snaps your attention back, followed by the low groan of the couch as he stands. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, pad toward the bedroom. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, willing yourself to look peaceful, and innocent—hoping against hope that you can delay the inevitable until morning.

But you’re not that lucky.

"Sit up." His voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.

You hear him, but you stupidly ignore it, keeping your eyes shut in some desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let it go. The air grows tense, and you hear the sharp click of his tongue, a sound that makes your heart stutter.

“Little girl, you do not want to make this worse than it already is,” he warns, his tone laced with quiet authority. The moment those words hit, your body moves before your brain can even catch up. You sit up, your gaze fixed firmly on the floor, trying to steady your breath.

He steps closer, his presence looming as he positions himself in front of you. You don’t dare look up, but the weight of his stare presses down on you. Then, his fingers grip your chin, not harsh, but firm enough to force your eyes up. The moment you meet his gaze, your stomach drops.

He’s pissed. His dark eyes are locked onto yours, filled with disappointment and frustration.

"I'm going to give you one chance to tell me how you spent your night," he says, voice low and steady, "and so help me, if you lie again, you'll be getting bedtime spankings for a week."

The threat sends a chill down your spine. This isn't your boyfriend Shouta right now. The warmth and gentleness are suddenly punctuated by the stern, unyielding side of him that leaves no room for games.

"I—well," you stammer, your voice small. "I was watching TV... and I stayed up too late. I'm sorry." The apology slips out in a mumble, barely audible, as his hand moves to cup your jaw, holding you in place. He leans in, his presence overwhelming.

"Sorry, what?" His voice is firm, a quiet demand that makes your heart race.

"Sorry, Daddy..." you whisper, heat rushing to your face in embarrassment. It feels vulnerable to say it out loud, especially now.

"Hm." He lets go of your chin, crossing his arms over his chest. His forearms strain against the fabric of his sleeves, muscles flexing as he sizes you up. The air between you is heavy with his disappointment, but despite the weight of it, a small flutter stirs in your stomach. You hate how his sternness affects you like this.

"You were watching what on the TV?" he asks, his tone pointed, his gaze never leaving yours.

You sniff, nervously playing with your fingers, unable to stop the tremble in your hands. "I... I was watching the news," you finally admit, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I was just so worried, and it was so late, and they were in your area, and I just—"

"Enough."

The word snaps the air like a whip, and your mouth shuts instantly. The tension in the room feels almost suffocating as you stare up at him, waiting for the inevitable.

"So," he continues, his voice even and measured, "not only did you stay up far later than you're allowed, knowing full well you have work tomorrow, but you also worked yourself into a panic over the news. And then, you lied to me about it." He pauses, eyes narrowing as if daring you to challenge him. "Do I have that right?"

Your throat tightens, and your stomach feels like it's sinking. There's no way out of this, no excuse you can offer. He expects an answer, and there's only one.

"Yes... Daddy," you whisper, your voice fragile, on the verge of breaking under the weight of it all.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration before rubbing his tired eyes. The sound of his exhale fills the room, thick with disappointment. You can feel his exhaustion, his worry—this is not how he wanted to end his night, and it makes your chest ache.

“We talked about this,” he says, his voice firmer now, frustration seeping into each word. “We have this rule for a reason, so you don’t spend your nights like this—crying over something that’s not even happening!”

You sniffle, your chest tightening as guilt floods through you. “But... what if something did happen? And I had no idea, and you were hurt, and alone, and—”

“Sweetheart,” he cuts in, gentler now but still firm, “if something happens, you’re the first person they will call. You know this. The hospital will notify you if I’m hurt. And if it’s anything else, the commission will contact Mic, who will call you immediately. You know all of this—we talked about it when we made this rule. Together.”

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly tired and frustrated. The exhaustion in his eyes, the strain in his voice, all hit you at once. He’s been working so hard, pushing himself to keep you safe, to keep everyone safe, and here you are, breaking the very rules you agreed on. The weight of it presses down on your chest, and the guilt gnaws at you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick with regret.“I just... I worry. So much.” The words come out in a whimper, hoping for some sympathy, but Shouta isn’t swayed by the tears.

“Baby,” he begins, his voice firm but not unkind, “you have to trust me. I don’t want you sitting here, crying yourself hoarse every night over something that hasn’t happened. It’s not fair to you. It’s not healthy, and I won’t allow it.” His gaze is piercing, locking with yours, filled with concern but unwavering in its resolve. You know he’s right, but the ache of your worry feels so real.

Silence hangs in the air for a moment as he looks at you, clearly weighing his next move. Finally, he speaks again, and it’s not what you expect.

“I’ll call your work in the morning. You’re not going in tomorrow.”

“What? No—Shouta, I’m fine!” you whine, trying to push back against his decision, but he taps your cheek again, this time with a little more firmness.

“Little girl, I don’t think you’re in any position to argue with me right now,” he says, his voice calm but unyielding. “Trust me, you’re not going to want to go to work tomorrow. We’re working this out tonight. I don’t want to have this discussion again, so we’re dealing with it here and now.”

The finality of his words hits you hard, and you feel the sting of tears building again, pressing at the corners of your eyes. You don’t want to deal with this—not now. Not like this. “Daddy, please, I’m sorry,” you plead, your voice fragile and trembling, but it doesn’t change his resolve.

Your apology falls on deaf ears as Shouta pulls the blankets from your legs with a swift motion, guiding you up with a firm but gentle grip. “Don’t argue with me,” he says quietly. “Come here. Now.”

You hesitate, but his firm tone leaves no room for defiance. He takes you by the arm, leading you to the end of the bed. He sits down, looking up at you with that same intense gaze, the weight of his authority wrapping around you. You stand in front of him, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Shouta, I—” you start, but his sharp look cuts you off before the words can even fully leave your mouth. You’re in no position to argue. You know this, but it doesn’t stop the nervous tremor running through your body as you shuffle your feet, feeling his gaze settle heavily on you.

“How many rules did you break tonight?” he asks, his voice calm but firm, waiting for you to face the truth.

You bite your lip, glancing down as the weight of your actions settles in. “I... I stayed up late,” you begin in a shaky voice, “and I watched the news... and I lied.” Your voice cracks on the last confession, barely above a whisper. “So... three,” you finish, the admission hanging in the air like a confession you’ve been dreading.

Shouta’s hands move to gently rub the sides of your legs, grounding you in the moment. His touch is comforting, a reminder that even now, when things feel so overwhelming, he’s here for you. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” you whisper, your voice breaking as a tear slips down your cheek.

He’s watching you carefully, aware of how hard this is for you, but also knowing this moment is important. You flourish under this dynamic with him—he knows that. It’s his responsibility to guide you, to redirect you when you stumble, and this is one of those moments. A slip. A mistake. One that he’ll correct, and when he does, everything will fall back into place and you'll feel better for it.

Shouta gently wipes the tear from your cheek, his thumb soft against your skin. "I know you’re sorry," he says quietly, “but this is why we have these rules. To help you, not to hurt you. And you know I’m going to make sure you learn from this.”

You nod, knowing deep down he’s right.

“Thank you for being honest with me, sweetheart,” he says softly, patting your cheek lovingly. The warmth in his touch eases some of the tension coiling in your stomach. “I think that’s enough TV for the rest of the week. You can read your books instead.”

Your heart sinks at the thought of being cut off from your usual distractions, but you suppress the urge to stomp your feet and whine. You know he’s not done yet. “And tomorrow after breakfast, I want you to write 50 lines in your notebook, telling me you won’t lie to me again,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You nod slowly, knowing this is part of the process. It feels unfair, but deep down, you understand that it’s for your own good.

“Now for tonight,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “I think we will finish this discussion over my lap. Come here.”

With a mix of reluctance and acceptance, you shuffle closer to him, positioning yourself over his lap. It feels both familiar and daunting as you bury your face in your arms, the warmth of his body wrapping around you. The world outside feels distant, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of your breathing, trying to steady yourself for what’s to come.

“What’s your safeword?” he asks, his hand rubbing your back comfortingly, a grounding presence in this moment.

“Red,” you reply firmly, the single word a declaration of your readiness, a promise of trust.

“Good girl.” His approval wraps around you like a warm blanket, but before you can fully absorb it, his hand comes down hard. Even with the cushion of your pajama pants, the sting is sharp, and a whimper escapes your lips as you bury your face deeper into your arms.

The initial shock of pain sends warmth pooling in your cheeks, and you brace yourself, knowing he’s just getting started. He begins to layer swats on your backside, each strike firm and unyielding. With every hit, you feel a mix of emotions—pain mingled with an odd sense of release. His hands fall without mercy, and in the back of your mind, you know this is only the warmup, the prelude to what’s to come.

Your breath quickens, and you focus on the rhythm of his hand, feeling the sting dissipate into a strange warmth that blankets your apprehension. Each swat brings you closer to a clarity that only he can provide, a reminder of the balance between discipline and care.

“This won’t work if we can’t trust each other,” he says, his voice steady and authoritative, each word punctuated by the rhythm of his hand striking your backside. The hits keep coming, a sharp reminder that you need to pay attention. You don’t bother to respond; you know he wants you to listen right now.

“I need to be able to go to work without worrying that you’re at home crying yourself sick over something that was completely avoidable.” The sting resonates in your skin, but it’s the truth in his words that hits harder. Each swat underscores his concern, reinforcing the message he’s trying to drive home.

“If you’re feeling nervous, text me, or Hizashi, or Nemuri. I can’t always answer right away,” he continues, his tone firm yet laced with care. “But I’d rather you reach out to someone for help when your anxiety is getting the best of you than turn on the news and make things far worse for yourself.”

His emphasis on reaching out wraps around you like a lifeline, and you begin to realize the weight of your actions. It’s not just about following the rules; it’s about building a foundation of trust and communication. You focus on his words, letting them sink in as each strike reinforces the lesson. Whenever he redirects you, his discipline feels less like punishment and more like an act of love, a reminder that you’re never alone in this.

The swats stop for the moment, but you know the routine, and dont bother getting excited. He eases your pants down to sit at your knees, and resumes the flurry of spanks while you cry and drum your toes into the mattress. 

“And under no circumstances is it ever okay for you to lie to me,” he asserts, his voice unyielding, filled with the weight of authority. “Everybody makes mistakes, but if you can’t tell me the truth, then where does that leave us? If I find out you’re lying to me again, I have half a mind to wash your mouth out with soap and give you lines every day for a month. Do I make myself clear?”

The words hang heavy in the air, and you choke out a sob, barely able to respond. “Yes, Daddy, m’sorry!”

“If I can’t trust that you’re making good choices, then there will have to be long-term consequences.” His tone softens slightly, but the seriousness remains. “Do you need me to set up a check-in schedule for you? Is that what it will take for you to behave?”

Your heart sinks, guilt washing over you as you realize he’s already stretched thin, so busy and tired, and here you are, adding to his burden. “No, no, I’ll behave! Please!” You cry, desperation tinging your voice.

“I’m happy to hear that, baby,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he continues his steady rhythm. “But if that’s what you needed, then that’s just fine. We’ll talk about it another time.” His hand gently caresses your back, the warmth of his touch providing a comforting contrast to the stinging of your skin. “I love you, sweetheart. If you need more support from me, then you need to tell me.”

You can feel his gentleness in his words, even if he can’t see the tear-streaked cheeks you hide from him. A fresh wave of emotion crashes over you, and you can’t help but weep, overwhelmed by the mixture of relief and vulnerability. The pain lingers, but it’s softened by the assurance that he’s here, guiding you through the shadows of your anxiety. In this moment, you feel a flicker of hope—his love is a steady anchor, reminding you that you don’t have to navigate this storm alone.

“Love you, Daddy. I’m sorry; I can do it. I can be good,” you cry, your voice thick with remorse.

He lets out a weary sigh, the sound heavy with mixed emotions. “You’re always my good girl, baby. I love you so much. We’re almost done.” With that, he shifts the position of your legs, exposing your sit spots more fully for the next phase of your punishment.

As the final swats begin, you feel the sting intensify, but beneath it all, there’s a strange sense of clarity. His unwavering presence and the weight of his expectations create a safe space for you to confront your fears and anxieties. Each strike serves as a reminder of the lessons you need to learn, urging you to let go of the worry that spirals out of control when he’s not around.

Though the discomfort is real, it pales in comparison to the overwhelming love that underpins this dynamic. You focus on that love, knowing that it’s a guiding light leading you toward a healthier path.

"And you know very well that we’ve discussed this before—about how important it is for you to take care of yourself. You need sleep, especially on work nights, and I’m not going to stand by while you exhaust yourself for no reason." His voice is firmer now, just loud enough to cut through your sobs, but never harsh or angry. "I think tomorrow we’re going to have another talk about your bedtime routine. Clearly, I’ve been too lenient, and that stops now, little girl."

The words sink into you, a mix of dread and relief. Even as he speaks, the discipline continues, each strike a rhythmic reminder of his control and your need to listen. He never yells, never lashes out—just that calm, unyielding tone. It leaves no room for doubt: this is not up for debate. You don’t try to suppress your crying anymore, knowing the apartment is soundproof, and that in his arms, you are safe to let go of everything. The punishment is painful, yes, but the deeper ache comes from knowing you’ve disappointed him—and yourself.

And still, through the tears and the discomfort, you know that he’s right. You need the boundaries he sets, the safety they bring. You feel the weight of his words settle inside you, and even though you don’t want to face the conversation tomorrow, you know it’s for the best.

Your ass burns, the heat lingering even after the punishment has ended. You see now that it’s really for the best that you won’t be going to work tomorrow. His hands rub your back soothingly, the warmth of his touch a balm against the ache. Slowly, he shifts you onto his lap, wrapping you in his strong arms, the fabric of your pants slipping down one ankle as you bury your face into the comforting crook of his neck.

“I know, sweetheart. It’s alright,” he murmurs softly, his voice like a gentle caress against your ears. “You’re okay. You did so good.” Each word is a soothing balm, and you can’t help but melt into his embrace, soaking up the praise like a flower yearning for sunlight. “My good little girl, I love you, baby.”

In that moment, as you cling to him, the world outside fades away. All that matters is the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek and the steady pulse of love radiating from him. You feel safe, cherished, and most importantly, understood. The earlier turmoil dissipates, replaced by a profound sense of peace, as you allow yourself to rest in his arms, knowing he’ll always be there to guide you back to safety.

Eventually, the storm of tears subsides, and a soothing calm washes over you, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You stifle a yawn, snuggling deeper into his arms, teetering on the brink of sleep. He continues to murmur sweet reassurances, his voice a soft lullaby that wraps around you like a warm blanket as he carries you back to your side of the bed.

For a moment, you feel a twinge of abandonment as he steps away, but he’s back almost instantly, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he holds a makeup wipe in hand. The tender gesture brings a flutter of warmth to your chest as he wipes away the remnants of your earlier distress. You fight the urge to surrender to sleep, but his soothing presence makes it increasingly difficult. The room falls into a comfortable silence, filled only with the sound of your soft breaths and his gentle movements.

Once your face is free of makeup, you feel lighter, as if the weight of the evening has been washed away. He leans in, pressing a feather-light kiss on your lips, then your cheek, and finally your forehead, each kiss a reminder of his love and devotion. He crawls into bed beside you, pulling you close into his warm embrace. You instinctively wrap your limbs around him, finding comfort in his strength and warmth.

As you settle into the familiar rhythm of his breathing, you murmur out one last “Love you, Daddy…” The words linger in the air as sleep finally claims you, enveloping you in a dreamless, deep slumber, safe and secure in his arms.

-

guys i hate to say the daddy issues got to me. nobody look at me ok sometimes being an adult is really hard. i cross posted this on ao3 btw

[j23r23]

That's my wife!

tangerine x wife reader

Waring: Violence and Fluff

BTW: Thank you @little-miss-dilf-lover for being my muse and making me write again 🍊🫶🏻🧡

Tangerine had never been one to keep his temper in check, especially when it came to you. The two of you had been in far worse situations, but today was different. The local police force had no idea who they were dealing with, and it didn’t help that they were handling you both like a pair of thugs.

The officer shoving you into the back of the police car had already crossed a line, his grip too tight, his attitude too arrogant and his hands touching you. But when the other one got rough with you, pushing you toward the vehicle with far more force than necessary and making you trip, something snapped in Tangerine.

“Oi, that’s my wife!” His voice cut through the commotion like a knife, fury lacing every word. Before anyone could react, he lunged forward, headbutting the cop who’d been forcing him into the car. The crack of bone against bone was unmistakable, and the officer staggered back, blood pouring from his nose.

Tangerine didn’t stop there. He turned with a wild intensity in his eyes, his curly hair disheveled, one strand falling across his forehead, giving him a feral look. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he couldn’t do much, but that didn’t stop him. He barreled toward the cop who’d been rough with you, and with another fierce headbutt, sent him sprawling to the ground, clutching his face in pain.

Blood now dripped down Tangerine’s forehead, his hair a mess of curls and sweat. He sniffed, a drop of blood running down to his upper lip before he spit, his saliva tinged with red, at the cop writhing on the pavement. There was a terrifying calmness about him as he turned to you, the fiery rage melting into something softer, more tender.

“You alright, love?” he asked, his voice gentle, as if he hadn’t just taken down two cops with nothing but his head. His eyes searched yours, worry etched in every line of his face.

Before you could respond, the other officers started to move in, their shouts filling the air as they surrounded the two of you. But in that moment, all that mattered was Tangerine. Despite the chaos, despite the fact that your hands were cuffed behind your backs, you stepped closer to him. He leand in as close as he could, and you buried your face in his chest, feeling the warmth of his body on your cheek. His chin rested on top of your head, his breath coming in soft, reassuring huffs.

“I’m alright,” you murmured into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

His kissed the top of your head, as if reassuring himself that you were really there, that you were safe. You look up wanting to kiss away his worry.

Just as your lips were about to brush his, the moment shattered. Rough hands yanked you backward, pulling you away from Tangerine before you could taste his lips. The separation was brutal the world that had narrowed to just the two of you expanded back out into chaos.

His eyes widened in fury as you were torn apart from eachother, and before either of you could protest, a cop shoved him roughly toward a separate squad car.

“Tangerine!” you called out, your voice cracking with desperation as he was pulled away. But before his name fully left your lips, a hand clamped down on your arm, yanking you back so brutally it felt like your shoulder might tear from its socket.

The violent pull sent you stumbling, nearly crashing to the ground. The cop jerked you upright, twisting your arm more with such force that pain shot through your entire body.

"Get the fuck off of her!" Tangerine roared, thrashing against the officers holding him, as he tried to get back to you. But they were too many now, and even he couldn’t fight them all off with his hands cuffed. You struggled too, your heart pounding in your chest, the grip on your arms unyielding, forcing you further away from him.

The last thing you saw before they shoved you into the back of a squad car was Tangerine being kicked into another vehicle, his eyes locked on yours with a look that promised he wouldn’t stop fighting until he got back to you. But then the door slammed shut, cutting off your view. The cold metal of the cuffs dug into your wrists as the car pulled away, the flashing lights reflecting off the windows as the city streets blurred by.

Your mind was spinning, back to Tangerine. You could only imagine what he was going through in the other car, his fury probably pushing him to the brink. You hoped he wouldn’t do anything too reckless—though, knowing him, that was probably a lost cause.

When you finally arrived at the precinct, they dragged you out of the car, your shoulder aching from the rough treatment. You were led through the fluorescent-lit corridors, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the linoleum floor. The air thick with the scent of sweat and cheap coffee. The officers, still on edge from Tangerine’s outburst, were rough as they took your fingerprints, mugshot and your personal belongings.

They put you in a holding cell, the bars cold and unwelcoming as they locked you inside. As you paced the small space, minutes felt like hours as you waited, your heart thudding with every creak of the building around you.

Then, finally, you heard a familiar voice outside the cell.

“What the hell have you two gotten yourselves into this time?”

Lemon’s tone was half exasperated, half amused, though there was an underlying concern that warmed you just a bit. A moment later, the door swung open, and there he was, looking far too calm for someone about to bail his brother and sister-in-law out of jail. His bright yellow jacket stood out starkly against the drab surroundings, like a ray of misplaced sunshine.

Lemon's exasperation clear on his face as he surveyed the mess that was your situation. His eyes softened when they landed on you, taking in the bruises forming on your arms and wrists.

“Alright, let’s get you out of here,” he sighed, pulling some strings with the Sergeant and sliding a few bills across the counter.

“They’re releasing him now,” Lemon said as he guided you out of the cell. “You’re lucky I got here when I did. Tangerine was about to start a riot in his cell...”

You followed Lemon through the station, the tension in your chest easing with each step. When you reached the front desk, you saw Tangerine standing there, still cuffed but very much alive, a bandage hastily slapped across his forehead and his shirt stained with dried blood. His curls even more disheveled than before, but you’d never been happier to see him.

“Lemon, about time, mate,” Tangerine grumbled, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, yeah, save it for later,” Lemon replied, rolling his eyes but clearly glad to see his brother in one piece. “You two are bloody hopeless, you know that?”

Tangerine ignored the jab. The moment his eyes met yours, his entire demeanor softened. He jerked his arms, clearly eager to get to you, but the officer behind the desk held onto his cuffs until the last possible second, as if hoping for one more reason to keep him locked up.

Finally, though, the metal restraints fell away, and Tangerine was free. He crossed the distance between you in a few quick strides. Without a word, he pulled you into his arms. He held you tight, like he’d never let go again, his lips brushing the top of your head in a silent promise.

“You alright?” he murmured, repeating the question he’d asked before everything went sideways.

“Now I am,” you whispered back, leaning into him as much as you could.

Lemon cleared his throat, making a show of looking anywhere but at the two of you. “Right, well, let’s get out of here before these idiots change their minds. We’ll deal with this mess later.”

With Lemon leading the way, you and Tangerine made your way out of the precinct, your fingers holding his as you walked side by side. As Tangerine pulled you closer, his arm slung protectively around your shoulders.

The cool night air hit your face as you stepped outside, the city buzzing around you as if nothing had happened.