#Freedom day 2021

[etherealstrike]

GUYS HELP I WATCHED TE FREEDOM DAY 2021 VIDEO IM TRAUMATIZED

[doridumbington]

Can't believe Flamingo ACTUALLY turned himself invisible for a video... that's crazy! Text yo mom this!

[nabaath-areng]

on the downside, ffxiv wont boot for me at all so i wont be able to continue msq for another 10 days at minimum....... <:-(

[pepprs]

my depression is getting really really bad. like it’s been bad before but this is like… consistently really bad. like a long unending stretch for several weeks (and tbh months) now. to the point where no inoculation actually sticks (and im isolating myself from most of my inoculations anyway and feel unable to stop doing it even though i know it’s self destructive). im either helplessly unbearably miserable or numbing out on video games. i just don’t feel like it’s going to get better for me and i KNOW that is factually untrue but the feeling is louder than the knowledge and it’s just utterly immobilizing. ive been sinking in quicksand for 2 years.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

“If buying isn’t owning, piracy isn’t stealing”

20 years ago, I got in a (friendly) public spat with Chris Anderson, who was then the editor in chief of Wired. I'd publicly noted my disappointment with glowing Wired reviews of DRM-encumbered digital devices, prompting Anderson to call me unrealistic for expecting the magazine to condemn gadgets for their DRM:

https://longtail.typepad.com/the_long_tail/2004/12/is_drm_evil.html

I replied in public, telling him that he'd misunderstood. This wasn't an issue of ideological purity – it was about good reviewing practice. Wired was telling readers to buy a product because it had features x, y and z, but at any time in the future, without warning, without recourse, the vendor could switch off any of those features:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/12/29/cory-responds-to-wired-editor-on-drm/

I proposed that all Wired endorsements for DRM-encumbered products should come with this disclaimer:

WARNING: THIS DEVICE’S FEATURES ARE SUBJECT TO REVOCATION WITHOUT NOTICE, ACCORDING TO TERMS SET OUT IN SECRET NEGOTIATIONS. YOUR INVESTMENT IS CONTINGENT ON THE GOODWILL OF THE WORLD’S MOST PARANOID, TECHNOPHOBIC ENTERTAINMENT EXECS. THIS DEVICE AND DEVICES LIKE IT ARE TYPICALLY USED TO CHARGE YOU FOR THINGS YOU USED TO GET FOR FREE — BE SURE TO FACTOR IN THE PRICE OF BUYING ALL YOUR MEDIA OVER AND OVER AGAIN. AT NO TIME IN HISTORY HAS ANY ENTERTAINMENT COMPANY GOTTEN A SWEET DEAL LIKE THIS FROM THE ELECTRONICS PEOPLE, BUT THIS TIME THEY’RE GETTING A TOTAL WALK. HERE, PUT THIS IN YOUR MOUTH, IT’LL MUFFLE YOUR WHIMPERS.

Wired didn't take me up on this suggestion.

But I was right. The ability to change features, prices, and availability of things you've already paid for is a powerful temptation to corporations. Inkjet printers were always a sleazy business, but once these printers got directly connected to the internet, companies like HP started pushing out "security updates" that modified your printer to make it reject the third-party ink you'd paid for:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Now, this scam wouldn't work if you could just put things back the way they were before the "update," which is where the DRM comes in. A thicket of IP laws make reverse-engineering DRM-encumbered products into a felony. Combine always-on network access with indiscriminate criminalization of user modification, and the enshittification will follow, as surely as night follows day.

This is the root of all the right to repair shenanigans. Sure, companies withhold access to diagnostic codes and parts, but codes can be extracted and parts can be cloned. The real teeth in blocking repair comes from the law, not the tech. The company that makes McDonald's wildly unreliable McFlurry machines makes a fortune charging franchisees to fix these eternally broken appliances. When a third party threatened this racket by reverse-engineering the DRM that blocked independent repair, they got buried in legal threats:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cold-war

Everybody loves this racket. In Poland, a team of security researchers at the OhMyHack conference just presented their teardown of the anti-repair features in NEWAG Impuls locomotives. NEWAG boobytrapped their trains to try and detect if they've been independently serviced, and to respond to any unauthorized repairs by bricking themselves:

https://mamot.fr/@q3k@hackerspace.pl/111528162905209453

Poland is part of the EU, meaning that they are required to uphold the provisions of the 2001 EU Copyright Directive, including Article 6, which bans this kind of reverse-engineering. The researchers are planning to present their work again at the Chaos Communications Congress in Hamburg this month – Germany is also a party to the EUCD. The threat to researchers from presenting this work is real – but so is the threat to conferences that host them:

https://www.cnet.com/tech/services-and-software/researchers-face-legal-threats-over-sdmi-hack/

20 years ago, Chris Anderson told me that it was unrealistic to expect tech companies to refuse demands for DRM from the entertainment companies whose media they hoped to play. My argument – then and now – was that any tech company that sells you a gadget that can have its features revoked is defrauding you. You're paying for x, y and z – and if they are contractually required to remove x and y on demand, they are selling you something that you can't rely on, without making that clear to you.

But it's worse than that. When a tech company designs a device for remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrades, they invite both external and internal parties to demand those downgrades. Like Pavel Chekov says, a phaser on the bridge in Act I is going to go off by Act III. Selling a product that can be remotely, irreversibly, nonconsensually downgraded inevitably results in the worst person at the product-planning meeting proposing to do so. The fact that there are no penalties for doing so makes it impossible for the better people in that meeting to win the ensuing argument, leading to the moral injury of seeing a product you care about reduced to a pile of shit:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/25/moral-injury/#enshittification

But even if everyone at that table is a swell egg who wouldn't dream of enshittifying the product, the existence of a remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrade feature makes the product vulnerable to external actors who will demand that it be used. Back in 2022, Adobe informed its customers that it had lost its deal to include Pantone colors in Photoshop, Illustrator and other "software as a service" packages. As a result, users would now have to start paying a monthly fee to see their own, completed images. Fail to pay the fee and all the Pantone-coded pixels in your artwork would just show up as black:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/28/fade-to-black/#trust-the-process

Adobe blamed this on Pantone, and there was lots of speculation about what had happened. Had Pantone jacked up its price to Adobe, so Adobe passed the price on to its users in the hopes of embarrassing Pantone? Who knows? Who can know? That's the point: you invested in Photoshop, you spent money and time creating images with it, but you have no way to know whether or how you'll be able to access those images in the future. Those terms can change at any time, and if you don't like it, you can go fuck yourself.

These companies are all run by CEOs who got their MBAs at Darth Vader University, where the first lesson is "I have altered the deal, pray I don't alter it further." Adobe chose to design its software so it would be vulnerable to this kind of demand, and then its customers paid for that choice. Sure, Pantone are dicks, but this is Adobe's fault. They stuck a KICK ME sign to your back, and Pantone obliged.

This keeps happening and it's gonna keep happening. Last week, Playstation owners who'd bought (or "bought") Warner TV shows got messages telling them that Warner had walked away from its deal to sell videos through the Playstation store, and so all the videos they'd paid for were going to be deleted forever. They wouldn't even get refunds (to be clear, refunds would also be bullshit – when I was a bookseller, I didn't get to break into your house and steal the books I'd sold you, not even if I left some cash on your kitchen table).

Sure, Warner is an unbelievably shitty company run by the single most guillotineable executive in all of Southern California, the loathsome David Zaslav, who oversaw the merger of Warner with Discovery. Zaslav is the creep who figured out that he could make more money cancelling completed movies and TV shows and taking a tax writeoff than he stood to make by releasing them:

https://aftermath.site/there-is-no-piracy-without-ownership

Imagine putting years of your life into making a program – showing up on set at 5AM and leaving your kids to get their own breakfast, performing stunts that could maim or kill you, working 16-hour days during the acute phase of the covid pandemic and driving home in the night, only to have this absolute turd of a man delete the program before anyone could see it, forever, to get a minor tax advantage. Talk about moral injury!

But without Sony's complicity in designing a remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrade feature into the Playstation, Zaslav's war on art and creative workers would be limited to material that hadn't been released yet. Thanks to Sony's awful choices, David Zaslav can break into your house, steal your movies – and he doesn't even have to leave a twenty on your kitchen table.

The point here – the point I made 20 years ago to Chris Anderson – is that this is the foreseeable, inevitable result of designing devices for remote, irreversible, nonconsensual downgrades. Anyone who was paying attention should have figured that out in the GW Bush administration. Anyone who does this today? Absolute flaming garbage.

Sure, Zaslav deserves to be staked out over an anthill and slathered in high-fructose corn syrup. But save the next anthill for the Sony exec who shipped a product that would let Zaslav come into your home and rob you. That piece of shit knew what they were doing and they did it anyway. Fuck them. Sideways. With a brick.

Meanwhile, the studios keep making the case for stealing movies rather than paying for them. As Tyler James Hill wrote: "If buying isn't owning, piracy isn't stealing":

https://bsky.app/profile/tylerjameshill.bsky.social/post/3kflw2lvam42n

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/08/playstationed/#tyler-james-hill

Image: Alan Levine (modified) https://pxhere.com/en/photo/218986

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

[redgoldsparks]

My very last comic for The Nib! End of an era! Transcription below the cut. instagram / patreon / portfolio / etsy / my book / redbubble

The first event I went to with GENDER QUEER was in NYC in 2019 at the Javits Center.

So many of the people who came to my signing were librarians, and so many of them said the same thing: "I know exactly who I want to give this to!" Maia: "Thank you for helping readers find my book!" While working on the book, I was genuinely unsure if anyone outside of my family and close friends would read it. But the early support of librarians and two American Library Association awards helped sell two print runs in first year.

Since then, GENDER QUEER been published in 8 languages, with more on the way: Spanish, Czech, Polish, French, Italian, Norwegian, Portugese and Dutch.

It has also been the most banned book in the United States for the past two years. The American Library Association has tracked an astronomical increase in book challenges over the past few years. Most of these challenges are to books with diverse characters and LGBTQ themes. These challenges are coming unevenly across the US, in a pattern that mirrors the legislative attacks on LGBTQ people. The Brooklyn Public Library offered free eCards to anyone in the US aged 13-21, in an effort to make banned books more available to young readers. A teacher in Norman, Oklahoma gave her students the QR code for the free eCard and lost her job. Summer Boismeir is now working for the Brooklyn Public Library. Hoopla and Libby/Overdrive, apps used to access digital library books, are now banned in Mississippi to anyone under 18. Some libraries won’t allow anyone under 18 to get any kind of library card without parental permission. When librarians in Jamestown, Michigan refused to remove GENDER QUEER and several other books, the citizens of the town voted down the library’s funding in the fall 2022 election. Without funding, the library is due to close in mid-2024. My first event since covid hit was the American Library Association conference in June 2022 in Washington, DC. Once again, the librarians in my signing line all had similar stories for me: “Your book was challenged in our district" "It was returned to the shelf!" "It was removed from the shelf..." "It was moved to the adult section."

Over and over I said: "Thank you. Thank you for working so hard to keep my book in your library. I’m sorry you had to defend it, but thank you for trying, even if it didn't work." We are at a crossroads of freedom of speech and censorship. The future of libraries, both publicly funded and in schools, are at stake. This is massively impacting the daily lives of librarians, teachers, students, booksellers, and authors around the country. In May 2023, I read an article from the Washington Post analyzing nearly 1000 of the book challenges from the 2021-2022 school year. I was literally on route to a festival to talk about book bans when I read a startling statistic. 60% of the 1000 book challenges were submitted by just 11 people. One man alone was responsible for 92 challenges. These 11 people seem to have made submitting copy-cat book challenges their full-time hobby and their opinions are having an outsized ripple effect across the nation. WE NEED TO MAKE THE VOICES SUPPORTING DIVERSE BOOKS AND OPPOSING BOOK BANS EVEN LOUDER. If you are able too, show up for your library and school board meetings when book challenges are debated. Send supportive comments and emails about the Pride book display and Drag Queen story hours. If you see a display you like– for Banned Book Week, AAPI Month, Black History Month, Disability Awareness Month, Jewish holidays, Trans Day of Remembrance– compliment a librarian! Make sure they feel the love stronger than the hate <3

Maia Kobabe, 2023

The Nib

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

The Invisible String Theory

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You didn't expect the man who gave you his coat to be the same one to bust down the door where you and the other women slept - sniper hood scaring everyone within an inch of their life. You didn't expect him to become so important to you, either. (Based on König's in-game backstory).

WORDCOUNT: 9.2k

WARNINGS: Human trafficking, mentions of unwanted touching, trauma, blood, gore, guns, bullets, protective!König, soft!König, nightmares, mentions of bullying, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

'DATE: 25, NOVEMBER, 2021

LOCATION: BERLIN, GERMANY

TIME OF EVENT: 0230

MISSION REPORT: PENDING….'

You don’t remember much from the day that could be called out of the ordinary. Ever since you’d been moved here with the other girls, everything was predictable down to the time the men would come over, to the point where the screams had to be muffled by pillows. 

Never in your life did you think you’d be part of the nearly fifty million people stuck in this situation, and neither did you think you’d be the one in one hundred who got out. But before you can think about November twenty-fifth and those pale gray eyes, you have to go back to the beginning. To Al-Qatala. 

You hadn’t been with this cell initially—you’d been moved around and bartered off more times than you could count; the initial founder of your predicament was long gone at this point. North and South America, Europe, Africa, Asia, and Oceania…you’d been practically everywhere and on every continent barring the obvious last. In Europe, you couldn’t name the countries, but you knew this for a fact: you’d never been to Germany before. 

They had you with five other women in a large SUV in the beginning, this international ring of human traffickers. You had watched from the window, face blank and eyes unblinking, at the men who met near the docks. They had brought you in through Hamburg, first—not only the largest seaport in Germany but the third largest in Europe; you think you read that on a flier at some point. One of those flimsy ones that you find in gas stations with bright lettering to attract the tourists with their interesting facts. 

You wished you were only a tourist. 

You’d watched the men shake hands, and that was when you knew your fate, as well as that of the five other women, was sealed. You were going to all be here for a long time. 

This Al-Qatala cell was ruthless, but you supposed with being around terrorists, ruthlessness was better than being executed. 

For days you’d be exploited with the false promises of moments of freedom, breaks, food, and water. For some of the women it was drugs or money, but when your stomach was empty and your eyes blurring from lack of sleep, even addictions seemed to pale for brief hours. But above it all was the threat of death at every corner. These men would kill you. 

It was only a matter of time unless you could give them what they wanted. 

You yourself had developed a system, and it was probably the only reason you were still alive. Pick one of the handlers, gain his favor, and pray that he treats you specially while you keep up the act of a mindless, weak, woman. 

Ivon was the man’s name this time around. Born and raised here in Berlin before the clutches of his fanatical ideations brought him to Al-Qatala. You hated him.

Hated his touch—hated his scent and how he talked; every bit of him was corrupted like a black dog at a crossroads, always leading people down the wrong path. Your only saving grace was that he was stupid. The other girls called you Cat—said you managed to nuzzle up to someone and soon after got them to give you what you wanted. Everything you wanted except freedom, that was.

You didn’t deny that Ivon did give you privileges, but that was the point. About a week into your stay in Berlin, he allowed you to go into public with him. Arm-candy.

A doll. 

The townhouse you’d been stuck in had disappeared into a spec behind the rearview mirror, the chilled air from outside making you shiver at the lack of heat and the thin shawl you’d been thrown. No jacket. 

The care of your health only extended to how well you were able to work—at the moment you were relatively healthy despite the bulge of bruises and constantly shell-shocked look behind your eyes.

But the trip—the trip. You supposed that was when it had fully started, and you didn’t even realize it before you saw those gray eyes again. 

“Come,” Ivon orders, holding tightly to your arm and dragging you along from the corner shop without making a scene. Your hands loosely brush the wrack of clothes, fabric soft under your fingertips as it sways. 

Fixing your shawl, you try to burrow your neck into it, gaining what little heat is available to you. It was cold out—you were shivering. People send looks, eyes tight as they shift up and down your form, but no one ever says anything. To be this bold, this cell had to have been at this for a long, long time. The realization didn’t make you feel any better. 

That was when you first saw him. 

You were standing outside a coffee shop, quivering like a newly hatched butterfly, Ivon making a call only a few feet away with fast motions of his arms. It was hard not to make a run for it right then and there; hard not to take those few seconds of open air and dash away—start screaming and yelling until the authorities came. 

It would save yourself, but what about the others? They wouldn’t be so fortunate, you’d be sentencing them to death. None of this was simple—it needed to be thought out. Two games of chess being played at the same time.

The irony of it was that König had been off-duty that day. It had been a shot in the dark. 

“Are you alright?” A thick Austrian accent makes you flinch as it appears beside your right ear, grating.

Your eyes snap to the side, moving one foot back as you blink wildly up at the blue-gray orbs that would become a staple. You liked to call it as everyone else did—the invisible string theory. A theory that stated that the universe connected people who were destined to meet one day. Through thick or thin waters, it was inevitable. He was inevitable. 

“Yes,” you say quickly, holding your hands tightly around you. The man ahead of you was tall, almost startlingly so, with muscles more bulky than a boulder and his buzz-cut head open to the chilled breeze. He wore a surgical mask over his lower visage, his hoodie under the thick material of a canvas jacket. “Yes,” you say again, hearing Ivon’s voice behind you still on the phone. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Gray eyes furrow slightly, gaze darting over your head. 

“Are you…sure, Ma’am?” 

“Thank you for your concern,” you fake laugh, eyes pained, backing up farther. That invisible string snaps into place, pulling tight at only those few simple words. 

His stature made you slightly nervous—large, intimidating; those hands could do quite the damage if given the chance. Your eyes had hit and bounced off the identity discs at his chest with little thought, too preoccupied to notice the fact that he was in the Service.

König’s eyes had narrowed softly, dark brows minutely moving in.

Ivon hangs up his phone. 

“Can I help you?” He asks, coming up and sliding a hand around your waist. The man had stared at him for a long minute, and you had felt Ivon tense slowly at the unblinking eye contact. 

This stranger had commented in German a long string of frim words, hands going to his jacket and grabbing at the arms—he slips out of it while still uttering. 

Before you can react, the large coat swallows you whole and you snatch at the heat that’s still inside instinctually, now only realizing how much you were shivering. Your body sags into the weight of the fabric, the scent of sweat and coffee. 

You don’t even pay attention to the growing tones, shocked. People look over to the two fast words being tossed.

Yet it could only last so long. 

Ivon’s hand latches onto the side of your arm, beginning to drag you back and away from this kind stranger like a lap dog while throwing curses behind him. Gray eyes meet yours as old shoes skid and stumble. 

König had taken a firm step towards you that day, his body tense and his hands clenched at his side—ready to do anything on a moment's notice should you ask for it. But all you do is stare, jaw loose, and the given coat still on your shoulders. You just couldn’t understand why he would do that. 

The stranger gets swallowed by the crowd, and just like that, he’s gone. 

That was all it had been; a moment—a few mere seconds in the large plot that was this almost impossible tale. You were glad it had been him, or else the events of the future could have been very different. 

Of course, they hadn’t let you keep the jacket, but the memory was enough to warm you for days even as old pains faded and new ones took their place. 

But those gray eyes would help you in the future, like a guardian; a protector in your dreams as you watched the snow fall from the sliver of outside light in your room with the others. Your mattress was on the floor like the rest, thin blankets and clouds of cold breath wafting up from sleeping forms. 

This was the time it happened, and you’d just woken up to find the curtains shifting as one of the women near it moved in her sleep. Shadows slip past, the light interrupted as it shifts over your tired face with broken fractures. 

You were always kept on the ground floor. 

'CLEARANCE: APPROVED 

TRANSLATING MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’…

STAND BY…

Operation Red Freedom took place on November twenty-fifth, 2021, at approximately 0230 in the neighborhood of [REDACTED], at the residence of [REDACTED], Berlin, Germany. A squad of ten highly trained [REDACTED] personnel covertly entered the residence in two teams of five. Fireteam One advanced from the back entrance while Fireteam Two entered the residence from the balcony at the top floor, accessed via ladder.

Squad Leader [REDACTED], part of Fireteam One, set foot in the residence of [REDACTED] at approximately 0238 and began sweeping the ground floor as Fireteam Two cleared three of twelve known individuals belonging to the terrorist organization, Al-Qatala, on the top floor….'

You shift and shiver, your body trying to warm itself as the world blurs at the sides of your vision. Fingers twitch as your hand goes to wrap your waist, curled into the fetal position, creaking emanates from above you. Blinking softly, you frown and take a quivering breath, head nuzzling the thin mattress. 

“Cold,” you say, the following low exhale of air out of your lips only making it all worse as everything seems to drop another degree. The darkness didn’t help either, only that one line of light trying desperately to fill the room like a bucket descending into a dry well. 

You’re only clothed in the dirty and tattered remains of a large shirt, your legs feeling like they don’t hold any blood in them as they quiver without your knowledge—shaking the blanket above you. A few of the girls had said it would be okay to share, but everyone was afraid of the lock on the door clicking open and the men coming back in and seeing them. In the end, you could only look after yourself.

A thump makes you startle, drooping eyes snapping back open as you gasp. 

Head shifting, you blink rapidly upward to the ceiling, confused as to whether that had been a part of a failing mind or if you’d really just heard a muffled bump upstairs. Brows furrowing, you lightly sit up, hands still around yourself and legs limply outward; spine hunched. 

Your fingers had lost feeling, just as your nose had gone numb, but moving helped a little. Your hands dig into your flesh and your ears twitch at every creak in the wood—every pass of silent feet that suddenly becomes all the clearer as the sheen of fatigue slowly leaves your brain. 

Walking? Small pains move along your body like needles, poking and prodding, but you ignore them as easily as you do the vile hands that had touched you. Survival had forced you into a constant state of self-preservation—pain couldn’t bother you, because if you stopped, you wouldn’t get back going again. 

Your head tilts so you can side-eye the door to the room, sleeping forms all around shifting, singular groaning of tired lungs. But there’s something inside of you that stiffens like a prey animal, and you don’t know why. Inside of your sockets, your eyes hone in, bones stiff and your chest stilling as the grain becomes the most interesting thing to you beyond breathing. 

There was someone….out there. 

Watching, the sides of your vision shadow over to focus harder, your muscles tight. Your mind goes to the thumps from upstairs, the moving feet that sounded far more careful and deliberate than the ones your jailors took care to walk with. 

Inside your ribs, your heart patters a bit faster, adrenal glands sending a certain flight or flight through the few veins you hold that aren’t chilled over.

Something was happening. Something wasn’t right.

Only when you move to shake the shoulder of one of the women sleeping beside you does it happen. 

A yell. 

A scream. 

The girls in the room all startle awake, sounds of concern and shock entering the air that you mirror; faces snapping to the ceiling and the door. The townhouse erupts into gunfire and the sound of slamming wood—a warzone that only is separated from all of you by the thin material of the four walls.

You feel yourself being grabbed and held in fear in the dark, as your open face holds the expression of a rabbit in an open field, looking along the long, hidden grass. 

The sounds persist, loud German shouts going up over the house and echoing with heated fever. This continues for minutes, added in with the sound of doors breaking off hinges, bouncing off the ground, and shaking the foundation so hard that you can feel it reverberate. The women go silent. Stone-still. 

But the gunfire—so much gunfire. The constant pop of assault weapons and a pound of multiple booted feet. 

What was going on? You can't make sense of it, so you only freeze and listen; trying to understand the longer the fight goes on, heart hammering; mouth slack-jawed. And then it’s like it never happened.

Silence. 

You share quick looks with the others, all gripping one another and heads angled to the door. The heavy feet start back up again, coming closer. Your mind slashes to the window across the room, but it’s hard to think beyond the sudden body that shakes the door that leads directly to you all—the women scream, some standing up and racing to the glass with the same idea as you. 

'…Squad Leader [REDACTED], and both Fireteams successfully eliminated all targets inside of the [REDACTED] residence, leaving the room occupied by known hostages last to prevent casualties and/or the usage of bargaining chips. Squad Leader [REDACTED] made contact with hostages at approximately 0244 after the final sweep of the townhouse had been completed and all personnel accounted for.

Local authorities had been contacted by neighbors due to noise but were dismissed.' 

The door busts off its hinges and the room devolves into panicked yells and hurled bits of mattress material. Loud pleas and curses stuck like gums to teeth as they were forced out in fear and bone-crushing terror. You remember pushing back into the wall, many others doing the same, as a beast of a man enters the room with his face covered with a loose fabric hood of some sort. 

Large—brutish. Like a demon walking with the color of black printed over his entire body; gear hangs from a combat vest, hands holding an assault rifle as a sidearm is strapped to his bulging thigh. Forearms the side of your head stays near his chest, and in order to not hit his head on the doorframe, the individual has to bend slightly. Over that hood, the lenses and head-gear of a night-vision rig sit heavily before it’s moved back with a firm hand that is nearly double the size of yours.

A monster.

Your entire being is tight with quivering tension, eyes blinking away tears at the smell of blood that rolls in from the hallway. The women at the window duck down, hands to their heads as if expecting a bullet to carve its way between their skulls. 

“Cat,” one of the ladies behind you mutters, voice quivering. You shush her on bitten lips and move her farther behind you. 

“Don’t speak,” you mutter. “Don’t move.”

You don’t know what you expect, but nothing about this is correct. 

The man raises his hands, the rifle slapping his chest as it hangs from a strap. He speaks in German, and the heavy and fast noise of it makes your already addled head spin. No one answers beyond the slide of their own feet over the hardwood floors.

“Ich heiße König,” his head swivels from one to another, “Sprichst du Deutsch? Irgendjemand?”

You stare blankly, panting. 

After a moment, and a slow step forward from the stranger, he speaks again, though this time, it’s in English. 

“My name is König.” His voice is familiar to you, and you blink in confusion quickly, hidden near the back of the shaking bodies. “I am with the German Military, yes? We have conducted a raid on this residence.” 

Military? Raid? 

“...I am not here to hurt you.” He nears one of the women, beginning to bend down slowly. She squeaks, balking back—making him tense and halt. It didn't matter what he said, König was the epitome of a man who was intimidating on body alone; the gear wasn’t helping. Neither was the hood. 

A soldier appears in the doorway, calling out to him in his native language as you flinch at the noise. 

König calls back calmly, trying to keep an air of gentle strength around him.

The second soldier comes inside, dressed similarly despite the lack of fabric over his visage which instantly puts many at ease again. He clears his throat as König steps back, gargantuan hands coming up to rest at his vest collar as his legs shift. He seems a bit put off at the fearful stares from everyone, rolling his shoulders for a moment as he turns his head to look out of the doorway. 

Your eyes don’t move from him, though. A nagging feeling in the back of your skull. 

“We have to leave this place,” the second soldier tells you all, kneeling and resting a hand over his knee. “We’ll get you medical attention. Food. Water. There’s no need to suffer here any longer, hm? We can see to it that all of you will get the best care that can be provided.” A pause. “We can get you back home.” 

That certainly got the attention that was needed. 

Meek questions started falling out, then louder ones before pandemonium was roused in that tiny room pushed to the very back of the townhouse. Home. It was a word that had almost lost all meaning but was still that constant shining light in the back of everyone’s mind. 

Home.

Did you even have one of those left? 

As the rest of your fellows all got to their feet, taking you with them, you had to think over that fact as the soldier guided them gently out of the room to join the others waiting—trying to answer their questions and get them away from the gore before they saw it. 

You stayed behind, feet shifting over the floor and your lips thin. As the silence settles in, you hold yourself a bit tighter and glance at the mattress all mashed together and stained—those thin blankets as you shiver. 

“Are you alright?” Your head snaps over. 

You’d forgotten about König.

He still stands there, still and with his hands at his collar; he clears his throat softly, speaking up from his low utterance. “Please…do not be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” you say tinily, your voice cracking in the lie. 

You can’t see his eyes—not with the shadow from his hood or his head rig, but you can see the way his skull lightly tilts to the side, trying to see you better in the low light. 

“That is good,” he answers, not convinced. “I’m glad. I did not wish to scare anyone.” He moves back and motions with a hand to the door from where they hang. “Please. It is best not to linger, yes?”  

“Do I…” you hesitate, shivering. “Do I know you from somewhere?” 

König’s face isn’t visible, but you can still sense the feeling of confusion leaking out of him. The man takes a small step closer, and you gaze up at him until his eyes are visible. 

Blue-gray. 

You stare, mouth parting in shock.

König blinks twice, quickly making a noise in the back of his throat at the sight of your eyes gazing into his—the same woman outside of the coffee shop from days ago.

That little invisible string pulls you closer, small millimeter by small millimeter. 

“You?” You both say it at the same time, laced with surprise and shock. 

It’s a long moment of gazing into each other, a battered body and another more strong than an ox. All fear of the man dissipates. 

“You gave me your jacket,” you whisper, still torn up about it. 

König’s hood shifts as he glances back to the door, German speech over the radio strapped to his chest which he takes in and processes in the back of his skull. But he always looks back at you, eyes crinkled with concern and perhaps even a bit of misplaced guilt. 

A protective knife sides into his side.

“Come.” The man reaches out a hand, hovering it over your arm. You stare at the gloved limb for a moment before softly moving towards it with your breath caught in your throat, hesitant. König’s fingers delicately slide over the flesh, not closing around it until he feels your muscles loosen. “...Let’s get you warmer, Schatz, yes?” 

You blink.

“It’s cold here,” you mutter, letting him guide you along, his gray orbs always keeping you in the side of his vision. 

“Yes,” he agrees, nodding. “Very cold. Have you been to Germany during the winter before?”

Your head slightly shakes, bare feet padding along next to the pair of great boots—you lean closer unconsciously to the promise of warmth. König guides you away from the seeping blood on the floor and protects your eyes from the view of the bodies across the room with his own as a guard dog would. 

“No.” He notices your leaning and brings you nearer to him, letting you use him as a brace. The man knows the effects of shock, and you wear it as plainly as any other. “I’ve never been here before.” 

König hums and his free hand goes up to press into the radio, muttering in his native tongue. He releases the connection and asks as he blinks at you, “Do you require any immediate medical attention?” 

Again, you shake your head. 

“Where are the others?” You sink further into him, being guided to the front door, open to the soft snowfall and a chilled wind as your shoulder hunch. 

“Just outside,” König glances at the bodies across the room—the ones he’d riddled with bullets that still twitch even as the minutes draw longer. Gray eyes going from one to another, the house is heavy with the weight of dead men. Twelve in total and all getting colder just like the temperature outside. König didn’t feel bad about it, and when he’d finally busted open that door to find you and the women, he was satisfied with the blood on his hands. If hell were to be his home, he would walk there with a golden-fanged smile. 

But now wasn’t the time for that. 

“I will bring you to them,” the soldier speaks, snow blowing in from the entrance. “Slowly, now, Schatz, watch the steps. Allow me to help.”

You stop at the doorway, bringing a hand to your mouth to cover a haggard cough as König makes his way down the first concrete step ahead of you—large armored vehicles had pulled up from a ways away. The women huddle around one another, the rest of the soldiers sticking by them and opening the doors to the vehicles as the night gets only more cold and stormy.  

Gray eyes flicker for a moment down to your lack of proper protection, fingers twitching and tapping at his thigh as König remembers your expression the day he’d first met you. 

“Do you want me to carry you?” He says slowly, cautious in his approach. The man wasn’t stupid—he wouldn’t touch you unless you explicitly stated it was alright for him to do so. “I will be gentle, I promise. I do not wish for your feet to freeze, I...” He pauses as you blink, staring into his soul. “I…will not touch you if you do not tell me to do it. You have my word.” 

You continue to stand there for a moment, face unreadable before your head slowly turns to the vehicles in the street. 

The neighborhood was so normal it still caused you to wonder how no one had spoken up and seen something. Rows of connected houses now with their lights on—faces peeking from the windows like little children on Christmas morning; trying to get glimpses of Santa and the man’s reindeer. 

Finally, your gaze moves back to the hooded visage of König, able to see it better under the moonlight and the glare of falling snowflakes—a few of those frozen pieces sitting in the folds of the fabric.

“The hood scared them,” you utter about the others. König stiffens a bit, blinking at you but not looking away. “They’re used to people trying to hide their faces, but yours…with how large you are…”

“I understand.” König doesn't tear away his eyes. “...Did I scare you, Schatz?”

You don’t know why, but for what seems like the first time in years, the question makes you giggle. The beast of a man goes still with his feet on the ground, usually jittery and moving body captivated by the sound as it echoes over the night’s air—the puff of your breath as it moves around his hood; rustling it like leaves on a tree. 

Eyes widening only a sliver more, König’s breath is in his throat.

It was like listening to a bird’s song.

“Maybe only a little,” you whisper to him. “But it’s okay. I’m scared of most things.” 

He licks his lips, but you’re unable to see the slight quirk of them afterward. 

“Then I will make it up to you, yes?” He holds out a hand. “Let me? The car is warm and your friends are waiting for you. My men say they ask about your health.”

You softly nod, the shadow of the house trying to drag you back into it—its blackened arms reaching and latching onto old scars. When your hand connects with König's, the man takes his time putting one foot back to a step and scooping you up from behind your knees. With a tiny grunt, you settle at his chest, calming your heartbeat with the fact that you know he won’t hurt you. 

“I’ve got you,” he says. 

In his arms, your bare legs hang in the air, hand wrapping his neck, and with a slightly nervous look to you as your body hovers. König watches for a moment, hesitating before he begins walking to the same vehicle the other woman had been moved into out of the snowfall. 

“Can you tell me your name,” he asks to distract you from his hold, to get you more comfortable with him as his boots crunch through the packed powder on the ground—making sure to watch his step so as to not jostle you. 

“Everyone calls me Cat.” Gray eyes blink your way, visible skin painted black. König’s head tilts. You can’t help but find it endearing.

“Katze?” He hums, and you can imagine his lips moving slightly upwards from the innocent tone of his voice as if taken by the strange moniker. “That is…interesting.” 

You huff tinily, shivering again as your body moves to curl a little more. 

The soldier quickly reassures you. “Nearly there.” 

The vehicle is in front of you, and a nearby man opens the door for König as he carries you over. Nodding in thanks, the large individual eases you into one of the seats as the blast of warm air makes you sag—the other woman in there mulls closer, grabbing onto you and laughing through tears. 

Looking back at them, you smile and feel yourself get a bit teary-eyed as everything starts to slowly come into focus. 

Glancing outward, you stare at the snow that hits the dark hood of König, sticking and hanging off until the tiny white dots melt from the heat of his body. With his legs shifting he moves back a step and nods to you, eyes moving to stare at the ground for a moment. 

“We will take you to base. From there you will all be given dorms and fresh apparel to—”

“Thank you, König,” you interrupted him. He stares, lips parted with the half-tones of cut-off speech. “And please extend my thanks to your men as well.” 

“...Of course, Katze.” König stands straighter, always twitching fingers moving to the car door as engines start with a grinding roar. He nods again, the loose fabric swaying as the lenses of his rig stay firm at the movement. “There is no need to thank us. Relax. Sleep, if you wish to do it. The ride will be long.” The man’s gray eyes linger for a moment on your own, studying the bumps and small marks on your face. His hand tightens over the door as your gaze is stuck with his own; warmth blooming in his chest. He was glad he had found you. 

König slips out a soft, “There are blankets under the seats,” before he closes the door with a firm thump of metal. 

You can’t help but smile. 

'…Hostages were taken back to [REDACTED] and received minor medical attention on site. Housed in [REDACTED] and were admitted for needed treatments/medications - all details/names listed in File 3 Section 6 for future reference. DNA was placed into databases. 

Next of kin were informed of their family members’ position and/or state of being via phone call to the corresponding government official that then traveled through the appropriate channels once identified.'

You sit as a nurse hands you heating pads for your hands, which you take with a small thanks and clenched tightly, sucking every ounce of warmth from them to stop the shaking. Your body was heavy with the weight of new clothes and heated blankets, the room utterly normal in a way you’d not known for years. A corner table with books and a chess board—a connected bathroom stocked with amenities you may need; even a rug on the tile floor. You don’t know why that was shocking to you, but even the simplest thing was awe-inspiring. Your eyes had even slipped over a tiny nightlight near the door. 

It nearly made you cry. 

Your nurse moves back a bit, smiling down at you kindly. 

“Is there anything else you might need, Dear?” Her accent is prominent, though not as much as König’s had been. She waits for your answer diligently as the pitcher of water and a similar glass sit on your nightstand. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head. Your socked feet rub together like a grasshopper. “I think that’s all.” Your eyelids blink. “But…” you stop.

“What is it?” The lady asks gently, hands slack at her sides.

“The man—König,” you pause. “Is he here?” 

Blinking at you, the nurse tilts her head to the side in curiosity. “Not currently, no. At least, not in this specific building. He and his men are being debriefed across base. They will be there for a long while.” At your blank look, her brows slightly move up in accommodating comfort. “Would…you like me to tell him something for you?” 

Playing with the heating pads in your hands, your face gains a slightly embarrassed sheen. You liked the thought of being near König, truthfully. No one had made you feel safe like he did—him and his selfless action of a large coat given with no intention of getting anything in return. 

“Just,” you breathe softly. “Just that I’m sorry for losing his coat, and that I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

The nurse stares, very much confused but not about to question you. Her feet shift over the floor, and a light nod is sent your way. 

“Of course. I’ll tell him.” She motions to the bed with a hand and explains that whenever you wished to sleep, you were free to use the bed—and the TV was open to you as well, though you might not be able to understand the local stations. With that, she exited the room. 

Left alone, your head moves around the room slowly, taking it all in once more as the small bandages under your clothes pull at your flesh. The tears start slipping down your cheeks with no warning. 

Wrist coming up to your eyes, the limb presses in tightly, water staining the flesh as it dribbles down, and your lip quivers like a worm below it. You don’t know why you’re crying now and not when König had gotten you out of that townhouse. Why now, when there wasn’t anything prompting you to do so? 

But something was prompting you—the knowledge that you would never be going back to anyone who would mistreat you again. You had your own room. Good food. All the water that your stomach could drink down. A nightlight that pushes back the darkness even if you’re so used to living in it. 

Through your soft sniffles, chuckles move out, filling the space with a warm echo. You pull the blankets closer to you and collapse backward onto the mattress, smiling widely at the ceiling. 

That little invisible string dances as your heart pulls at it. 

—

König’s leg lightly jumps from under his table, signing off his name at the bottom of a report before he stands and rubs a hand over the top of his un-hooded head. He grabs the paper and slips it into a manila folder, hands pale with deep scars running the length of them like fissures in the earth. Deftly taking the item, he walks out of his office and begins moving down the length of the building, fingers tapping over the yellowish material with a small connection of flesh and thick envelope. 

Tap-tap, tappity-tap. 

His fingers were always fidgeting—moving, tensing, twitching. It was one of the reasons they never let him become a recon sniper; the more obvious being the blatant size of his body. Both of which had been the cause of much teasing throughout his childhood. 

But König’s mind was on something other than the report in his hands, and it was starting to become a very strong distraction. You. The women. Al-Qatala. 

He was angry he hadn’t acted outside of that coffee shop—angry he hadn't noticed the signs right in front of him even if he had been powerless to stop it then. The soldier’s jaw clenched, the strong muscles of his jaw roving. 

“Verdammt,” he hisses under his breath, glaring at the tile. “Should have done something.”

König gets to his commanding officer’s office and knocks, only staying long enough to hand him the folder with his finished report and leave once more. His mind wouldn’t stay silent tonight. There’s no doubt that he won’t be able to sleep unless he reassures himself that you and the others are okay. 

The man’s head shifts back to the email he had gotten from your assigned nurse, whom he’d taken it upon himself to know the name of when he carried you into the base’s hospital—Eva. 

‘...She says she wants to apologize for losing your coat…”

König’s heart had twisted at that—that was what you were concerned about? He had to tell you that it was alright, or else he would never know peace. Perhaps even ask how you’ve been treated so far, just to make sure that everything was comfortable for you. 

The man’s eyelids move slightly downward in thought, a pull at his heart to walk outside. He passes a few other soldiers in the hallway, nodding to them with a tiny greeting but unwilling to stop and talk. In only fatigues, König exits the main doors quickly, lightly moving into a jog as his body shivers at the sudden chill touching his arms under the black compression shirt. Under him the snow has grown deeper, the large lights illuminating the almost greenish reflections of the winter landscape of open roads and large buildings. 

Curfew was long past—this had to be quick. 

Just a check-in, König tells himself as he nears the hospital, his breath puffing in the air. Then I can wipe my hands of it. 

He slows as he nears the doors, huffing a breath as he pushes on the barrier, opening it with a squawk of hinges and metal. Entering, the front desk staff looked up at him in surprise, muttering his name in question.

“Katze?” He responds, pushing a hand over his head and feeling the melting snowflakes. His cheeks are a light shade of exposure-red, and inquisitive eyes shift over the two individuals slowly. “What room?”

The pair share a glance and tell him in the same breath. Room ten. 

It’s no sooner after that König finds himself there, hand hovering over the handle as the hallway clock ticks beside his right ear. His gray eyes blink at the door, feet shuffling from under him before he clears his throat under his breath, glancing away for a second in hesitation. 

Was this appropriate?

König didn’t have an answer, but the pull in his chest was tight and firm—he just needed to see you. A glimpse, nothing more. He raises his fist and raps his knuckles over the wood delicately, three tiny knocks that hit his ears like bullets from a gun; the bullets he’s put into pathetic Al-Qatala bodies and watched burst like sacks of fluid. 

He waits, hands going to grasp at his shirt collar, pushing out a low breath to calm himself. 

After a long moment, his foot taps the floor, blinking. Again he knocks—a bit louder. 

“She is sleeping, you evolutionsbremse,” he utters, accent low and grating. “Leave her alone.” But even if you are, his nerves peek their head over the brimstone wall of his brain. 

With his fingers caressing the handle, slowly moved to clutch it fully, swallowing the metal in his grip. König takes a deep breath into his lungs, letting it fill them up. Again, he tells himself, just a check-in. 

He twists the doorknob and sets his forearm on the wood, pushing the barrier open. 

König moves so that his body makes no noise, even with how large it is as he angles the side of his head through the opening. He finds a large mound of blankets atop the bed—stacked and layered so heavily that he has to blink in surprise at how you can breathe under them; because you were under them. 

Gray eyes make out the small sliver of skin peaking out from the side of the bed—fingers—and the top of your forehead near the pillows formed around your skull. Unconsciously, a soft smile works its way over König’s lips until he finds himself chuckling.

“Niedlich,” he mutters, scars over his face shifting as he speaks. 

Sighing lowly, König pulls back his head, beginning to close the door once more.

“König…?” Your tiny voice makes him halt like he had in the townhouse. 

Eyes wide and lips parted at being caught, the door remains open, only a sliver visible to your vision as your furrowed brows are stuck at the barrier. A red sheen moves across the soldier’s face in a slow sweep of embarrassment that goes bone deep.

With a lick of his lips, König re-opens the door slightly.

“I did not mean to wake you, Katze.” He finds your eyes and nods to you. “I apologize. Go back to sleep—you must be tired.” 

 “Wait,” you utter, moving your head fully out from under the blankets. König pauses, eyes staring as his other hand comes up to itch at the back of his neck. 

“What is it,” the man asks, opening the door fully and moving inside. “Do you need anything?” 

The question had hit you in your thin slumber, interrupted only partially by the opening of your door to the familiar pull of gray eyes and a strong build. A buzz-cut head. You take a slow breath to wake yourself up more, watching him from your bed. “...Did you know that I would be in that house?”

König tilts his head at the question, sighing slightly and glancing at the clock inside of the room on your nightstand. He frowns. 

“No,” he explains gently, coming closer. “No, I did not. I do not get told such things—only where to shoot and where not to.” The man tries a small smile, kneeling on one leg down by the bed and staring into your sleepy eyes. “But I am glad I found you again, yes? You had me worried.”

“You were worried?” You can’t quite grasp it.

“Ja,” he nods. “Your eyes—they have stuck with me, Schatz, you understand?” 

Your eyebrows pull up your face, blinking in shock. 

“...Yours, too,” you confess. König’s heart flutters, listening until your lips have fallen still. “They’re very nice, König.”

He goes sheepish, lips flicking up into a smile and his eyes daring away for a moment. “You can thank my mother for them, then.” He chuckles. “I have stolen the family's eyes, I was told.”

You chuckle with him, hand coming to rub at your cheek. A silence falls between the two of you.

“I don’t sleep well,” you tell him in the relative darkness, light from the hallway and your night light illuminating the dips and bone structure of his face. “I was awake when you opened the door.” 

He nods after a moment. “Ja.” A pause. “I don’t either…Nightmares?” 

You watch him before nodding tinily. 

“Ah,” he mutters. “They are not pleasant, I’m sorry that they have been plaguing you. Do you…” König wonders if he should leave—this was far more than he had anticipated. “Do you wish for me to stay?” 

 Why had he said that?

The string between the two of you tightens evermore, gaining another thread just as it would for the years to come until it became as unbreakable as steel.

“I don’t want to be a nuisance,” you begin but are quickly interrupted with a shake of a square head and a huff of a sharp nose.

“You are not. Do not call yourself such.” His accent deepens with emotion, eyes narrowing as the dark brows on his face pull in. “If you want me to stay, I will stay. Wake you if you become shaky, yes? Keep the bad dreams at bay.”

“But what about you?” Your voice moves around the room as König stands and goes to the table in the back, shifting one of the chairs so that it’s angled your way. You shift so you can watch him sit back, grunting as his legs move out in front of him, opening so he can be more comfortable. He needed a bigger chair, but he wasn’t going to complain about it. 

“I’m not tired, Schatz.” A lie. His muscles are heavy, and he longs for his bed in the barracks. He pushes out, “Please, go back to sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

You stare for a long while, studying him and how he fidgets in his seat of choice. A small laugh meets the man’s ears as he crosses his arms over his chest. König pauses, blinking over in confusion. His lips move upwards slowly. 

“What are you laughing at, then, hm?” 

“You look like you’re about to break it,” you mutter, head nuzzling the pillow under you as fatigue claws its way under your skin. 

König huffs, fingers twitching over the meat of his biceps as he slouches. He nods jokingly. “Perhaps,” he shrugs, the window behind him letting a slight tinge of cold air in from outside. “It would not be the first, I’m afraid, though it would be quite the embarrassment to do it in front of you, Katze.” He smirks. “But I’ll say, hitting my head on door frames hurts more than letting my arsch kiss the ground.” 

You laugh under your heap, your body jerking to the movement of your lungs. 

“I bet,” you say, fingers grasping one of your blankets and pulling it closer. “It’s a funny image.”

“You can laugh all you want,” König jokes, eyes soft as they gaze at you. “It does not bother me.” 

Your sweet sounds of amusement waft out from under the crack in the door, where a small group of curious nurses mull and listen with glances to one another. A doctor moves past the hallway where they stand, and all scatter on quick feet. 

'…Signed,

[REDACTED]

SUBMITTED: 0517, 25, November 2021

END OF MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’

RETURNING TO SELECTION MENU…

STAND BY…'

It’s only after most of the other women leave—sent home to awaiting families or loved ones—that you know your time is coming to a close here in Berlin, Germany. While you’re excited to put this behind you, you can’t help but feel a bit…lost. 

There’s something that keeps you here, on this base, until you’re the last out of all of them, waiting. And then you’re given the green light to go—go home—and suddenly you have a backpack full of necessities and you’re closing the door to your room with the little nightlight’s plastic body pushing against your spine. Yet, you stand in the hallway for a long minute, fingers interlocked. 

You take a long, deep, breath. 

Over the weeks of recovery, König had been a constant companion when he wasn’t needed. He had eased you back into a comfortable state, letting you somewhat lose the black-and-white view you had gained of the world. But there was only so much he could do, even if his soft eyes were still stuck in your dreams—the good ones, of course. 

You needed to go home, and, today, the C-17 was whirring on the tarmac, waiting for you to be transported to a military base far from here where you would be processed and, ultimately, let go. 

Let go. It was jarring to think about, all of that freedom. What would you do with it? Right now, you don’t have the faintest clue. It was the best feeling you can remember having.

Smiling, you take one last look at the room behind you and walk on. 

At the entrance, you say a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to the nurses and doctors in broken German, shaking their hands as Eva kisses your forehead and whispers how happy she is to have had you here for such little time—you know what she means and you chuckle with her at the double-edged sword. 

König waits by the door, holding it open with…you blink at the item in his hands as well as his sudden appearance. Canvas fabric. A coat.

The coat. 

“I had to have it processed,” he says, smiling as you gape at him. “Very long process. It was found in the closet in the townhouse.” 

“Then why are you handing it to me,” you ask, tilting your head and walking closer. 

“I gave it to you, did I not?” The man hums, head tilting as he motions with it again. “It’s a good coat, Katze. Winters get cold.” Gray eyes crinkle gently. “I would hate for you to shiver, wherever it is that you end up, yes?”

You shake your head, cheeks hot. But your hands don’t hesitate to grasp the item, König’s hold on it remains fast, though, and you blink at him as you both keep it gently clasped like it’s worth its weight in gold. 

König stares at you, the door still kept open behind him. He opens and closes his mouth for a moment as you tilt your head. 

“Keep it safe for me,” is what he ends with, but his expression tells you he’s not talking about the coat. 

It makes your arms tingle—your heart skips a beat. 

“I’ll be sure it never gets lost,” you smile warmly, eyes malleable as the make of their color glints. There is a connection to this man that transcends words, and it is tied to you just as heavily as it is to him; unexplainable, incomprehensible, non-describable. 

Enigmatic. 

König’s reverential face is soft with care. 

“Good,” he mutters, unable to look away. “Very good.”

Clearing his throat, his grays dart to the floor, shifting his feet to move backward. He pushes open the door wider for you, and you hold your backpack in one hand as you shift past him and slip into his coat. 

It was exactly how you remembered it, and you sank into the fabric with a thankful sigh and a fluttering of your lashes. You shift the bag back over your shoulders, letting the straps fall into the bulk of the extra material. 

The snow wasn’t falling today, and the ground was shoveled of any white powder too. On the air, you can hear the whir of the C-17. 

König comes up beside you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as he guides you along. For the most part, the walk to the tarmac is silent with the weight of the future. You had no phone. No socials. You didn’t even know if you wanted any, to be honest. Your mind had convinced you that a good bout of soul-searching was exactly what you needed. And you had to do that alone. 

Your lips are thin as your legs take you closer to the plane, König’s scent stuck into the stitches of the coat and covered your senses. 

At the ramp, he stops as your feet take you onto the metal. Closing your eyes for a moment, you turn and lock gazes with him—gray hiding away what other, more human, emotions to be found. It was a slate of carefully crafted acceptance, and your own followed soon after. 

It had to be this. The string wouldn’t break, no, but it had to be stretched to such a point to come back stronger.

“Thank—”

“Don’t,” he says, not blinking, looking up at you. 

You smile. “What do you want me to say, then?” 

“You don’t have to say anything to me.” You hadn't known it then, but the both of you had truly thought that this would be the last of your meetings. It produced a pulse in both of your hearts that would never be told aloud. “....Live well,” König utters. “Heal, Mein Schatz.” 

The soldier wasn't one to give his chances to hope. 

Your eyes follow as he backs up, moving away as you stare. In his head, König pleads with you to stop and give him a reprieve from the hypnosis of your gaze, the addictive movement of your head as it tilts to the side. 

Live well. 

You send him a smile, a delicate thing, and then you back up a step and turn, disappearing into the darkness. 

The string follows, and it continues to do so even as your hands slip into your pockets hours later, bumping into the small form of a black flip phone. The note hidden inside of it. 

 ‘For whenever you find what you’re looking for.’

'REQUEST FOR ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE

REQUESTED BY: [REDACTED]

ENTERED: DECEMBER 15, 2021

TIME: 1422

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED….

RETURNING TO FILE SELECT MENU…

FILE SELECTED….

TRANSLATING…

STAND BY…

REQUEST OF HONORABLE ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE OF [REDACTED] APPROVED ON JANUARY 2, 2022

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED…

SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN'

You sit in a coffee shop in Berlin, Germany, by the window. It wasn’t just any coffee shop, but you try not to think about all of that. It was all in the past—three years, now. You like to think you’d learned something in that time.

“Danke schön,” you say to the woman who brings you your drink, nodding kindly. You take a small sip, humming and winking at her teasingly. “Perfekt.” 

She chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron. “Möchten Sie noch etwas anderes dazu?”

“Nein, nein,” you shake your head, waving a hand that soft bumps the flip phone on the table. “Danke.” 

The lady walks away, and you take another sip of the hot beverage, never put off by the heat. 

It was winter again, and your eyes followed the flakes as they fell from a cloudy sky, finding the beauty in it easily as you sat inside. The scarf around your neck is loose—your gifted coat open. You smile to yourself and hum, watching people walk past outside, thinking about their lives and how they live them. 

A large form travels out from a shop across the street, a plastic bag in his loose grip. He was not small, no, this man was a beast of height and strength alike. The loping, canid-like, walk was accented by the twitch of his fingers over his quarry. 

Your wide eyes stay stuck to him for a long moment as he moves to the crosswalk, people shifting out of his way as he ignores them. Familiarity strikes like lighting—a buzz down your spine that leaves you straightening.

After a long moment, a breathless laugh sneaks out of you.

There were just some things that people were never meant to understand.

Your hand places your cup back on the table, picking up the old flip phone and pushing it open. Your thumb runs the keypad, moving to the only contact that had ever been entered into the device. 

Pressing, you move it to your ear as you watch with a soft expression, heart pattering. 

Across the way, the man tenses, hand patting his leg before the other hand moves inside his pocket and shifts the item out. People walk away, moving to the other side of the crosswalk as he stares at the contact. 

A minute passes, and all the while you hold your breath.

He presses and moves the phone to his ear, staying as still as stone. As still as a man afraid his hood might scare a group of terrified women. 

His voice graces your ear.

“...Katze?” You beam, trapped in the warmth of the coat around your shoulders.

“How do you feel about coffee, König?” 

Blue-gray eyes had never been more beautiful than when they snapped up to meet yours.

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[saddayfordemocracy]

How the Watermelon Became a Symbol of Palestinian Solidarity

The use of the watermelon as a Palestinian symbol is not new. It first emerged after the Six-day War in 1967, when Israel seized control of the West Bank and Gaza, and annexed East Jerusalem. At the time, the Israeli government made public displays of the Palestinian flag a criminal offense in Gaza and the West Bank. 

To circumvent the ban, Palestinians began using the watermelon because, when cut open, the fruit bears the national colors of the Palestinian flag—red, black, white, and green.  

The Israeli government didn't just crack down on the flag. Artist Sliman Mansour told The National in 2021 that Israeli officials in 1980 shut down an exhibition at 79 Gallery in Ramallah featuring his work and others, including Nabil Anani and Issam Badrl. “They told us that painting the Palestinian flag was forbidden, but also the colors were forbidden. So Issam said, ‘What if I were to make a flower of red, green, black and white?’, to which the officer replied angrily, ‘It will be confiscated. Even if you paint a watermelon, it will be confiscated,’” Mansour told the outlet.

Israel lifted the ban on the Palestinian flag in 1993, as part of the Oslo Accords, which entailed mutual recognition by Israel and the Palestinian Liberation Organization and were the first formal agreements to try to resolve the decades-long Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The flag was accepted as representing the Palestinian Authority, which would administer Gaza and the West Bank.

In the wake of the accords, the New York Times nodded to the role of watermelon as a stand-in symbol during the flag ban. “In the Gaza Strip, where young men were once arrested for carrying sliced watermelons—thus displaying the red, black and green Palestinian colors—soldiers stand by, blasé, as processions march by waving the once-banned flag,” wrote Times journalist John Kifner.

In 2007, just after the Second Intifada, artist Khaled Hourani created The Story of the Watermelon for a book entitled Subjective Atlas of Palestine. In 2013, he isolated one print and named it The Colours of the Palestinian Flag, which has since been seen by people across the globe.

The use of the watermelon as a symbol resurged in 2021, following an Israeli court ruling that Palestinian families based in the Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood in East Jerusalem would be evicted from their homes to make way for settlers.

The watermelon symbol today:

In January, Israel’s National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir gave police the power to confiscate Palestinian flags. This was later followed by a June vote on a bill to ban people from displaying the flag at state-funded institutions, including universities. (The bill passed preliminary approval but the government later collapsed.)

In June, Zazim, an Arab-Israeli community organization, launched a campaign to protest against the ensuing arrests and confiscation of flags. Images of watermelons were plastered on to 16 taxis operating in Tel Aviv, with the accompanying text reading, “This is not a Palestinian flag.”

“Our message to the government is clear: we will always find a way to circumvent any absurd ban and we will not stop fighting for freedom of expression and democracy,” said Zazim director Raluca Ganea. 

Amal Saad, a Palestinian from Haifa who worked on the Zazim campaign, told Al-Jazeera they had a clear message: “If you want to stop us, we’ll find another way to express ourselves.”

Words courtesy of BY ARMANI SYED / TIME

[probablyasocialecologist]

The Israeli army has raided and destroyed two publishing houses in the West Bank. This latest raid in Ramallah is one of a series of major raids launched by the Israeli military across much of the territory over the last two days. At least 12 Palestinians have been killed in the occupied West Bank since Wednesday [14th]. As detailed by Publishers for Palestine earlier today, IDF raids on Palestinian publishing houses are nothing new. Seven Palestinian publishing houses were raided or destroyed over a six-month period in 2016-2017, and eleven more were targeted in a seven-month period in 2021: These are just a few examples, a single aspect of Israel’s long practice of stifling freedom of expression and freedom of the press in order to extinguish Palestinian life. In response to the news, PEN International issued the following statement: We are deeply concerned about reports of attacks on publishing houses in the West Bank. Freedom of expression is fundamental to democracy and must be protected. PEN International stands in solidarity with those affected and calls for immediate action to safeguard press freedom. Since the start of 2023, at least 550 Palestinians have been killed and more than 13,000 injured by Israeli forces and settlers in the West Bank.

[hikarry]

For the longest time, I thought I was cis. Not necessarily because I felt it deep down, but because I was forced to present as feminine as possible. My father, trying to counterbalance the whole "being gay" thing, made sure of it. I was supposed to look a certain way to fit into the "norm" he wanted to project.

Fast forward to 2020, when the world stood still, and so did my sense of self. Like many, I had a sexual crisis during lockdown, and a gender crisis hit right after. I went hyper-feminine, leaning into the only identity I knew. But suddenly, it became unbearable. I felt itchy, uncomfortable in my own skin. I found myself stealing my brother's clothes, hiding my long hair under a beanie. Some days, I loved being feminine. Other days, I relished the comfort of masculinity. And sometimes, I just didn’t care.

I didn't have a name for what I was feeling. I knew about being cis—it was the default, the norm. I had trans friends, and I knew about being non-binary from TikTok. But none of these labels seemed to fit me. I wasn't just one thing. I was everything. Then, a TikTok video introduced me to the term "genderfluid." It resonated. I liked the idea, but something still felt off. The only people I saw using this label were behind screens, with a seemingly magical ability to transform their appearance effortlessly. They could switch genders with such fluidity and grace—powers I didn't possess. I felt like I was on the outside, looking in.

Then, in 2021, everything changed when I watched Good Omens for the first time. And that’s when I met Crowley.

At first, I didn’t quite grasp his whole gender vibe. But on a rewatch, it hit me like a brick. Crowley was like me. His fluidity, his complete disregard for sticking to one gender—it was exactly what I had been searching for. He didn’t fit into a box. He just existed, gloriously and unapologetically, as whoever he wanted to be in any given moment. And that was me.

Crowley was the first genderfluid "person" I met, even if he was just a character. Seeing him on screen was incredibly validating. Up until then, I felt like a freak, confused and lost. But Crowley showed me I wasn’t alone or abnormal. He made me feel seen, understood, and normal. It was a revelation.

Crowley helped me embrace my identity without overthinking it. Just, you know, fuck it. Female, male—who cares? It was liberating. I owe that sense of freedom to him.

To anyone struggling with their gender identity, feeling like they don’t fit into a neat category, I hope you find your Crowley. That moment of realization where you see yourself reflected somewhere and know you’re not alone. Because you’re not. We’re out here, existing and thriving, just like Crowley.

[missmimii]

✪ 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓- 𝐂~𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐎

୨ৎ － 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 - In which the two ex high-school sweethearts cross paths in their final night in Las Vegas, tension from their pasts building as they make the last night the most memorable.

୨ৎ — 𝐂𝐖. 18+, dom!matt, fem!reader, smut, language, public(kinda?) dirty talk, light degradation, pet names, teasing, light fluff, risky sexual encounter, fingering, detailed intercourse.

✩－ℳ𝒾𝓂𝒿’𝓈 𝓃ℴ𝓉ℯ | I’m not a huge fan of this, and I’m still working on improving my smut, but it’ll have to surface because if I have to edit this one more time, I’ll probably die.

୨ৎ －Graduating Class of 2021 －୨ৎ

✰－ Since kindergarten Y/n had dreamt of the day she officially entered adulthood. She found the idea of being bossed around by adults had been overwhelming, and being bribed into eating green vegetables that looked disgusting, was unethical. In the little girls head, being an adult was being free. And freedom to Y/n, was graduating high-school.

－ Never once did the girl think she’d find herself filled with more joy seeing a boy cross the stage, more than herself. But here she was, tears threatening to fall down her cheeks dramatically as she watched the brunette boy cross the stage. Chris shook hands with the grey haired man before gently taking his diploma, holding up the certificate proudly.

✰－ The blue cap that rested atop his head of tousled hair slid down every now and then, making the triplet’s hand fly up to steady the awkward position. Y/n had resisted the urge to giggle every time she saw the pink tint his cheeks, knowing exactly what the shyness had been stemming from. God, he was so pissed about wearing the gown.

－ She laughed over the tears, sniffling as she watched him awkwardly smile toward the crowd of parents. “Your boyfriend is such a dork, Y/n.” Nick, who stood aside the girl snorted, saying the silly remark as if it wasn’t his little brother. Seconds before Chris had stepped onto the stage, Y/n had walked across. She’d been practicing that damn walk for months, keeping her posture perfect as she smiled and waved with etiquette.

✰－ And during the full 43 seconds she stood on the podium, Chris watched from the crowd, waving his two hands in the air while grinning like a fool. “That’s my girlfriend!” He screamed, numerous times. The girl, not being one for the spotlight, slouched in the centre of attention, her cheeks flushing.

－Nick leaned back on the bench beside her, eyeing up his triplet with a mischievous glint his eyes. Y/n looked at the eldest brother for a second, giving a second glance as she caught sight of the smirk on his lips. “What’s the look?” She inquired, her own lips tipping up slightly. He shrugged, grinning as he stood up from the bench, making the girls eyes widen. “Nick,” She warned, reaching out to grab his hand.

✰－ “That’s Y/n’s boyfriend!” He shouted in between laughs, making the girls jar drop open. “Oh my god, Nick!” She attempted to pull him down into a sitting position through laughs, eventually giving up as she realized he wasn’t budging. Chris’s cheeks almost immediately reddened, eyes darting throughout the large crowd of people, now staring at him.

－Chris’s hat, once again, slipped from his head. “Shit,” he cursed to himself, catching it before it fell. The grey haired man who stood beside him gaped at the foul language, making Chris’s face pale. Oh he was so dead. The triplet’s eyes roamed the crowd, prepared to send a glare to eldest, but instead was met with her.

✰－ He watched as her knees bent as she laughed, one hand gripping Nick’s as the two laughed at the scene he’d caused. Her hair blew flawlessly in the wind, and he swore he could almost smell the coconut aroma it carried. It suddenly occurred to him that the girl he once lamely asked out in freshman year, wasn’t the same as the one he gazed at now. She’d grew a full foot, the god awful jaw length haircut, now grown into wavy tendrils that swayed below her shoulders.

－And him. Chris had even changed. His heart fell with an unsettling emotion as he realized time had flown by, memories of the past seemingly vanished. The buzz-cut he constantly sported had now grown out into its thick brown tendrils, and he even had a job. Chris’s eyes glazed over with tears, that he at first fought back, but failed beautifully. He wasn’t a kid anymore. And she wasn’t the same girl he fell in love with as children, now matured into a perfect young woman.

✰－Chris felt the principal pat his shoulder and say something that went deaf to the boys ears. “You’re set, Sturniolo.” But he wasn’t done. The males hand rose to shield the crowd from his sensitive state, index and middle finger rubbing his one eye as he felt tears coat his lower lash line.

－Y/n watched the boy’s head lower, as well as the motion of his chest moving up and down increase in pace. Oh. She could’ve spotted the body language of his anywhere, the mannerisms he carried looking awfully close to the ones he’d use when overwhelmed or upset. “Sorry, sorry.” She whispered to a few parents as she slipped past them through the rows of bleachers, aiming straight the short steps at the end of the stadium.

✰－“Baby,” she breathed out softly, a sympathetic smile on her lips as she stood at the last step. Chris silently wiped the wetness away as he met her at the last stair. “what’s wrong?” Her hand reached out to carefully remove the graduation cap from his trembling palm.

－Getting on her tippy toes, the girl threaded her one hand through his disheveled locks, pushing the brown strands away from his lashes. The sweet touch, that was meant to soothe the boy, did the exact opposite. More tears threatened to fall as he felt her nails scrape against his scalp comfortably, knowing it would be the one of the last times he’d feel it. “Are these happy tears?” She murmured in an undertone, tilting her head up at him.

✰－ Again, he just shook his head, knowing that if he were to speak he’d end up a blubbering mess. Chris pressed the ends of his index finger and thumb into the corners of his eyes, praying his girlfriend wouldn’t have to see him so fucking weak.

－A part of the girl’s heart tore off as she saw the pink in his eyes, the glaze of water that coated both of them as he avoided eye contact. “Awh, baby.” She cooed softly, using her thumb to swipe away the pool of tears just below his lower lash line. Chris kept on shaking his head, over and over. She didn’t understand quite why, watching as he continued to repeat the action.

✰－It didn’t matter to her though, she just wanted Chris to know she was there. “I’m such a fuckin’ loser.” Chris scoffed to himself, lips quirking up as his chest shook with a few laughs. His blue eyes looked heavenward for a moment, before the slid back down to his girlfriend. “will you marry me?” He blurted out.

－The girls mouth went ajar as she let Chris’s hand fall from her own. “Sorry- what?” Chris spotted the horror on her face, making him instantly reach out of cup her cheeks. “hey- not like now,” the triplet rushed out, pulling her closer. “I just saw you in the crowd and I realized how fast everything went by- yesterday we were seniors in high school and now you’re leaving for college while I- do other things.” What?

✰－“wait- what do you mean?” She shook her head, face scrunched with confusion. Chris’s shoulders dropped with a sigh, before he tugged her closer once more. His lips pressed against hers softly, a far contrast between the usual quick and meaningless ones he’d give her passing in the halls of school. More tears threaten to fall as he squeezed his eyes shut, his thumb moving back and forth against the side of her cheek as he finally pulled away.

－Resting his forehead against hers, “I don’t think I could ever live a life that’s not with you.” Chris whispered, lips flushed as he ran his tongue along the bottom one. Y/n looked into his eyes for a solid ten seconds, throat bobbing as she took in his words.

“Marry me? Someday, today, tomorrow? Hell- marry me three years from now.”

✪ Current year － Vegas, Nevada ✪

✪ The girls arms rested on the cold island countertop, grimacing at the sticky feeling of of spilled alcohol under her forearms. “Jesus.” She mumbled to herself, looking around discreetly while reaching a hand down to tug the skirt further down, desperate for some kind of extra coverage.

－How short does a skirt have to be until it’s considered a belt?

✪ Y/n rolled her eyes, sensing that the material hadn’t covered much more from the attempt. An orange hue lit the venue, the aroma of heavy liquor and cigar smoke engulfing the girl’s nose. Jewels from chandeliers above glimmered along the ceiling, reflecting against the crystal glasses behind the bar.

－ The girl had been standing in the exact same spot for over twenty minutes, making her feel the lamest she could ever imagine. She was at a wedding for goodness sake. Everyone was mingling around, dancing, before sneaking off to throw back a few shots to numb the embarrassment of their god awful moves.

✪ And then there was Y/n. Swirling a cocktail straw around her strawberry daiquiri while her thoughts drifted off into space. How is it that everyone here knows everyone else? It was as if they’d gotten together prior to the ceremony and told each other their life story’s. Conversing, dancing － taking shots off of each other’s midriffs.

－ “You’ve been sitting here for a while,” Her head rose with widened eyes as the blonde bartender approached from behind the counter, throwing a small towel over his shoulder. “could I pour ya’ anything else?” Even this guy knows I’m a poor excuse for a wedding guest.

✪ Clearing her throat, she sat up further in the barstool. “Uh- I’m alright.” The girl past off, sending him a small smile. He nodded, waving his hand in the way of her forearms. “Do you mind..” he rose a brow. The girl looked at him for a few seconds, before the stupid little lightbulb in her head practically shattered. “Oh.” She mumbled, moving her arms from the counter as he swiped a cloth across the surface.

－In the girl’s short experience, she’d gathered that Vegas wasn’t what people had raved about. Sure, it had its spark, and she’d be a liar to say she wasn’t having fun, but it wasn’t … it. She’d spent far too much money on poker, encounter many Elvis impersonators, and got into lots of drunk escapades.

✪ And her excuse was always the same thing. It’s Vegas. When she got cuffed behind a Sephora for dumpster diving for the shoes she’d accidentally tossed in, it’s Vegas she told the officers. When her friend poured a glass of rum & coke on a douche who was hitting on her, it’s fucking Vegas.

－ And she had to give it to the newlyweds, the wedding was absolutely gorgeous.

✪ Y/n tipped back the remaining liquid in her class, humming to herself softly as she swirled an ice cube around her tongue. “Thank you for enduring me during these last few hours.” The girl mumbled mostly to herself, sliding the glass back onto the marble countertop. Her Saint Laurent heels scraped the backs of her ankles irritably, a painful contrast the usual air forces she’d sport on a regular basis. Rose petals sticking to the pointed backs of the black shoes as she stalked across the venue, cursing to herself while adjusting the slim fitting top that hugged her chest.

－ How am I even breathing? She pondered to herself.

✪ She made her way to the closest exit, pushing the door open as she stumbled in her heels. “Holy.” Making a soft thud behind her, the door slowly closed behind her as she leaned against the concrete wall. The brightness of her phone screen illuminated against her face as she held her finger on the power button.

－ Stay on task. 12:38 AM, she read across the screen, eyes widening. “I’ve been here for six hours?” Jesus. Her thumb swiped up on the screen, showing the icon to type in her passcode after Face ID had declined due to the darkness outdoors.

✪ She watched as dozens upon dozens of messages popped down the top of her screen, all from Alyssa, a friend who was also attending the wedding with Y/n. Where are you?, Are you dead?, answer me. Most of the messages contained the same wording, the last one catching the girl’s attention. Holy shit

－ The girls eyes flew open as she read the hoards of texts, Alyssa, a childhood friend of Y/n’s, sending text after text. Most of which containing the same context. Where are you?, are you dead?, answer me. It wasn’t until Y/n read the last message that she felt her jaw drop, as well as her heart.

‘Chris fucking Sturniolo just walked past me and Leah’

✪ The name had trouble written all over it, memories from the past revealing themselves in the girls head as she realized that she was in the same city as him. It had been at least three years since she’d faced the boy, the period of time not nearly long enough.

－ Her skin ached as she remembered the faint of his touch, remembering every single inch of her body that he grazed his sinful hands upon before the fallout. The freckle neck to her left eye, his lips pressed against the beauty mark below her lip, his one hand shakily gliding up her pink camisole while the other drifted below the lace of her first thong. The whispered apologies against her neck as she came undone below him.

‘I’m so sorry’

✪ Y/n inhaled with a shiver, a pit building in her stomach as she fought both arousal and pain. Tears begged to fall as she leaned off the brick wall, brushing the hairs that had fallen from her ponytail from her cheeks. “Shit.” She whispered, voice wavering as she stared at the door. Do I even go back in?

－ She suddenly remembered the gift she had for the bride, the small box with diamond earrings lying in the girls purse. Fuck me. Her hand gripped the door handle, softly shoving it open before briskly stepping onto the marble flooring. Music still played throughout the huge venue, few people dancing along to an oldie.

✪ Dizziness clouded her vision as she walked past many tall brown haired men, knowing that one of them is －or could be him. was this affecting her so damn much? It’d been years, years that should’ve been filled with healing and forgiveness.

Either of which never took place, the void of him filled with resentment and hatred.

－ Her chest tightened from both the top she wore, and the stress of her current dilemma. Fuck everything, fuck me and fuck Christopher Sturniolo － “Jesus!” The girl gasped and stumbled as she slammed into a hard chest, her phone clattering to the ground with a crack. “no, no no －” she bent down, brushing her hair from her face in frustration as she reached to grab her now shattered phone.

✪ A grunt was heard from behind her, before a deeper voice spoke in a quieter octave. “Y/n －stand up.” That voice .. Y/n’s entire body froze, doing the exact opposite of the man’s demand as she felt her skin go ice cold with goosebumps. You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

－ Chris’s hand twitched in the pocket of his slacks, before slipping from the fabric and tugging at his tie. It was merely a gesture to help him from grabbing the girl by her hips, forcing her body upright so he wouldn’t have walk around all night, hot and bothered as he fought the memories of her bent over, ass slipping from the obscenely short skirt.

God, he needed to repent.

✪ The girl winced as she swiped her phone from the ground, shards of glass prickling her palm as she stood. “What’re you, following me?” Y/n grumbled, spinning around with a glare plastered across her face. Chris’s eyes narrowed at the accusation. She’s .. changed. Running a hand across his jaw, he replied after taking in her inquiry. “Cocky of you to assume I’d pay that much mind on you.” He murmured, lifting a brow.

－ Y/n’s mouth fell open at his words, hating how the distasteful remark made her feel. Who the hell does he think he is? The girl’s jaw rolled as she looked away, holding in the scoff that sat on the tip of her tongue. “I’m not cocky, I’m correct.” Both of his eyebrows rose at her words, but failed to reply as she stormed past him, her shoulder slamming against his. Feisty, he thought, the grin of amusement growing.

✪ Chris’s impulsive part of his brain blurred between the critical thought process, anger filling his chest as he turn around. “Running away like usual?” He said before she made it any it further. Y/n halted, jaw clenching as well as her fists as the words registered in her head. Sucking in a deep breath, she slowly turned back to the male. His eyes widened slightly as she stalked back toward him, daggers thrown his way.

－ Oh－ her hand gripped his yellow tie as she appeared in front of him, tugging the fabric with a harsh pull. “You are such a dick.” The girl hissed in an undertone, not wanting to make a scene at her friends wedding. “And fuck you,” Chris cocked his head as he waited for her to go on, only making the girl’s anger grow by ten. “you knew I’d be here- Maddison’s my friend too.”

✪ Chris ran his tongue along his bottom lip, withholding the urge to smile at her amusing behaviour. She wasn’t like this in high school. It was almost －refreshing. “Someone’s finally grew a backbone.” And like that, a switch flicked in her head.

－ Within seconds Chris felt a pain erupt on the left side of his jaw, the girl’s hand lowering to her side with a shouting pain going down it. Holy fuck －I didn’t do that. He went silent for a moment, rolling his jaw as an attempt to relieve the pain and discomfort. “hm,” Chris hummed, tasting the iron in his mouth as he slid his eyes back to Y/n’s. “Sweet.” He uttered.

✪ Shoulders falling, she let out a aspirated sigh while spinning around. She could never win, at least not when it came to Chris. Chris watched as she sulked away, catching sight of her hand raising to shield her face as she crossed paths with friends and strangers. She was crying. He knew it from the way she walked with a stumble, and the way the hand by her side shook gently.

“Fuck me.”

－ His eyes flicked around the room for a moment to make sure his brothers were out of sight, knowing that if they saw him chasing after her of all people, they’d lecture him until the end of time. He’d never hear the end of it, you were supposed to let her go, Chris, you promised to let her heal.

✪ And the worse part was that it was true. He should let her heal, let her find someone who is capable of loving her in all the ways she deserves. Because after all, if he couldn’t, then it he needed to let someone do it for him. The triplet would’ve been a liar to say he hadn’t lurked on her social media accounts over the years, not regularly －maybe every few months. He’d stare at the pictures of her and her friends, a cheesy smile on her lips that he knew －felt, was fake. And it killed him.

－ It broke every single piece of the male’s heart, knowing that she couldn’t be completely happy or unbothered until he fixed the mistakes he made as a teenager. It was a curse, he always thought. Chris had cursed himself with past actions made, holding a deep inner grudge with that boy he once was.

✪ After all it was Chris who’d decided to take another route for his life. If anything the male should’ve prided the girl for her motivation, but instead he loathed her. She knew what she wanted to do, and he didn’t, setting off an insecurity inside him. The nail in the coffin was always the things they aspired for, were far different from each other.

－ Rolling his eyes, he leaned off of the wall and began to stalk after her rushed steps. The long strides he took kept up with her pace perfect as she turned corners, effortlessly keeping up with the girl as she unknowingly was being followed. He had to, didn’t he? Chris wasn’t some monster －well, not really.

✪ “Y/n,” Chris breathed out, catching the girl’s wrist just as she went to enter a washroom. The girl, who was completely unaware of his presence, jumped at the touch. Heart racing as she lurched forward, pulling from the grip she once craved －needed.

－ The coldness of the wall pressed into her cheek as she rested her face against it, eyes fluttering shut as she felt tears glaze the surface. “Let go of me.” He heard her whispered, making his affirming grip only tighten. He didn’t want to. “Chris－” he cut her off by softly tugging her from the wall, nudging her around to face him as he cornered her.

✪ “I’m sorry.”

－ Chris’s tense frame faltered, shoulders falling with relief as he uttered the words. The words he’d been dying to whisper against her neck as he pressed feather like pecks around her jaw. I’m sorry －I’m sorry－ he was so fucking sorry. The sorrow felt by the male consumed him every day for three years, eating away at him whenever his mind allowed rest.

✪ Many mistakes made by the male, but the current one in front of him, taking the cake.

－ Y/n’s chin shook as she bit down on her tongue, forcing the spewing words to leave her mouth impulsively. “You left me.” The girl whispered, voice cracking. “I know,” Chris breathed out, reaching his hands out to cup her cheeks. “I know baby－” she brushed off his touch, turning her face to the side with a shake of the head. “No.” She mumbled.

✪ Sucking back the tears, she inhaled deeply. “You promised me that night,” Meeting his eyes, feeling her own heart fall as she saw the realization twinkle the blues. “I let you－” she cut herself off as a sob threatened to escape her throat, lifting the back of her hand to cover her mouth. “I let you take me, Chris.” Oh god, he knew.

－ Like a whirlwind of memories, the night before the two parted flooded Chris’s thoughts. It was wrong of him, he knew that. He was a stupid fucking kid, and in his defence, it seemed less －terrible then. The lies he whispered against her trachea while he slipped a hand down her garment, the promise he made to love her, cherish her, until they were too old to remember the sealed promise.

✪ Resting his forehead against hers, he unintentionally leaned into the warmth of her body. Coconut, Vanilla, tea tree. The aromas he’d hid away in the back of his mind, all of which reminded him of the girl. Now engulfed in his nose as he lulled his eyes shut, breathing in the comforting scent he missed for years.

－ The rational part of the girl told her to pull away, leave before he could do any more damage. Though, the little part that loved to wreak havoc, convinced her she deserved this, wanted it －needed it. “Just let me make it up to you.” Chris whispered, lulling his eyes open to meet Y/n’s.

✪ Teary eyed, she batted her eyelashes unintentionally while lifting her gaze to hips. “Nothing you could do could fix the pain and hate you’ve left inside me.” Crack. Chris felt his heart fall to his stomach, blowing out a hurt breath as guilt flooded his chest. Chris could only take in her words for a moment, knowing that nothing he could say would make the circumstances right. No words, that is .. The blue eyes fell to her lips, seeing the pink tainting the no doubt soft skin. God, they looked so kissable.

So he did the only thing he could.

－ The triplet slowly leaned in, gently pressing his lips against her supple ones. He felt as her body tensed, but almost immediately fell in place with his actions, breathing a soft elicit gasp from her mouth as she returned the act of tension and need. Chris swiped his tongue along her bottom lip, making her moan softly, his lips twitching at the slightest feeling. “Did I ever fail you back then?” He murmured in between kisses.

✪ Y/n broke apart for a second, a scoff coming from her raw lips. “Any promise you’ve ever made me has been empty and void.” Chris, speechless, leered down at her with a hooded gaze at the remark.

－ He pulled back an inch to look deeper into her eyes, searching for the hesitation or fear. Nothing. Chris felt his tongue twinge the inside of his cheek, muscles tensing as chuckled a bit. “Yeah?” One, two, three. Y/n yelped as she stumbled backward, Chris’s hand effortlessly twisting the door nob behind her as he nudged her through. “Guess’ I’ll have to change that.” He whispered against her jaw, spinning her around.

✪ With a surprised grunt, she felt her hips being slammed into the hard countertop. “Jesus!” Snapping her head up she met his sadistic gaze through the mirror. “That hurt, you dick.” Chris let his gaze bore into hers through the glass, cocking his head a bit as he examined the beautiful pained expression painted across her face.

－ Chills trailed up her back as she felt his warm hand press against her back, slim fingers dragging from the span between her lats to her lower back. “Whoops.” He said with a grin as he looked her in the eyes, chuckling a bit. Y/n rolled her eyes, head lowering as she felt her thighs clamp together shamefully. “Yeah you sound real apologeti－fuck.” She gasped, feeling cold air hit her backside as a split tore through the room.

✪ He didn’t －oh my god he totally fucking did. “Chris,” she muttered, slowly lifting her head from the counter as she peered at the male from the glass. “tell me you did not just tear my $500 skirt.” Chris heard the ware in her tone, only intensifying the immense satisfaction he felt. “Okay.” He shrugged, lips twitching as he heard her breath hitch, his two index fingers slipping down the sides of her lace thong.

－ He watched in entrancement as the rough garment drug down her plump ass, unable to ignore the far difference in the lingerie she usually wore. She kept it tame back then, panties that would show a little something, and if she was feeling risky, sheer with some lace. But this, this was new.

✪ A sign that he’d lost touch with the new Y/n. He bit down on his lip, pressing down on her lower back as she bent further. “Always such a sweet girl,” he muttered, hearing her whimper as he slid a finger down her glistening slit, applying pressure to the sensitive bundle of need. “now dressin’ like a slut.” Chris tutted softly, eyes lifting to meet hers in the mirror, watching as her eyes rolled back at the motion of his middle finger easing its way into her pussy.

－ He felt as her walls clamped down on the digit as if it was his cock. Letting out a huff of amusement, he added another finger, the push becoming more reluctant against her tight cunt. “That’s it,” he mumbled, thumb slowly rolling over her clit as he eased his other two fingers into her heat. “jus’ open up for me, baby.” He whispered, the pace of his middle finger torturously slow.

✪ The girl’s head fell against the cold marble, whining in pleasure as she felt the ball in her stomach building. It almost was too much, such a foreign sensation after using her own, smaller hands for her pleasure for the few years. As she felt her body react so differently to his touch, the idea of him fucking her, seemed simply impossible.

－ Chris was definitely more than well endowed, if her memory served her correct. Even after fucking her the first time, the occasions after were just as harder to get her through. It was the additional discomfort and pain that got her. She had always described it to be tore in half, a shooting pain as well as heat coursing up her core as he slammed himself into her.

✪ Chris hushed her softly as she began to struggle against his touch, shifting with discomfort, but pushing her hips back against the touch despite her body’s reluctance. “I know, I know.” The triplet murmured, feathering kisses against the opening of her skin tight top. “You can take it.” Y/n moaned at the words, pussy pulsing around his slim fingers that scissored up into her.

－ Hardness pressed into the girls thigh from behind, Chris’s hips pathetically rutting against the soft skin as he impatiently waited to slam into her sopping cunt. “M’gonna fuck you s’good.” He breathed against the shell of her ear, his free hand flattening around her trachea, squeezing gently.

✪ He uttered the words like he meant it, unfulfilled promises he’d never made up for, finally being made. “Please.” She practically whined, pushing her hips back into his erection.

－ Tight walls of the girl’s pussy clenched around nothing as he slid his fingers from her the dripping core, a trail of arousal slipping down her inner thigh as she feigned to be filled. The sound of the triplet’s zipper being tugged at echoed throughout the washroom.

✪ Chris’s hand slipped into his slacks after tugging at the belt, immediately palming over the raging hard on with a guttural moan. Pre-cum tainted the end of his calloused thumb as he ran the pad along his sensitive tip, whimpering as he bucked his hips into his own hand. Fuck this.

－ “Sorry －I gotta’ fuck you baby.” Please. She almost cried the plea, opting to whine in desperation as he lined the tip of his cock up to the entrance of her dripping cunt, one hand placed on her waist as he adjusted himself. Slowly sinking himself into her heat, she moaned breathlessly, nails scraping the marble countertop as he barely got an inch in. “Chris,” she whined.

✪ The male threw his head back with a grunt, chest heaving as he tugged at the button of his dress shirt. “I’m not even halfway in yet, sweetheart.” He said airily, running a hand through his hair. “Be a good girl and hold on for me, yeah?” Chris said, squeezing her waist warily.

－ Huh? Y/n’s eyebrows met with confusion, but she complied to the request with the slightest hesitation. Just as her hands mounted around the counter top, her whole body was being forced forward with one sharp buck of Chris’s hips. “‘Holy fuck!” Her nails dug into the counter, Chris’s hips meeting her backside as he bottomed out.

✪ A shooting pain ran up her core as heat swirled within the drenched folds, pulsing with need as she clamped around his cock snuggly. Chris’s eyes were squeezed shut, hips still from any movement as he forced himself not to come the second he slammed inside her pussy. God she was fuckin’ tight. “Jesus, baby,” He moaned, neck bent back with the overwhelming amount of pleasure he felt as he slowly pulled out of her. “you’re tighter than when I first fucked ya’.” Pressing a hand on her lower back, he sharply thrusted back into her, a startled moan emitting her lips.

－ She felt him everywhere. “S’so good,” she panted, whimpering as she felt the ridge of his cock sliding against her clit sensitively. The pain subsided with each rut of his hips, until it was just an overwhelming tingling sensation with every single movement.

✪ Her walls tightened around his dick with every single retraction, making him groan as he gripped her waist. “You’re suffocating me here, baby.” Y/n whimpered, the words itself allowing her cunt to squeeze around him as he pulled out. “Can’t’ help it.” She whispered, whining as he swiftly slammed back into her. “Fuck.” It was so good.

－ The girl couldn’t tell if she was jealous with his new experience, or thankful. While Chris did know how to make a girl feel good back then, it was mediocre. His hips moved with the need to find his own pleasure, lazy thrusts as he whined and whimpered next to her ear. But this, was something else.

✪ She watched as Chris’s face scrunched with pleasure, neck craned back as he watch his cock fuck into her little hole, before his eyes lifted to meet her’s through the glass at the feeling of her stare. She breathlessly smirked at his darkened expression, pushing her ass out to meet every slam of his cock. “Couldn’t even wait, had to fuck me in a bathroom.” He bit down on his bottom lip, shaking his head a bit.

－“Why? So I would have to walk around all night, with my brothers, feeling like I need to shove my cock into this little cunt?” The male grunted, using two hands to lift her hips, sharply fucking into her from a new angle.

✪ She moaned, nails scraping the countertop, laughing at the sinful statement. Chris’s eyebrows came together, teeth gnashing as he fisted his hand around her ponytail, lifting her face from the cold marble. “Somethin’ funny, doll?” She shook her head, chest still heaving as she panted and laugh.

－ “No- no, it’s just that you’re the same selfish little boy you were three fucking years ago.” She grits out, glaring at him through the mirror as he fucked into her with a darkness twinkling in his eyes. “Worried about getting it up, instead of the girl who fell- ah －” she was cut off as his hips snapped forward, her body going limp as he slammed into her hard.

✪ The hand that was pressed against her belly slid up until it pressed on her neck, slim fingers wrapping around the area as he held her up, set on keeping the eye contact. “That girl, is the same little bitch, that would rather spend time with frat boys then stay with her boyfriend.” He hissed.

－ Y/n felt him slowly pull out, making her breathlessly pant out. “No, no －” she cried out, sinking into the counter as Chris’s hand made contact with her right ass cheek, his hand groping the pink skin afterward. “Hush.” Her body was limp, thighs trembling as she struggled to stay upright, the only balance she held was the triplet’s grip on her.

✪ Which she didn’t know was a good thing or not. “Put your hands behind you,” He murmured while turning her around, two large hands rubbing the underside of her thighs as he stepped closer to her, wrapping them snuggly around his hips. The girl complied, two palms falling against the marble as she leaned back, lifting her hips with need. “someone’s impatient.” He chuckled.

－ Her eyes narrowed into a glare, chest heaving as she looked at his disheveled frame. “Someone’s needy.” Chris rolled his eyes at the bratty reply, hands gliding to grip her backside. “Yeah, yeah.” The male muttered, looking into her eyes nonchalantly as a smirk graced his lips. “Hold on f’me.”

✪ And just like that, he was bottoming out in her with one thrust, the girls eyes flying open. “Chris!” Every fucking inch, she felt as he slid into her violently, a new spot inside being brushed against with every movement. His hand swatted her’s away as she pressed it against his abdomen, “slow- slow down,” gripping her smaller one in his, he tutted softly. “Hands to yourself, doll.” Her face scrunched with pleasure, feeling an iron like taste in her mouth as she nipped at her tongue.

－ Her back aches into him as he ruthlessly fucks into her, the length of his cock rocking back in forth along her pulsing walls. Chris’s head fell back with a low moan, feeling the way her hips raised as a silent plea to continue despite the harsh thrusts of his dick. “Always takin’ it like a good fuckin’ girl.” Bobbing her head silently, he sunk himself deeper in her.

✪ The girls hips roll to alleviate some of the pressure, only causing a whole new shockwave of arousel to come over her. “Yes, yes －” her whined echoed through out the bathroom, no doubt heard by passing guests. Chris couldn’t help himself, the sound of her lewd whines flooding straight to his cock.

－ A strangled moan escaped her parted lips as he buried himself inside her to the hilt, so deep that she swore she could feel him up her throat. “Chris,” she gasped out, head hitting the mirror with a soft thud as it fell back. Chris panted softly while pushing away the hairs that stuck to her face, using every bone in his body not to give and press his lips to her’s.

✪ She swallowed deeply, sucking in a breath as she flicked her gaze down to her abdomen. “Your cock,” she whimpered, seeing the faint outline of hid cock in her belly. He hummed, his veiny hand pressing to her stomach as he drug the top of her shirt up further, just until it was below her breasts. “Yeah? You like that? seeing my cock fuck into ya’?” She nodded dumbly, moaning silently as he pressed down on the outline.

－ Chris couldn’t get enough of her ass. Groping the skin as he lifted her up onto his cock, just before slamming down into her. She moaned in pleasure, he groaned in agony. “Fuck － baby,” so damn tight. She was squeezing the life out of him, clamping down in every inch of his length.

✪ “Oh my god －” tears of pleasure threatened to fall as she released over his dick, feeling him reach places she didn’t even know existed. “That’s it my girl,” He grunted while fucking into one last time, groaning as he felt ropes after ropes of cum spew from his sensitive tip. “Thats. Fucking. It.” All he needed.

－ His forehead pressed to her’s as the two calmed from the aftershocks of their orgasam’s, eyes fluttering open to meet her’s. The look in her eyes was one of the few things Chris noticed hadn’t changed. They gleamed with such love, a love she was so willing to share with him once.

✪ And if he knew one thing, it was that he missed that fucking look. If he could do it all over again he would. He’d take everything back with a snap of the finger, go back to the simple times where they’d sneak from class to meet up, share messy chaste kisses as they dodged the hall monitor.

－ Chris flicked his gaze from her lips to her eyes, over and over, debating what his next move would be. He couldn’t, could he? No －it’d be wrong of him … right? Being the irrational individual he’d always been, he slammed lips against her’s, despite his better judgment.

✪ Y/n’s eyes flew open, a sound of surprise emitting her lips as she felt the impact of his making contact with her flush ones. He cupped the one side of her jaw as he moved his lips against hers, chasing the feeling of pure melancholy he did as a teenager. And god, he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t feel it.

－ His heart practically pumped from his chest, lips twitching against hers as he felt a smaller hand softly tug at the brunette tendrils atop his head. He missed it so much. Chris hissed as she nipped at his plump bottom lip, eyes glaring into hers for a moment.

✪ She laughed. Pressing a hand to the back of her lips as she giggled, chest shaking as she concealed the laughter that wanted to emit from her mouth. His eyes softened at the sight, glare no longer as he looked at her with pure amazement.

－ He missed her so much.

✪ They both looked into each other’s eyes, silently searching for the correct thing to say after the moment they’d shared. Hell －it wasn’t a moment. Chris had fucked her in a bathroom, at their friend’s wedding. There was something so .. ironic about it, though he couldn’t put a finger on it.

－ Should he thank her? Apologize? Maybe he should express how much he liked it － no, no. His eyes flicked to eye to eye, throat bobbing as he blurted out the words he been fighting for years.

“Marry me.”

𝒯𝒶𝑔𝓈 ♡︎－

@fratbrochrisgf @jetaimevous @sturnstvr @sturnrc @stonermattsgf

[doridumbington]

freerrff day 2

[sacramentohistorymuseum]

On June 19, 1865, Union troops arrived in Galveston, Texas, and Major General Gordon Granger announced the end of the Civil War and that the enslaved people in the town were free. This was the last area in the South to receive the orders that slavery was abolished, and this announcement came over 2.5 years after President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation. What has become known as Juneteenth is now a federal holiday since 2021 and it is a symbolic date representing the African American struggle for freedom and equality in the United States and is also a celebration of family and community.

You might ask, what is important about Juneteenth to California history? Slavery was a major topic discussed at the California Constitutional Convention in September 1849. While California did enter the Union on September 9, 1850 as a “free state” as part of Congress’ Compromise of 1850, slavery did exist in California and there were certainly protections under the law that were not awarded to all people. Many enslaved people were brought to California during the Gold Rush.

Early Black civil rights leaders in Sacramento in the 1850s, such as Daniel Blue, Jeremiah B. Sanderson, William Yates, Charles Hackett, and Joseph Smallwood confronted political challenges and sought further representation in California in a time when a Person of Color could not testify against a white person in court. Early California newspapers were full of accounts of enslaved people paying for their freedom, testimonies by anti-slavery and civil rights activists, and stories covering plaintiffs suing for freedom. Elements of slavery continued in California through the Civil War.

The Emancipation Proclamation, General Granger’s announcement, and the 13th, 14th, and 15th Amendments to the U.S. Constitution after the Civil War did not solve issues of freedom and equality. The struggle of civil rights continued through the 20th Century and the extension of those rights to all people continues to this day.

For today, Jared letterpress printed “JUNETEENTH” in 30 line pica wood type. The typeface is French Clarendon and the type was made by the Hamilton Wood Type Company in the late 1880s. This was printed with yellow, red, and green ink using our Washington hand press, which was made in 1852.

[ipso-faculty]

I, an intersex autistic, want to complain about an autistic flag

This time I'm not complaining about using the white infinity symbol of the Métis. I wanna complain about this flag, made in 2021 by Autistic Empire:

This one upsets me as an intersex person. I get that the designers wanted to make a flag that's different from the neurodiversity flag, and that gold is a common choice for autism (Au = Gold).

The problem it's an icon on a solid golden yellow background, and that is Intersex Flag Territory.

For my perisex readers, these are intersex flags. The one on the left was made in 2013 by Morgan Carpenter so you'll hear people refer to it as the Carpenter flag sometimes:

A common technique in deriving flags for "intersex plus X" is to replace the purple ring with another icon in the same colour. Like these! (Note the intersex autism flag.)

So using the flag logic I'm used to for intersex flags, a rainbow infinity on a solid gold background means.... neurodivergent intersex!

I've talked to a few other intersex people who had the same reaction. It's kind of upsetting - intersex is so frequently invisible and sidelined at the queer table. My *emotional* reaction to the Autistic Empire flag has been "really, we intersex people can't have one thing?". (This is an emotional response not necessarily a rational response.)

Also annoying me is how Autistic Empire presents their 2021 flag on their Autistic Pride Day page beside the history that Autistic Pride Day started in 2005, which apparently gives people the idea that the Autistic Empire flag was created in 2005.

Best I can tell, this was the 2005 flag that Aspies for Freedom created. I know it was a rainbow infinity on a white background but I'm not 100% this was their design. (If you know please let me know!)

These oldest ND/autistic flags I can find with clear provenance are from 2013 and 2016:

The Autistic Empire design was created in 2021 by taking a 2016 neurodiversity infinity symbol design and sticking it on the gold background.

The prospect of solid gold backgrounds taking off as an autistic flag theme is scary to me. I've seen how queer Métis now have to explain that the Métis queer pride flag is not an autistic flag.

In my eyes, it fits into the greater trend of autistic flags being insensitive of other minorities' flags (see: the Metis flag). I think we as a community need to do better about this.

My fellow autistics I beg of you when doing flag designs: - google image search - has your idea already been used? Search the keywords you want before making a mock up - also text search on google and tumblr: <keywords> and <flag> - consult recommendations on how make an infinity symbol that does not look Metis - Wikipedia's list of flags by colour combination - once you have a mockup, return to google image search and this time search using the mockup - if you get feedback that your flag design is too similar to another group's flag, use this feedback. The person who is giving you the feedback might be upset, and if so, try to look past their tone and work past any defensiveness you may feel Edit to add: I'm keeping a list of autistic & ND flags that don't use the Metis infinity nor use a solid gold background here. If you know of more please let me know! <3

💛

[readyforevolution]

Juneteenth (19 June), or Emancipation Day, commemorates the day US troops arrived in Galveston, Texas, to announce the government had abolished slavery, more than two-and-a-half years after the Emancipation Proclamation went into effect on 1 January 1863.

The Emancipation Proclamation freed at least 3.5 million enslaved people in Confederate states (states supporting slavery) during the US Civil War (1861-65). Although Lincoln initially freed enslaved Africans so they could join the US military, the goalpost moved when he decided saving the Union (non-slaveholding states) meant abolishing slavery.

Many enslavers took refuge in Texas with their enslaved people, seeing it as a haven for slavery. As Union states gained the upper hand, many Black people gained freedom, but not those in Texas.

While local Juneteenth celebrations saw a resurgence in the late 20th century, US President Joe Biden made it a federal holiday in 2021.

Unfortunately, freedom did not come with reparations and equality. To this day, descendants of enslaved Africans suffer physical and mental ailments—such as high blood pressure and kidney disease, to name a few—are nine times poorer than their white counterparts, and Black men are four times more likely to be imprisoned than white men.

Could the payment of reparations for US slavery complete the memory of Juneteenth? Let us know in the comments.