Ravena’s Blog Space

✩ könig x gn reader

✩ how you became könig’s penpal and how he fell in love with you

✩ please like and reblog if you enjoyed! if this gets enough support, i’ll make it into a series!

✩ it all started when your therapist suggested ways to overcome your social anxiety

✩ you've always been terrified of social situations, constantly afraid of being judged and humiliated by others.

✩ you'd dread events for weeks, going through every scenario in your head where things could go wrong, turning every social event into a disaster before it had even begun.

✩ and when you're actually there? the disaster becomes true.

✩ you tremble and stutter through conversations while avoiding eye contact at all costs

✩ eventually, your nausea and your racing heartbeat becomes too much, and you escape to either run home or have a panic attack, whichever one comes first.

✩ even then, there's no salvation: you reflect on every moment, noting every single cringeworthy detail, creating your own punishment that was personally designed to render your self-esteem non-existent.

✩ it's so embarrassing…

✩ after months of isolating yourself, staying home instead of going outside and humiliating yourself again, you get online therapy sessions.

✩ the therapist suggests a way to start talking to people again: a penpal program organised by the army where you send a soldier a letter.

✩ she said the letters would be less stressful than in-person or online conversations since there was no pressure to respond immediately

✩ a soldier? seriously?!

✩ telling a soldier, who risks their life every day, that you get a panic attack talking to strangers?

✩ your dignity would crumble to dust!

✩ what you didn't know was that that there was an awkward austrian soldier who perfectly understood your struggles.

And, most importantly, he and Holmes would fucking love each other. If most of the modern day detectives inspired by Holmes ever met him, he would probably want to kill them with hammers, but he and Blanc would probably end up being penpals and sending each other newspaper clippings about crime or some shit. And I can absolutely envision a teenage Blanc reading the Holmes stories and being like, "Wait, being a silly little gay private detective is a viable career option? Well, I guess I've finally found my calling in life."

Anyway I love the Benoit Blanc movies and I hope they make a million of them

I highly recommend watching this testimony from Aliya Rahman, the disabled woman who was dragged out of her car and kidnapped by ICE on her way to a doctor appointment in Minneapolis a few weeks ago.

Thank you members, for taking the time to be here today, and thank you staff for making this happen.

My name is Aliya Rahman, and I am a resident of South Minneapolis. I am a Bangladeshi American born in Northern Wisconsin. And I’m a disabled person with autism and a traumatic brain injury.

Not all autistic brains do this, but mine fixates on sounds, numbers, and patterns. And while what the world saw happen to me exactly three weeks ago today on video was a terrible violation it is still nothing compared to the horrific practices I saw inside the Whipple center.

So I am here today with a duty to the people who have not had the privilege of coming home, and I offer this data because these practices must end now.

On January 13th on the way to my 39th appointment at Hennepin County’s traumatic brain injury center, I encountered a traffic jam caused by ICE vehicles and no signs indicating how to get around it. I had not wanted to pull in to a blocked, chaotic intersection, but verbally agreed to do so and rolled down my window after an agent yelled, “Move! I will break your f-ing window!”

His first instruction.

Agents on all sides of my vehicle yelled conflicting threats and instructions that I could not process while watching for pedestrians.

Then, the glass of the passenger side window flew across my face.

I yelled, “I’m disabled!” at the hands grabbing at me and an agent said, “Too late.”

I felt immersed in a pattern, and I thought of Jenoah Donald, an autistic black man killed by the police during a traffic stop in 2021.

I remembered mister Silverio Villegas González, who was killed by ICE in his vehicle last year.

An agent pulled a large combat knife in front of my face, which I thought was for cutting me, and later learned was used to cut off my seat belt. Shooting pain went through my head, neck, and wrists when I hit the ground face first and people leaned on my back.

I felt the pattern, and I thought of mister George Floyd, who was killed four blocks away.

I was carried face down through the street by my cuffed arms and legs while yelling that I had a brain injury and was disabled. I now cannot lift my arms normally.

I was never asked for ID.

Never told I was under arrest.

Never read my rights.

And never charged with a crime.

Approaching the Whipple center, I saw black and brown bodies shackled together, chained together, being marched by yelling agents outdoors. I continued to hear the word “bodies”, because that is how agents referred to us:

“We’re bringing in a body.”

“They’re bringing in bodies 7, 8 at a time, where do I put ‘em?”

“We can’t use that room, there’s already a body in there.”

You have no reason to believe you will make it out alive if you’re already being called a body.

Agents repeatedly had to stop and ask how to do tasks. I received no medical screening, phone call, or access to a lawyer. I was denied a communication navigator when my speech began to slur. Agents laughed as I tried to immobilize my own neck. I asked for my cane and was told no, pulled up by my arms and prodded forward in leg irons by agents laughing and saying, “Walk! You can do it, walk.”

Agents did not know if the facility had a wheelchair.

When I was finally placed in one to be taken to interrogation an agent taunted, “You were driving, right? So your legs do work.”

I pleaded for emergency medical care for over an hour after my vision had become blurry, my heart rate went through the roof, and the pain in my neck and head became unbearable.

It was denied.

When I became unable to speak my cellmate pleaded for me.

The last sounds I remember before I blacked out on the cell floor were my cellmate banging on the door, pleading for a medic, and a voice outside saying, “We don’t wanna step on ICE’s toes.”

When I opened my eyes at Hennepin County’s emergency room, I learned I was brought there to be treated for assault.

The impacts of DHS detention on my physical, mental and financial well-being and safety have been very severe, but I do not deserve more humane treatment than anyone else, US citizen or not. And I am here today with a strong spirit and a duty to the many people who haven’t had the privilege to tell their stories or see their loved ones come home. I am extremely distressed by the pattern that violence from law enforcement has been happening to black and indigenous communities for centuries, and to DHS survivors for over 20 years.

We call ourselves a civilized nation, but we lack rules and accountability around what a person claiming to be law enforcement is permitted to do to another human being.