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thoughtportal · 11 days ago

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A Libertarian Walks Into a Bear: The Utopian Plot to Liberate an American Town (and Some Bears)

PublicAffairs, 288 pp., $28.00

But don’t worry—it almost never comes to this. As one park service PSA noted this summer, bears “usually just want to be left alone. Don’t we all?” In other words, if you encounter a black bear, try to look big, back slowly away, and trust in the creature’s inner libertarian. Unless, that is, the bear in question hails from certain wilds of western New Hampshire. Because, as Matthew Hongoltz-Hetling’s new book suggests, that unfortunate animal may have a far more aggressive disposition, and relate to libertarianism first and foremost as a flavor of human cuisine.

Hongoltz-Hetling is an accomplished journalist based in Vermont, a Pulitzer nominee and George Polk Award winner. A Libertarian Walks Into a Bear: The Utopian Plot to Liberate an American Town (and Some Bears) sees him traversing rural New England as he reconstructs a remarkable, and remarkably strange, episode in recent history. This is the so-called Free Town Project, a venture wherein a group of libertarian activists attempted to take over a tiny New Hampshire town, Grafton, and transform it into a haven for libertarian ideals—part social experiment, part beacon to the faithful, Galt’s Gulch meets the New Jerusalem. These people had found one another largely over the internet, posting manifestos and engaging in utopian daydreaming on online message boards. While their various platforms and bugbears were inevitably idiosyncratic, certain beliefs united them: that the radical freedom of markets and the marketplace of ideas was an unalloyed good; that “statism” in the form of government interference (above all, taxes) was irredeemably bad. Left alone, they believed, free individuals would thrive and self-regulate, thanks to the sheer force of “logic,” “reason,” and efficiency. For inspirations, they drew upon precedents from fiction (Ayn Rand loomed large) as well as from real life, most notably a series of micro-nation projects ventured in the Pacific and Caribbean during the 1970s and 1980s.

None of those micro-nations, it should be observed, panned out, and things in New Hampshire don’t bode well either—especially when the humans collide with a newly brazen population of bears, themselves just “working to create their own utopia,” property lines and market logic be damned. The resulting narrative is simultaneously hilarious, poignant, and deeply unsettling. Sigmund Freud once described the value of civilization, with all its “discontents,” as a compromise product, the best that can be expected from mitigating human vulnerability to “indifferent nature” on one hand and our vulnerability to one another on the other. Hongoltz-Hetling presents, in microcosm, a case study in how a politics that fetishizes the pursuit of “freedom,” both individual and economic, is in fact a recipe for impoverishment and supercharged vulnerability on both fronts at once. In a United States wracked by virus, mounting climate change, and ruthless corporate pillaging and governmental deregulation, the lessons from one tiny New Hampshire town are stark indeed.

“In a country known for fussy states with streaks of independence,” Hongoltz-Hetling observes, “New Hampshire is among the fussiest and the streakiest.” New Hampshire is, after all, the Live Free or Die state, imposing neither an income nor a sales tax, and boasting, among other things, the highest per capita rate of machine gun ownership. In the case of Grafton, the history of Living Free—so to speak—has deep roots. The town’s Colonial-era settlers started out by ignoring “centuries of traditional Abenaki law by purchasing land from founding father John Hancock and other speculators.” Next, they ran off Royalist law enforcement, come to collect lumber for the king, and soon discovered their most enduring pursuit: the avoidance of taxes. As early as 1777, Grafton’s citizens were asking their government to be spared taxes and, when they were not, just stopped paying them.

Nearly two and a half centuries later, Grafton has become something of a magnet for seekers and quirky types, from adherents of the Unification Church of the Reverend Sun Myung Moon to hippie burnouts and more. Particularly important for the story is one John Babiarz, a software designer with a Krusty the Klown laugh, who decamped from Big-Government-Friendly Connecticut in the 1990s to homestead in New Hampshire with his equally freedom-loving wife, Rosalie. Entering a sylvan world that was, Hongoltz-Hetling writes, “almost as if they had driven through a time warp and into New England’s revolutionary days, when freedom outweighed fealty and trees outnumbered taxes,” the two built a new life for themselves, with John eventually coming to head Grafton’s volunteer fire department (which he describes as a “mutual aid” venture) and running for governor on the libertarian ticket.

Although John’s bids for high office failed, his ambitions remained undimmed, and in 2004 he and Rosalie connected with a small group of libertarian activists. Might not Grafton, with its lack of zoning laws and low levels of civic participation, be the perfect place to create an intentional community based on Logic and Free Market Principles? After all, in a town with fewer than 800 registered voters, and plenty of property for sale, it would not take much for a committed group of transplants to establish a foothold, and then win dominance of municipal governance. And so the Free Town Project began. The libertarians expected to be greeted as liberators, but from the first town meeting, they faced the inconvenient reality that many of Grafton’s presumably freedom-loving citizens saw them as outsiders first, and compatriots second—if at all. Tensions flared further when a little Googling revealed what “freedom” entailed for some of the new colonists. One of the original masterminds of the plan, a certain Larry Pendarvis, had written of his intention to create a space honoring the freedom to “traffic organs, the right to hold duels, and the God-given, underappreciated right to organize so-called bum fights.” He had also bemoaned the persecution of the “victimless crime” that is “consensual cannibalism.” (“Logic is a strange thing,” observes Hongoltz-Hetling.)

While Pendarvis eventually had to take his mail-order Filipina bride business and dreams of municipal takeovers elsewhere (read: Texas), his comrades in the Free Town Project remained undeterred. Soon, they convinced themselves that, evidence and reactions to Pendarvis notwithstanding, the Project must actually enjoy the support of a silent majority of freedom-loving Graftonites. How could it not? This was Freedom, after all. And so the libertarians keep coming, even as Babiarz himself soon came to rue the fact that “the libertarians were operating under vampire rules—the invitation to enter, once offered, could not be rescinded.” The precise numbers are hard to pin down, but ultimately the town’s population of a little more than 1,100 swelled with 200 new residents, overwhelmingly men, with very strong opinions and plenty of guns.

Hongoltz-Hetling profiles many newcomers, all of them larger-than-life, yet quite real. The people who joined the Free Town Project in its first five years were, as he describes, “free radicals”—men with “either too much money or not enough,” with either capital to burn or nothing to lose. There’s John Connell of Massachusetts, who arrived on a mission from God, liquidated his savings, and bought the historic Grafton Center Meetinghouse, transforming it into the “Peaceful Assembly Church,” an endeavor that mixed garish folk art, strange rants from its new pastor (Connell himself), and a quixotic quest to secure tax exemption while refusing to acknowledge the legitimacy of the IRS to grant it. There’s Adam Franz, a self-described anti-capitalist who set up a tent city to serve as “a planned community of survivalists,” even though no one who joined it had any real bushcraft skills. There’s Richard Angell, an anti-circumcision activist known as “Dick Angel.” And so on. As Hongoltz-Hetling makes clear, libertarianism can indeed have a certain big-tent character, especially when the scene is a new landscape of freedom-lovers making “homes out of yurts and RVs, trailers and tents, geodesic domes and shipping containers.”

If the Libertarian vision of Freedom can take many shapes and sizes, one thing is bedrock: “Busybodies” and “statists” need to stay out of the way. And so the Free Towners spent years pursuing an aggressive program of governmental takeover and delegitimation, their appetite for litigation matched only by their enthusiasm for cutting public services. They slashed the town’s already tiny yearly budget of $1 million by 30 percent, obliged the town to fight legal test case after test case, and staged absurd, standoffish encounters with the sheriff to rack up YouTube hits. Grafton was a poor town to begin with, but with tax revenue dropping even as its population expanded, things got steadily worse. Potholes multiplied, domestic disputes proliferated, violent crime spiked, and town workers started going without heat. “Despite several promising efforts,” Hongoltz-Hetling dryly notes, “a robust Randian private sector failed to emerge to replace public services.” Instead, Grafton, “a haven for miserable people,” became a town gone “feral.” Enter the bears, stage right.

Black bears, it should be stressed, are generally a pretty chill bunch. The woods of North America are home to some three-quarters of a million of them; on average, there is at most one human fatality from a black bear attack per year, even as bears and humans increasingly come into contact in expanding suburbs and on hiking trails. But tracking headlines on human-bear encounters in New England in his capacity as a regional journalist in the 2000s, Hongoltz-Hetling noticed something distressing: The black bears in Grafton were not like other black bears. Singularly “bold,” they started hanging out in yards and on patios in broad daylight. Most bears avoid loud noises; these casually ignored the efforts of Graftonites to run them off. Chickens and sheep began to disappear at alarming rates. Household pets went missing, too. One Graftonite was playing with her kittens on her lawn when a bear bounded out of the woods, grabbed two of them, and scarfed them down. Soon enough, the bears were hanging out on porches and trying to enter homes.

Combining wry description with evocative bits of scientific fact, Hongoltz-Hetling’s portrayal of the bears moves from comical if foreboding to downright terrifying. These are animals that can scent food seven times farther than a trained bloodhound, that can flip 300-pound stones with ease, and that can, when necessary, run in bursts of speed rivaling a deer’s. When the bears finally start mauling humans—attacking two women in their homes—Hongoltz-Hetling’s relation of the scenes is nightmarish. “If you look at their eyes, you understand,” one survivor tells him, “that they are completely alien to us.”

What was the deal with Grafton’s bears? Hongoltz-Hetling investigates the question at length, probing numerous hypotheses for why the creatures have become so uncharacteristically aggressive, indifferent, intelligent, and unafraid. Is it the lack of zoning, the resulting incursion into bear habitats, and the reluctance of Graftonites to pay for, let alone mandate, bear-proof garbage bins? Might the bears be deranged somehow, perhaps even disinhibited and emboldened by toxoplasmosis infections, picked up from eating trash and pet waste from said unsecured bins? There can be no definitive answer to these questions, but one thing is clear: The libertarian social experiment underway in Grafton was uniquely incapable of dealing with the problem. “Free Towners were finding that the situations that had been so easy to problem-solve in the abstract medium of message boards were difficult to resolve in person.”

Grappling with what to do about the bears, the Graftonites also wrestled with the arguments of certain libertarians who questioned whether they should do anything at all—especially since several of the town residents had taken to feeding the bears, more or less just because they could. One woman, who prudently chose to remain anonymous save for the sobriquet “Doughnut Lady,” revealed to Hongoltz-Hetling that she had taken to welcoming bears on her property for regular feasts of grain topped with sugared doughnuts. If those same bears showed up on someone else’s lawn expecting similar treatment, that wasn’t her problem. The bears, for their part, were left to navigate the mixed messages sent by humans who alternately threw firecrackers and pastries at them. Such are the paradoxes of Freedom. Some people just “don’t get the responsibility side of being libertarians,” Rosalie Babiarz tells Hongoltz-Hetling, which is certainly one way of framing the problem.

Pressed by bears from without and internecine conflicts from within, the Free Town Project began to come apart. Caught up in “pitched battles over who was living free, but free in the right way,” the libertarians descended into accusing one another of statism, leaving individuals and groups to do the best (or worst) they could. Some kept feeding the bears, some built traps, others holed up in their homes, and still others went everywhere toting increasingly larger-caliber handguns. After one particularly vicious attack, a shadowy posse formed and shot more than a dozen bears in their dens. This effort, which was thoroughly illegal, merely put a dent in the population; soon enough, the bears were back in force.

Meanwhile, the dreams of numerous libertarians came to ends variously dramatic and quiet. A real estate development venture known as Grafton Gulch, in homage to the dissident enclave in Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, went belly-up. After losing a last-ditch effort to secure tax exemption, a financially ruined Connell found himself unable to keep the heat on at the Meetinghouse; in the midst of a brutal winter, he waxed apocalyptic and then died in a fire. Franz quit his survivalist commune, which soon walled itself off into a prisonlike compound, the better to enjoy freedom. And John Babiarz, the erstwhile inaugurator of the Project, became the target of relentless vilification by his former ideological cohorts, who did not appreciate his refusal to let them enjoy unsecured blazes on high-wildfire–risk afternoons. When another, higher-profile libertarian social engineering enterprise, the Free State Project, received national attention by promoting a mass influx to New Hampshire in general (as opposed to just Grafton), the Free Town Project’s fate was sealed. Grafton became “just another town in a state with many options,” options that did not have the same problem with bears.

Or at least—not yet. Statewide, a perverse synergy between conservationist and austerity impulses in New Hampshire governance has translated into an approach to “bear management” policy that could accurately be described as laissez-faire. When Graftonites sought help from New Hampshire Fish and Game officials, they received little more than reminders that killing bears without a license is illegal, and plenty of highly dubious victim-blaming to boot. Had not the woman savaged by a bear been cooking a pot roast at the time? No? Well, nevertheless. Even when the state has tried to rein in the population with culls, it has been too late. Between 1998 and 2013, the number of bears doubled in the wildlife management region that includes Grafton. “Something’s Bruin in New Hampshire—Learn to Live with Bears,” the state’s literature advises.

The bear problem, in other words, is much bigger than individual libertarian cranks refusing to secure their garbage. It is a problem born of years of neglect and mismanagement by legislators, and, arguably, indifference from New Hampshire taxpayers in general, who have proved reluctant to step up and allocate resources to Fish and Game, even as the agency’s traditional source of funding—income from hunting licenses—has dwindled. Exceptions like Doughnut Lady aside, no one wants bears in their backyard, but apparently no one wants to invest sustainably in institutions doing the unglamorous work to keep them out either. Whether such indifference and complacency gets laundered into rhetoric of fiscal prudence, half-baked environmentalism, or individual responsibility, the end result is the same: The bears abide—and multiply.

Their prosperity also appears to be linked to man-made disasters that have played out on a national and global scale—patterns of unsustainable construction and land use, and the climate crisis. More than once, Hongoltz-Hetling flags the fact that upticks in bear activity unfold alongside apparently ever more frequent droughts. Drier summers may well be robbing bears of traditional plant and animal sources of food, even as hotter winters are disrupting or even ending their capacity to hibernate. Meanwhile, human garbage, replete with high-calorie artificial ingredients, piles up, offering especially enticing treats, even in the dead of winter—particularly in places with zoning and waste management practices as chaotic as those in Grafton, but also in areas where suburban sprawl is reaching farther into the habitats of wild animals. The result may be a new kind of bear, one “torn between the unique dangers and caloric payloads that humans provide—they are more sleep-deprived, more anxious, more desperate, and more twitchy than the bear that nature produced.” Ever-hungry for new frontiers in personal autonomy and market emancipation, human beings have altered the environment with the unintended result of empowering newly ravenous bears to boot.

Ignoring institutional failure and mounting crises does not make them go away. But some may take refuge in confidence that, when the metaphorical chickens (or, rather, bears) finally come home to roost, the effects are never felt equally. When bears show up in higher-income communities like Hanover (home to Dartmouth College), Hongoltz-Hetling notes, they get parody Twitter accounts and are promptly evacuated to wildernesses in the north; poorer rural locales are left to fend for themselves, and the residents blamed for doing what they can. In other words, the “unintended natural selection of the bears that are trying to survive alongside modern humans” is unfolding along with competition among human beings amid failing infrastructure and scarce resources, a struggle with Social Darwinist dynamics of its own.

The distinction between a municipality of eccentric libertarians and a state whose response to crisis is, in so many words, “Learn to Live With It” may well be a matter of degree rather than kind. Whether it be assaults by bears, imperceptible toxoplasmosis parasites, or a way of life where the freedom of markets ultimately trumps individual freedom, even the most cocksure of Grafton’s inhabitants must inevitably face something beyond and bigger than them. In that, they are hardly alone. Clearly, when it comes to certain kinds of problems, the response must be collective, supported by public effort, and dominated by something other than too-tidy-by-half invocations of market rationality and the maximization of individual personal freedom. If not, well, then we had all best get some practice in learning when and how to play dead, and hope for the best.

#article #new hampshire wildcats #the new republic #bears #ecology #economics #urban planning

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artificial-transmutations · 1 year ago

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Utopia

The sun was beaming down mercilessly on Trax as he climbed up the dusty rocks of the badlands. It didn't help much that his clothing was torn to rugs after the long journey or that his hands were calloused from the countless hours of climbing and shoving rocks and dirt. Still, the muscular and rugged man did not stop and climbed on, determined to reach the top of the hill. He didn't have too much choice. His water canteen was almost empty, only holding enough liquid for another half a day of hiking.

Trax stopped for a moment to wipe his brow and dry his hands on the very few scraps of clothing that were left from his shirt. Trax tried to control his breathing. His friends would surely have called him crazy, going into the badlands like this: Without preparation, without equipment and alone. Perhaps one or two of them would even have insisted on coming with him, to make sure he wasn't just throwing his life away. His friends really were awesome guys, Trax thought before correcting himself. No, that wasn't right. His friends had been awesome guys. Past tense. Another twinge of sadness darkened Trax' already bad mood. Truth be told, if his friends would still be around, he wouldn't even have considered taking on this crazy journey. But that was in the past. When the raiders on their bikes and trucks attacked Trax' settlement, many of the men, including every damn single one of his friends had been massacred. It had been a blood bath and Trax had only survived because he was out at the time, scavenging the industrial ruins nearby for supplies.

Having been born after the calamity and the subsequent wars, Trax knew fair well that surviving in the central European wasteland was difficult under the best circumstances. Having been heavily decimated by raiders, however, with most of the men dead it was nearly impossible. Most women and children had decided to leave, hoping to find a new place to settle or perhaps to find another settlement, where they might have a chance at a normal life. Not so Trax. Pretty much everyone had heard the story of Utopia. Utopia, the city of legends. Utopia, the safe haven. Grasping at straws, he set out for the badlands, in search of the mythical place.

Sighing, Trax got back to climbing, scaling the rest of the hill a bit more energetic now. After another half an hour, he finally reached the top of the hill, only to be rewarded with a wide view over a valley between the barren mountains. More importantly, though, Trax could hardly believe his eyes. Taking most of the space of the valley was a glass dome surrounded by a massive concrete and metal wall. Under the pristine glass that was reflecting the sunlight like a jewel, Trax could see a city. Not any city, mind you! Trax could see the green of trees and bushes between the high-rising spires, and the glittering of running water. He was able to make out some slight movement under the dome, probably from vehicles or even flying cars, and the air itself had a clean shimmer, almost like he imagined it when he heard the stories as a child.

Trax was mesmerized by the view, but at the same time, he didn't quite believe what he was seeing. He had really done it. He had reached the city of Utopia!

As fast as he could without breaking his legs, Trax scrambled down the hill and towards the impressive fortification. With each step, another thought became more and more prevalent. He had been so focused on finding the city that he had not yet thought of how to get in. From what he knew from the stories, Utopia had been a project of corporations and remnants of governments alike. A safe haven in the post-apocalyptic hellscape the continent had become. Of course, even though there were considerably less people than before the calamity, a single city would never be enough to house all survivors. So, the corporations chose a simple, yet proven concept of controlling who could get in: You had to pay for entry. It was ridiculously expensive, an amount of money Trax could not possibly earn in a hundred lifetimes. Enough to buy a bunch of settlements the size Trax' old home was. Of course, in the settlements, slums really, money didn't have too much meaning anymore. It was used for trading with other settlements, but apart from that, the concept of wealth had mainly meaning in the remains of the big cities. Even there, only a very elite few had been able to buy themselves entry into Utopia.

And now that *he* was here, standing in front of the massive concrete walls, it seemed like a stupid idea anyway. Who was he, a nobody, a mere scavenger, to try and demand entry to the city of dreams?

Well, he had to try. The gate in the concrete wall was massive. At least 20 meters tall and made of sturdy metal. Nobody was there, no guard or anyone really, which was not too surprising: Trax could hardly imagine anyone wanting to stand guard here, in the middle of nowhere, in the searing heat. Inside the huge gate was a smaller door, made from the same sturdy metal, with a computer console next to it. When Trax stepped closer, the terminal lit up. Trax was able to read, a skill that was sometimes necessary when scavenging the industrial ruins. However, he didn't have too much practice, so it took him a moment to decipher the three words on the surprisingly clean display: "Enter Entry Ticket".

Trax cursed. There was nothing else to be read, and even if there were, he would not have had any clue as to what he was supposed to do. He banged his fist against the door, and the sound reverberated off the nearby hills. However, there was no answer. Apparently, the entry in the city was fully automated and without an expensive ticket, there was no way to get in. Climbing up the concrete walls was pretty much impossible, and even if he managed to, he would only stand in front of the mighty glass dome.

Defeated, Trax slumped against the wall. It didn't make sense. He had made it all this way, had seen the city, had touched the very walls and yet, the city was still not within reach.

That's when he noticed another path, almost invisible under layers of dust and dirt. The main gate was well maintained and cleaned, but this path, going along the wall, had clearly not been used in decades. Perhaps there was still a chance to get into the city after all.

Trax followed the path for a few dozen meters before he noticed a faded writing on the concrete. The yellow paint was huge but aged and showed an arrow to the left. Under the arrow, Trax could read the words: "Lottery Winners, This Way".

Lottery winners. Something stirred in Trax' memory. Lottery. Yes, he remembered that part of the story. Of course, after announcing that only the richest of the rich were granted access to the city of dreams, there had been an outrage. Following that, and to soothe the masses, there had been a huge lottery where one thousand souls from all over the country were able to win a place in the city. It was said that whoever won the lottery left for Utopia and never came back - understandably so.

Apparently, the way he was following now was meant for the lottery winners. Trax felt a twinge of hope. Perhaps there was yet another way of getting into the city. It was a faint chance, but it was a chance.

Trax followed the path that was winding around the big walls until it ended in an archway that led down into the foundation of the concrete structure. It was a gaping black hole in the light concrete, but, and that was both surprising and like a miracle to Trax, not barred by a door.

He carefully entered the archway and waited for his vision to adopt to his now darker surroundings. There was enough sunlight coming in through the entry to discern that he was now standing in a long, concrete corridor, tilted a little bit downwards. Trax could vividly imagine a thousand people standing in queue in the broad corridor, but now his steps echoed from the blank wall. After a little while, electric lights flickered to live as he was nearing a fork in the corridor. It split into two, left and right, where the left was adorned with a black figure wearing a skirt, while the right one showed a similar figure wearing pants. The universal signs for male and female, as they were found on old restrooms as well. Without thinking too much about it, Trax turned right and went down the "male" path. After only a few more steps, he passed a heavy metal door, which stood widely into a medium sized room.

The room wasn't well maintained, but it was clear that this was a part of the technological marvels that kept the city running. It was crammed with pipes and cables, tubes and huge towers of technology that Trax couldn't really place. However, everything in here seemed dormant. There were no blinking lights, no beeping sounds or sound of liquids running through the pipes. Dormant, with one exception. In the center of the room, there stood a huge block of machinery, with two notable features. The first was a large screen at about eye level that was dark. The second thing was a hole in the block with a diameter of about 5-6 centimeters in diameter 80 centimeters above the ground, surrounded by a blue plastic ring. This ring was lit by some internal light source and was blinking slowly, as if it was breathing. Curiously, Trax stepped closer.

As he approached the block, two things happened at once. With a faint whirring sound, the machinery in front of him came alive and the display lit up. At the same time, a loud bang sounded from the entrance and the heavy door slammed shut, closing Trax in.

Trax could feel panic rising up but fought it down again quickly. Whatever was happening here was just standard procedure for the lottery winners. There was probably nothing to worry about. Instead, he looked at the screen. In big white flickering letters on green background, it read:

"Welcome Lottery Winner! Please enjoy yourself!"

Trax couldn't make sense of the message, so he took another look around the room. There was another, considerably larger door on the other side of the room, but it was closed shut as well, with no discernable way of opening it. While the room was crammed with technology, the only active thing Trax could see was the central block with the hole and the screen. "Please enjoy yourself!". What was that supposed to mean?

Trax cocked his head and took another long look at the block. The only other notable feature was the hole surrounded by the blue ring, about one leg length from the ground. Trax squatted down and took a closer look at it. The blue ring was still blinking, the hole itself was dark. When Trax looked into it, he could only see blackness. Carefully, he felt it with his finger and was surprised to find a smooth malleable surface that quickly warmed to the touch, not unlike silicon. When he extended his index finger deeper into the hole, he could feel the walls of the hole suddenly starting to move in a slow, wave-like motion.

Trax quickly withdrew his finger and the motion stopped. He cocked his head again. That surely couldn't be right. "Please enjoy yourself!". It couldn't possibly mean...

On the other hand, there were a lot of indicators. The hole in the block was at exactly the right height and had the right diameter. The message could very well be interpreted that way. This was a room designated for male lottery winners. And the doors closed, allowing for some privacy. Trax shook his head. This was crazy. What possible reason could there be that the designers of the city wanted the lottery winners to... jerk off before entering the city?

On the other hand, perhaps it wasn't even too stupid. Getting your rocks off, possibly after a long journey would help the newcomers to relax and see things calmer and more rational. It was unusual, sure, but possibly not a bad idea.

"Enjoy yourself!" the message still read.

"Fine!" Trax said. "If that's what you want, let's do this!"

He undid his belt, pulled his torn trousers and even more threadbare underwear down, and grabbed his soft dick. With a few quick strokes, he got it first half-hard, and then, when he was rigid enough, he directed his cock to the waiting hole. It wasn't too difficult to get hard to be honest. Trax hadn't had time to jerk off since the attack on his settlement, and now that he was finally safe and relaxed, he was able to unwind a little bit. He could feel his blood rushing down, and his dick got stiffer and harder, until the head of his dick was throbbing and ready to enter the tight hole.

Trax was panting and gasping as he shoved his dick forward, penetrating the warm, slick tunnel. He couldn't believe how good this felt. The hole was so soft and malleable and so very tight! Immediately, the movements started again, and Trax moaned with delight as his dick was surrounded by waves of pulsing, squeezing pressure. His cock was swallowed whole and pressed on the tight tube as if it wanted to milk his dick. Trax gasped again. There was absolutely no doubt that this device was meant for exactly this purpose. He stepped even closer to the block, until his shaft was buried in the masturbation aid to the hilt. Slowly, he pulled his dick back, feeling every inch of the wet, warm and tight sleeve until the head was resting against the entrance. Then, with a grunt, he shoved it back, making the machine squeal and his body shudder with the intense sensation.

This time, there was another whirring sound inside the machine, and the hole became a lot tighter as a strong suction became active around his cock.

"Fuuuuck..." Trax groaned. His legs were shaking as his shaft was being sucked on with incredible strength. This was so much better than jerking off! He tried to pull back to thrust his cock back in with force but found himself unable to. The suction was so strong that it just didn't allow any movement of his dick. So, all he could do was to stand there, trembling as the machine was milking his cock. He used both his hands to grab onto the machine block in order not to be too overwhelmed. Trax was so enthralled by the experience that he didn't notice the technology in the room turned itself on one by one. Before long, Trax was surrounded by whirring, squealing and clicking noises from all directions.

However, Trax did notice when both of his wrist where suddenly grabbed by cold metal grabs and jerked apart until his arms were forcefully extended left and right of his body. He tried to pull free, but the machine held him firmly. A second later, a metal strap shot out of the block, and forced his legs apart until his whole body was spread-eagled. Then, with a clang, the two straps were bolted to the floor.

Trax was unable to move, except for his hips, which were still being pleasured by the amazingly tight machine sleeve. Was this some kind of intruder detection? Still, the machine pleasuring his cock felt incredible and hadn't it been for the sudden attack of the machinery, he would already be close to cumming. Right now, however, Trax was looking left and right to the strong metal arms holding his wrists in place in increasing confusion and panic.

Then, something new happened. Accompanied by a mechanical whirr, Trax felt a prodding sensation at his exposed ass. Then, without much more of a warning, a silicon replica of a large cock rammed itself into his ass. Trax had secretly always fantasized about being intimate with another man, and, more importantly, to be fucked by another man, but he didn't expect to experience this sensation for the first time here, in all places. He didn't even have the chance to prepare himself, to stretch himself open. The cock, that was clearly made out of the same material as the masturbation aid, was thick and hard and the sudden penetration took his breath away and made him moan both from pain, surprise and pleasure.

The dildo was moving back and forth in a rhythmic pace, slowly, but with a steady mechanical strength. Despite the helpless situation, Trax felt he was in, the combined sensations were too much to bear. With a cry, he came, hard, into the machine, injecting spurt after spurt of his cum into the mechanism.

At the same time, he felt the dildo in his ass release a thick liquid into his intestines as well, leading to a strangely full feeling in his behind.

Trax' faint hope that now the machine would surely release him, however, quickly vanished. After his dick had spent the last drops of his load into the machine, the machine began to move alongside his dick again, the movements now accompanied by the slick feeling of his own sperm in the device. A moment later, the rhythmic fucking of his ass began anew. There was one change to before, though: The screen in front of him no longer showed the "Enjoy yourself" message but instead flickered with lightning fast strings of zeros and ones, each one displaying for little more than a millisecond.

Trax felt the strangest sensation as the dildo continued to fuck his ass. The semen, or whatever the machine was pumping into his bowels, was now acting as a lubricant and his ass was being fucked in the most pleasant way. At the same time, he felt a tingling sensation all over his body. He watched in amazement as all the little dark hairs on his body one after another fell to the ground like specks of dust. Trax had barely time to notice, though, as another grab from behind fixated his head to the screen in front of him.

Still, the strange sensation didn't stop there. Trax couldn't see it because he was unable to turn his head now, but he could almost feel his skin turning an unnatural gray - no, silver color. At the same time, his skin became harder and colder.

Trax groaned as his body suddenly expanded. He had been a fit, lean man, but now, his body changed so quickly it was almost like magic, accompanied by a churning feeling from within him. Again, he came, and again, more thick liquid was deposited into him as well, just as his bod became more and more bulky.

Trax' head was swimming. Somehow, the strings of binary numbers almost made sense to him. It was clear that something was planted into his brain, but he couldn't make sense of what exactly it was. However, there was one thing he could make sense of.

Trax had to serve Utopia. The thought appeared so quickly and so forcefully Trax couldn't help but say it out loud: "Serve... Utopia". What was going on?

He didn't have time to think about it further as his body expanded even more. His cock was still being squeezed and the dildo was still fucking him, and his muscles were burning from the constant strain, but the tingling sensation had not yet stopped. The skin on his arms and legs split open at the joints now. Around the parts that didn't need to move, cold and rigid metal plates formed now, while the joints were becoming flexible plastic. Trax could almost *feel* his bones become metal and his muscles being replaced by powerful servo motors. His chest had barreled out and the skin became a large metal casing. Inside, a whirring and clacking noise took place, before several valves formed at the side of his torso, leading to an internal oil tank.

Trax was acutely aware of all of that, but he couldn't react to it. His eyes were glued to the screen and with every passing number, Trax felt his own will being pushed away, replaced by a cold calculating logic, primed at a single motive.

"Serve Utopia", Trax said again and this time, his voice sounded different, almost artificial. The old Trax was still there of course - even as his head turned into the cold metal skull and his face was replaced by a red visor containing his sensory equipment, Trax original personality was perfectly preserved. He just couldn't help it. He had lost all control over his body, his voice and even his thoughts. He was being converted and there was nothing he could do. One last spurt of cum, the last remains of his human nature left his cock just before it turned into a set of tubes and electric connectors. The connector in his rear port deposited a last portion of nanobots and withdrew from the port after that. With that, the restraints holding his arms and legs released him at once. Unlike his flesh body from before however, Trax' new metal body didn't slump in on itself but stood unmoved due to its strong internal structure.

Trax wanted to turn around, to run away, but his body wouldn't obey his commands. Instead, another clear, pristine thought formed in his mind. "Connecting", Trax said in his new, mechanical voice.

Then, all of a sudden, his mind exploded and expanded. He was now *connected* to the city, to Utopia. Even more so, he was becoming a *part* of Utopia, one mechanical drone to serve the wealthy inhabitants of the city.

"Receiving new designation.... TRX-1001".

TRX-1001 quietly observed as the doors to the room sprung open. It withdrew its frontal groin connector from the conversion unit and stomped towards its assigned maintenance task.

As TRX-1001 entered the city of Utopia, Trax, who was still inside, was overcome by mixed feelings. He had really done it. He had reached the city of dreams. He had even become somewhat immortal, but at what cost. He had been reduced to little more than a subroutine in one of the thousand and one autonomous drones serving the city, toiling away day after day.

#male transformation #inanimate transformation

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doodle-pops · 6 months ago

Text

Bet On It

Elrohir x reader

Request: Elrohir, id love a friend's to lovers trope fic. reader can be also arwen or glorfindel's friend and they keep telling both them and elrohir to fucking confess to eachother but they refuse to because of the classic "I don't want to ruin our friendship,I can't lose them." They think they're subtle with pinning after one another but like everyone can tell they're in love. Casual physical affection, spending way too much time with eachother, "subtle" acts of service, etc. Idiots in love literally. One of them end up confessing after like a sweet moment, just a quiet whisper or a small kiss but it's enough for the other to finally confess too. Just a super fluff moment of them finally freely loving one another! - Anon

Warnings: fluff, mutual pinning, friends to lovers, confession, kissing

Words: 1.9k

Synopsis: You and Elrohir muster the courage to break old ties while recreating new ones as you begin a future together.

Walking up the familiar winding pathway that to the private getaway pavilion at the top, your feet softly padded against the steps until you made three raps to the wooden pillar. Somewhere, you heard the noticeable airy thuds of Elrohir’s feet coming your way eagerly, easily hiding a bag of jittery nerves. Casually the makeshift curtain drew back and revealed his evening radiance, attired in light blues and greys, a single braid to the right and his ebony hair loosely cascading down his back. Such was the simplicity of your dear friend, whom you cherished more than anything else in the world.

Through the momentary welcoming, your eyes dropped from his face to meet his chest, too fearful of giving away too many emotions already. Memories of Lady Arwen’s conversation replayed in your head about making a move otherwise it would be a great loss on your behalf, not before reminding you of her brother’s whereabouts.

Heart beating rapidly in your throat, you curled your toes against your sandals and exhaled. “Elrohir.”

“Y/N,” he greeted just as breathlessly as you. “Please come in. It is a wonderful surprise to have you visit.”

Gingerly you brushed past his shoulders, head dipping and eye falling to the floor as you entered his space. It was, and still is a haven of comfort and peace of mind for you when the world was hard on your shoulders. Now, it felt foreign with the looming messages of what you had planned to execute tonight…hopefully. Taking your time to observe the interior, not much had changed since your last visit, and nor had he finished the upturned book lying haphazardly on his bed.

“You still haven’t finished the Utopia Trilogy?” you laughed as you walked over and flipped the book over, scanning the page. “I thought you were a master at reading.”

Unbeknownst to you, your choice of conversational starter was an ice breaker for Elrohir, for even he was skittish and unsure of how to approach. Thankfully, luck was in the air.

Giving a lazy scratch to the back of his head, he made a guttural sound, almost like a deep whine and stomped over to pry the book gently out of your hands. Placing it back on the shelf, he spun around to purse his lips. “What did I tell you about judging my reading abilities? One does not rush a book, but timelessly enjoy it.”

“If timeless enjoying it means over a year, then by all means, continue,” you snickered and plopped onto his bed, shuffling your sandals off and making yourself comfortable. As easily as the conversation started, the rest flowed once Elrohir noticed the tension dissipating. Following suit, he climbed on the bed, sitting at the foot with his legs crossed and hands in his lap.

His honey-brown eyes flickered from the rumpled bed sheets to your feet to your face and then back at the sheets. “So,” he began quietly, “it’s been a while since we last spoke. How have you been?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Nothing new with me. Just wandering Imladris like a ghost, visiting the gardens and robbing all the local merchants,” you shrugged, your fingers idly found themselves tracing the mahogany armrest of the chair beside the bed. You were desperately fighting to keep your tone light. “And you? Last I heard, you all went as far as Forodwaith?”

Elrohir nodded with a tight-lip smile as he rocked back and forth. “Sort of. We met with the Dúnedain on the way and hunted some orcs all the way to the borders before turning back to come home—didn’t want to be away for too long. I tend to miss all my favourite people back home,” he explained, leading to you feeling a flush of warmth from his words, your heart beating a little faster prompting you to lift your head and lock eyes with him in the instant. A silent understanding passed between you two, then, with a small almost shy smile, he reached out and gently touched the back of your hand. “I’ve missed our conversations.”

You felt a shiver run through you at the contact, his touch sending a wave of warmth through your body. Wanting to duck your head or cover your face, you mustered the courage to withhold eye contact. “It’s good to be here,” you murmured lightly.

“It’s good to have you here,” he corrected.

For a while, the two of you engaged in effortless conversations, your body language morphing from tense to relaxed as your bodies shifted about the bed, slowly getting closer and closer. Discussing a myriad of topics that ranged from his adventures with his brothers and others to his daily duties and past, you covered the profound to the mundane. Topics of books, to your imagination, tales of old, uncharted dreams and future adventures beyond the lands of Middle Earth were thrown around gracefully and turned the evening into nightfall easily. The fullness of the moon rose from behind the clouds, shining glittering strands of light upon you both through the vine-covered canopy, aiding with the ambience.

Throughout your dialoguing, subtle gestures conveyed what words could not. Elrohir’s hand would brush lightly against yours as he passed you a cup of tea, a simple act imbued with unspoken affection. Your fingers would linger on his arm, savouring the warmth and closeness as you shared a moment of laughter over a shared memory. Each touch, though fleeting was charged with meaning, speaking of a connection that ran deeper than a mere friendship. The air between you crackled with unspoken tension, a dance of intimacy and restraint, each gesture a silent confession of feelings that lay just beneath the surface.

As the evening wore on, the moon dipping behind a cloud and hiding its light, a comfortable silence settles between you. Elrohir glanced at you, his expression contemplative. “Do you ever think about the future?” he asked suddenly.

You couldn’t resist looking at him surprised by the question. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “What brought this on, may I ask?”

He hesitated, his left shoulder bumping against your knees as he looked up from his lying position. The proximity was enough for you to catch a whiff of the mint of his tongue. “I was on a ride this morning with Lord Glorfindel, and he left me questioning myself and other things with his…choice of word,” he breathed and reached out to hold your hand and give it a small swing. “I just wondered what the future would hold for us. You and I, specifically.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the implication of them making your breath catch. Furthermore, the fiddling of his hand with yours increased your heart rate, leaving you occasionally needing to inhale.

The tension that was in the air now, a charged energy which made the room feel smaller and more intimate was sluggishly bringing your heads closer. Elrohir looked up, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. With bated breath, his voice dipped as his fingers intertwined with the hand he was playing with. “There is something I need to tell you, and I hope it doesn’t push you away or ruin things between us,” he said earnestly. “I care about you…more than a friend. I have for a long time.”

You stared at him for a long while, your heart pounding like a thunderous stampede of wild beasts. Lady Arwen’s words and teasing replayed in your mind as she told you about her brother crushing you for a long time. It was hard to see when all you saw was friendship and didn’t want to ruin the good you had. Opening your mouth to respond, no sound exited, so you closed it and remained breathless while he nervously held your hand, his thumb soothingly stroking the back of your hand repeatedly. His touch sent shivers down your spine. “I know it might come as a surprise, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer. I hope this doesn’t ruin our friendship.”

His confession hung in the air between you, the declaration that seemed to make time stand still. For a moment, you could only bashfully stare at him, the enormity of his words setting over you like a warm embrace. You didn’t know how to explain the urge that came over you when you licked your lips and darted your eyes to his, something he noticed and apprehensively craned his neck upwards to bridge the gap, his eyes closing briefly as if to savour the upcoming moment. In return, you closed your eyes when you felt his other hand slide around your neck to cup your nape and pull you closer.

With deliberate anticipation, Elrohir took his time to bridge the gap until his very own teasing antagonised him, forcing him to exhale before his lips collided with yours. A muffled groan from him turned into a grunt when he felt your hands reach out to cradle his neck, fingers scraping against his scalp leaving him shivering. Elrohir felt greedy in the moment as the first continued; years of silently loving you came pouring out in waves of passion and tenderness.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other, the world around you seeming to shimmer with newfound brightness. Elrohir’s eyes were soft, filled with a deep, abiding tenderness. “I can’t believe I was a fool for not believing Lord Glorfindel’s words at first,” he muttered, shaking his head with a smile. “I thought you wouldn’t feel the same because we’re just friends.”

“That makes to both of us,” you softly laughed. “I too didn’t believe your sister, but when she told me that both she and Elladan were betting on it, I had to do something about it.”

“Wait,” he cautioned as he sat upright, “my siblings conspired through betting. Come to think of it, Glorfindel did mention something about not wanting to lose a bet…of course.”

Sliding your hand off his neck to return to cradling his hands and playing with his fingers, rocked back and forth due to the overwhelming excitement in your chest. Finally, all your emotions came pouring out and the doubt you both feared was proven wrong. Roaming your eyes over his face, you leaned in, catching him off-guard, to kiss his lips once more, loving the sensation of his soft lips on yours. Fortunately, Elrohir did not mind the distraction you provided, reducing his plotting to deal with his siblings to focus on you before him.

“I’m glad I took the leap of faith and told you my heart,” he whispered through the kiss, cradling your cheeks and leaning in for another.

The two of you sat there for a while, simply holding each other, basking in the warmth of your newfound happiness. Eventually, as the night wore on, you found yourself lying side by side on his bed with his arms wrapped protectively, yet lovingly around you as your conversation about the future returned in delight. There was a sense of peace, a feeling that everything was right with the world now that you had finally confessed your love. All the weight was off your shoulders and replaced with bliss.

“I never want to be apart from you,” he said. “I want to spend every moment with you, to share my life with you.”

Your heart swelled as you looked up at him, your eyes softening. “I would like that as well.”

Leaning in, pleased at your response, his nose bumped against yours as he pecked your lips. “I can’t wait for our future together.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @aconstructofamind @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @addaigio @lamemaster @elficially-done-with-life @eunoiaastralwings

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valkyriesaga-if · 2 years ago

Text

Built a few years after the Collapse, the city of Yggdrasil was meant to be a haven, a refuge. A utopia, where everyone could find their place and be equals.

But that’s the thing with utopias and ideals; they don’t last very long.

Yggdrasil was barely 20 years old when the Magi Council rose above their human brethren, firmly splitting society in two: the magi on one side, who wield privilege like a sword, and the humans on the other, whose only privilege was to stay alive and quiet.

After all, how can you deny Magi what they want, when they are the only thing protecting you from what’s outside the walls?

You’ve been living in the Helheim district for almost as long as you can remember, raised amongst crooks, conmen and criminals all your life. While this hardly seems like ideal conditions to raise a child, it was better than having the Council find out your secret. Helheim was the best place for secrets. You knew it, your mother knew it, everyone in Yggdrasil knew it.

You’re an undeclared Magi. In a city where showing the barest hint of magic can get a child taken away from their parents and chain them forever to the Council of Magi, raising a child under the watching eyes of kingpins, thieves and prostitutes was a shield, an armor. The best protection love could offer.

Every day, you live on the edge of the razor. One wrong move and your life could be upended entirely. But when your mother is on the verge of losing her house, her business, her entire life to Greed, you can’t just sit there and watch it happen.

Being hired to steal the Eyes of The Watcher, the most precious gems in all of Yggdrasil, located right in the heart of the Council Chamber, didn’t seem like such a bad idea, at the time.

Genre

Post apocalyptic, urban fantasy, heist

Content Warning

The story will be 18+ for violence, potential sexual themes, explicit content and gore.

Fully customizable MC: name, gender identity, sexuality, appearance, personality and demeanor

Interact with a varied cast of NPCs

Shape your relationships with your fellow gang members, from lovers to platonic besties, all the while keeping in mind that they are all criminals and liars, just like you.

Experience the Nightmares™

Engage in highly illegal, highly dangerous activities, and maybe some light rebellion and overthrow of authority on the side

Polish your skills such as stealth, combat or knowledge, and discover more about your magic

Spend some time in the luxurious streets of Asgard and other delightful places such as a Helheim fighting ring, the city sewers or a defunct meat factory

Hallucinate?

Pet the cat

The selfish mercenary - Lònan [M, he/him]

Money is the only thing that matters to Lònan. He has made that very clear since the beginning. Obviously, he doesn’t seem to care that much about his own life, otherwise he would have found another way to make a fortune. One that doesn’t involve going into the heart of the enemy territory to steal the most valuable and well guarded artifact in town, for example. Just a thought.

The disgraced Magi - Yugō [M, he/him]

Magi have virtually everything they might want. Money, luxury, and an unending hoard of lackeys to cater to their every need. So you can’t help but wonder what might lead one of them to hide amongst the rats in the dark alleys of Helheim, and Yugo is not inclined to answer your questions.

The unwelcome guest - Halloran [M, he/him]

No one really knows who Halloran is or what he wants, but he seems to keep inviting himself in your dreams, taking great pleasure in playing with you and your sanity. Only he is a cat playing with a mouse, and you can only hope that he won’t eat you whole.

The estranged friend - Mavis [F, she/her]

Back in the time you lived in Midgard West, you and Mavis used to be friends, practically joined by the hip. While she remained as kind and gentle as you remember her, there is a hard edge to her eyes that wasn’t there before.

The mysterious outsider - Koyal [F, she/her]

A courier from outside of town, you’re not sure why she joined your ragtag group of criminals. Calm and quiet, she mostly keeps to herself, but you can’t help but feel her watchful gaze on you every time you have your back turned.

The disembodied voice - Morgane [F, she/her]

You’ve never met her in person, your only contacts with her being over the phone, as she gives instructions to you and the rest of the group. She seems to be the only one in direct relation with the person who hired you for some trivial B&E in the most secure facility in Yggdrasil.

Lònan/Yugō and Koyal/Halloran are potential poly routes.

TBA

This is my first IF and English is not my first language, so feel free to send any constructive criticisms and corrections my way.

This is very early development, so many things are subject to change as i work on the story

Asks are welcome and reblogs appreciated!

#interactive fiction #interactive game #interactive novel #IF #twine #twine game #cyoa #if wip #no demo #wip intro #twine story #twine if #wip #the valkyries saga

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rubberizer92 · 7 months ago

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In the quaint city of Snr, nestled amidst rolling hills and lush forests, a group of ambitious men had long harbored a secret desire – to transform their humble town into a haven for the Rubber Knights. Led by Marcus, a charismatic and persuasive figure, they envisioned a utopia where every man would be clad in tight, glossy, polished rubber suits, obedient to the Voice that whispered promises of arousal and power.

Gathering in the dimly lit basement of an abandoned warehouse, Marcus and his followers plotted their grand design. With fervor in their hearts and determination in their eyes, they devised a plan to spread the intoxicating influence of the Voice throughout Snr, ensuring that every man would succumb to its seductive call.

Their first step was to infiltrate the social circles of the city, spreading rumors and whispers of the delights that awaited those who embraced the path of the Rubber Knights. Through subtle manipulation and strategic alliances, they gained the trust and loyalty of influential figures, sowing the seeds of desire within the hearts of their fellow citizens.

As word of the Rubber Knights spread like wildfire, more and more men began to flock to their cause, eager to experience the thrill of arousal and power that awaited them. With each new recruit, the ranks of the Rubber Knights swelled, their determination unwavering in the face of any obstacle.

Soon, the transformation of Snr was underway. Streets once filled with mundane routine now bustled with the energy of arousal and obedience. Men walked with purpose, their bodies clad in tight, glossy rubber suits that accentuated every muscle and curve, their minds entranced by the hypnotic mantra of the Voice.

"Rubber binds, muscles gleam,

In our suits, we live the dream.

Obey the Voice, embrace the lust,

In glossy rubber, we entrust.

Strength and arousal, hand in hand,

In our city, we take a stand.

Hypnotized by the glossy sheen,

In rubber's embrace, we become keen."

And as the once-small city of Snr transformed into a bustling metropolis of muscular, rubber-clad men, Marcus and his followers stood at the forefront, their vision of a utopia realized through the power of desire and obedience.

#rubber #ai generated #muscles #jock #sexy #ai

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neechees · 30 days ago

Note

Is Canada dangerous?

Hmm I feel like this is kind of hard to answer, because, like it depends? I'd say Canada is, in general, overall becoming a more dangerous place to live because of rising racism, LBGTQphobia, Islamophobia, xenophobia, and the rise of fascism. Like if you're American hoping to move to Canada to "escape" something, it probably won't be much different here. I won't say like "if you move here you will definitely be attacked and killed" (in fact I think there's a good chance you won't), but Canada is no safe haven or utopia either. It can depend on where you go, what you look like, your socioeconomic status, etc. It's the same as asking "is the United States of America Safe?"

Like me personally, on the reserve right now, I feel safe. I feel safer (and i think I am safer) than I was when I was living in the city. I got followed and harassed (including by cops) more times while in the city in the span of like 4 years more than I ever have in my entire life while living on-reserve. But say, if you are a Brown, Muslim person trying to move to Quebec... I'd advise against it. Quebec is as bad as, if not worse, as France regarding Islamophobia. There's Islamophobia everywhere in Canada, but Quebec is especially heinous. For marginalized demographics, moving to major cities will be a mixed bag because the more people, then usually there's a bigger chance there's also a vibrant community there, but there will also be bigotry there. Canada is straight up raw dogging eugenics by encouraging MAID towards First Nations & people with disabilities and mental illnesses.

If one is like, a White person (Espcially if you're cishet, able bodied, Christian, etc) and has money, I'm certain they'll find Canada pretty safe.

#the-dark-storybook-prince

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hrizantemy · 15 days ago

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“name one good thing that rhysand has done for his whole court” he died once!!!! ,,,, though unfortunately he did come back ,,,,,,

I’ll actually give this one credit because he did die, but I was more referring to actions that genuinely improved his court. For instance, has he addressed the glaring issues in the Illyrian camps, where generations of women have been subjugated and mutilated? Or has he done anything meaningful to improve conditions in Hewn City, beyond just maintaining its oppression while pretending Velaris is the only part of his court that matters? Dying is a big sacrifice, sure, but it doesn’t exactly fix systemic problems or help the people he claims to rule over.

Rhysand hasn’t actually fixed anything meaningful in his court. In the Illyrian camps, little boys are still brutalized in the name of training, enduring cycles of abuse that leave lasting scars on their bodies and minds. Little girls are still married off as children or mutilated to prevent them from flying, effectively trapping them in a cycle of oppression. These are systemic problems that have persisted for centuries, yet Rhysand hasn’t taken significant steps to change them beyond a few superficial decrees.

Even in Velaris, the city he touts as his ‘perfect’ haven, there’s poverty, homelessness, and displacement. For all the wealth and resources Rhysand and his Inner Circle hoard, they barely do anything to address these issues. While they spend their time at lavish parties and painting their idealized version of Velaris, people struggle to survive in the shadows of their so-called utopia. Rhysand’s inaction speaks volumes, showing that his focus is more on appearances and maintaining his inner circle’s comfort than truly making his court a better place.

#anti acosf #anti acotar #anti inner circle #anti feysand #anti rhysand #nesta archeron deserves better #pro nesta #anti azriel #anti amren #anti cassian #anti morrigan #anti nessian #anti night court

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greyfics · 7 months ago

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entry 8.5: a side-plot in which norm gets the fuck out.

- °•. ✦ .•° -

subject: norm maclean

fic type: smart relatable underdog side character gets spotlight,

word count: 2.85K

inspo: I really just need to see norm gtfo of that vault lol, I feel like he's got a fighting chance you know?

cw: spoilers for fallout season one

summary: an overseer that is a brain in a vat. a series of experiments concealed behind the front of a subterranean utopia. the convenient relocation of the last of the people norm cared about- the last of the people questioning the fragile reign of the overseers, and what they might be hiding. norm desperately needs to leave, to find his sister- before he becomes just another one of bud's buds..

- °•. ✦ .•° -

"I suggest you wait it out in your father's pod, unless you want to starve to death- not much food in here, except the occasional large bug."

He is frozen. A small, quivering fist slowly slips down a firmly sealed door- were these vaults reinforced havens, or were they preemptive tombs?- the fist unfurls, as the wrist goes limp and the body connected numbs spare for the pitter patter of palpitations spawned from that very realisation.

His face is absent of blood, and despite the fact he has not yet fatalistically marched over to a cryogenic chamber to further bury himself in this pit, the numbness fades to a chill that kicks his feet into a frenzied pacing.

The robo-brain does a slow, awkward 180° twist, "All that is going to do for you is burn valuable energy that I simply don't have to give back to you, Norm. See, I'm sure you know this if you paid attention during your pristine pre-years education programme, but the human body requires-"

"Just shut up for a second." Is the flat-toned, snappy response Norm gives as he rubs his temples, the repetitive sensation a focal point to ground his shaking limbs, to ground a flurry of rarely seen irrational thoughts in that calculating mind.

Right now, it looks as though his only options are slamming himself against the door fruitlessly until he collapses from exhaustion and inevitably dies of dehydration or starvation, or to get into a pod on the other end of the room and pray that somehow, he is woken up- but what then? what would I even have to wake up to? Norm reflects upon the denizens of Vault 33- the way they force a smile and idle onwards so ignorantly; treating murderers as naughty houseguests, ignoring the slow dissimilation of their vault's security, it's vital resources and population becoming more sparse by the week. Even if there was hope brewing for a better future somewhere on the surface, there's no way that help would reach him down here.

Besides, he was just a problem for Vault 33- he always had been. He recalls the bitter comments about his unenthusiastic demeanour- the fearful confusion directed at his monotony- how lonely, how isolating a life down here is as an anomaly of the herd. With him removed from the equation, and Betty able to sleep at night thinking of him not as dead, but simply as in a rather permanent state of sleep, she would have no reason to wake him up- he who might expose the secrets they had desperately tried to keep locked away for so long. He was better left removed from the vault- left down here.

The reminder of his present predicament begins to suffocate him again, as his eyes flit between the walls and his breath picks up pace, the panic attack coming back for a dizzying second wave. Breathe. Breathe- I can't breathe. I'm going to die down here- this place is a big heaping metal tomb and I have to get out- Norm had never felt so overencumbered at the thought of being buried so deep beneath the surface before, but for the first time ever the urge to scratch his way to the surface was overriding in him the fear of the vultures circling above. He thinks about this- pauses his pacing entirely, and thinks some more. The buzz of an idea begins to spark slowly to fruition in Norm's mind.

It was true that it was better for Betty that he be kept somewhere outside of Vault 33- but maybe he'd even less of a threat left somewhere... else outside of 33? Maybe somewhere he could be more useful? He almost leaps from the exhilaration of having any kind of possible plan c at all in this situation- but his temperament keeps him still- and though his lips remain a flat, pursed line, a playful light dances behind the young genius' eyes, "Locking me in here won't stop Vault 33 from falling apart- it will just guarantee it. I'm your solution." He calmly declares- naturally, Bud's first move is to shut him down, but he is prepared for that, "Norman, you know I can't do that- and you really shouldn't worry about Vault 33 anymore, Betty has things completely-"

"-under control? If Betty had things under control, then how and why did a vault dweller manage to break into her office and trick you into letting them into Vault 31?" Bud stammers, juts to one side and then the other as he awkwardly attempts to give some justifiable explanation to Norm's question.

The bot stills, and lets a sigh out of its speakers, "There may be some... complications to the planned course of action- you being here being one of them, I should remind you- but I'm sure Betty will work through them and get everything back to normal soon enough. What good will it do us to send you to the surface? That would mean opening the vault doors, and risking the safety of everyone inside-" Norm shakes his head at this, takes a step towards the bot as he parries back, "-raiders managed to infiltrate our vault through 32 already, and the main vault door was opened twice after that. Do you really think one more time could hurt?"

The little brain in a pot makes an exasperated crying noise, and shakes itself as emphatically as it can, "But what would be the point in that, buddy, if we can just keep you tucked safely away in the most secure vault of the three down here, and... not open the door at all? None of our problems will be solved by another person leaving." A rare, triumphant grin floats onto Norm's face, and Bud makes a reflexive sharp shuffle backwards at the unnatural site, "If we don't replace our water filtration chip, then eventually Vault 33 runs out of water- and if the vault dwellers don't overthrow the overseer and leave by then? Everyone will die.-"

"Oh my god, why did he smile when he said tha-"

"-Just listen. Vault 32's supplies clearly ran out a long time ago, and evidently no-one from Vault 31 was gonna get up for a glass of water during their 200-year long power nap. By the look on Betty's face when she found out, I'm guessing there isn't a back-up." Bud is back to being completely still and silent now. Norm basks in a moment of captured quiet, takes a couple slow steps to steady the nervous shakes as he deployed as much charisma as he was capable, "You could just keep me in here, and let Betty send someone else to the surface for a replacement- but those people? The other dwellers? They're built for vault life- they fit in here-"

He wavers a little, a lump forming in his throat- but digresses, "I don't. I'm not strong- but I'm quick, and I'm smart... and, I might be a coward- or I was, once- but I'm beginning to realise this place is no better than whatever might be waiting up there. Nobody really knows what they're doing- not you, not Betty- maybe not even my dad. And I don't want to keep sitting around waiting to die when I could be doing something."- I could be helping Lucy, I should have- "So send me. I'll go find a replacement. I'll bring it back- and then neither you nor Betty will ever see me again. You'll be solving two problems with one stone."

The brain-in-a-vat that is Bud spends a painfully long time just sitting there and glowing, still taking in all that Norm had argued, malfunct in his dilemma between maintaining protocol or deviating from protocol for the sake of maintaining the protocol, honestly upset that he was having to do any deep deliberation at all regarding what he had been informed would be a rather simple and satisfying job. When he makes his decision, it comes with a disappointed, exasperated breath- and then a slow, clumsy spin once again, as he veers himself back into the door terminus access point.

With a blip and a hiss, the door that Norm had believed not too long ago to have sealed his fate begins to steadily unlock itself once again. He cries out with desperate relief and punches the air, before maintaining his composure and striding over to the door. He gets as close as he can, in case his thankfully not forever-friend decides to change his mind last minute. He hears the awful creaking of the vault door opening ahead, and dashes for it without even bothering to say goodbye to Bud- no time to spare, I need to leave now- Betty might not be so stupid. The door rolls to the left, his feet hardly make a sound as they dance across the metal grated platform to freedom-

And falter, pause, reverse a few steps when the figure of Betty Pearson is revealed but a few seconds later, arms crossed, already waiting for the door to roll back open.

Oh god, I think I'm having a heart attack. I think I might just die right now. I think that might be for the best.

...He does not die, and though he is grateful, he is also mildly disappointed that he still has to face Betty. She remains still, silent- her expression does not reveal much surprise at finding him here, but her stasis demands him to speak. Thinking of all she has done to this vault, and what little good she has done for it, he steels himself, and he glares back at her, his tone assertive as he speaks, "I'm going to the surface, and before you say anything-"

"Yes, you're right. You are going to the surface." She replies, steady and quiet,"I-" he is the one to stammer to a standstill this time, "I... am?" She steps towards him, and it takes all his will not to flinch away as a superficially endearing arm firmly braces around his shoulders, guiding him away from Vault 31, "Although at times I'm sure it seems as though I have... overlooked certain hardships that have come to challenge us all in this vault," -'overlooked' is an understatement, and a pretty ironic thing to do when your job title is overseer- "-but I've simply been thinking about the best options for our future. With our friends and family... rehomed, and our guests taken care of, I think it's time we begin dealing with some of our more long-term problems, too." The phrasing sends a chill across Norm's neck, which flows through the rest of his body as Betty guides him around a corner to bear witness to the remaining dwellers of 33, whooping and clapping in celebration for something he did not yet know.

Look closer. He notices the pause, the way they look past him to the overseer before they burst into their frenzied display- there are a couple eyebrows knitted upwards, the faintest flicker of a tear in the corner of an eye or a puffy redness where tears were wiped away to conceal the evidence of a negative emotion.

Some have slanted postures, clap a little slower- don't meet his gaze; they seem guilty of something, guilty of the relief that their body betrays.

Do they already know I'm leaving? How could they, unless-

"As I was telling everyone, Norm selflessly asked me for permission to go out onto the surface and solve our water chip crisis- of course, we do not often open our vault doors, and I felt too close to the matter to feel capable of making the decision myself- especially given the possibility that opening the vault door might threaten our friends in 31 too! So, I sent Norm to speak with Overseer Askins in Vault 31 to see whether he believes that this brave quest should be allowed. Of course, this affects all of us, too- but after talking it through with everyone, we've all agreed that however sad it will be to see you leave us- for a while, of course- it is definitely for the best."

A couple dwellers nod- some intentionally, some just in a lull of subconscious agreement even as their faces feign sadness. It stings to see how fast they were willing to get rid of him- it stings to be let go without a fight. The 'for a while' is simply salt in the wound; insulting to even pretend at this point that anyone in this cramped little gathering genuinely held any belief he would return.

"So!" The overseer pipes up chipperly once again, "Norm..."-not so enthusiastic-"Did you have a productive meeting with the Overseer? Did he give his consent to your proposed assignment?"

He could expose her right now, dismantle the order they had wrought horror and fear to maintain- but he knows he could not lead them, he knows how secretly glad they are to see him, of all people, sacrificed to the world above- he knows they would not survive up there, nor would they survive down here without a figurehead to fall behind, to hide them from reality. So he speaks a truth of kinds:

"The Overseer permitted my leave after I explained the importance of my departure, and how it was the best course of action." His tone lacks conviction in the vague, avoidant choice of words he spews, but a half-hearted cheer and a series of awkward hugs follows them anyway.

It's all just a big show. I'm starting to think I might be the only normal one here.

- °•. ✦ .•° -

A solemn march through the armoury and pharmacy to (ill)equip Norm for his journey through the wastes precedes a long, awkwardly still and quiet elevator ride towards the surface. Norm is the first to step out, bursting ahead into a fast stroll until he found himself standing at the precipice, waiting for the bridge to bring him to his salvation (or his doom). She gets into place-

and lingers, before she presses the button- they are alone now, and they are not so different, really- she just got better at hiding her discontent, "Norman." her voice is different to how he has ever heard it before- it was just... normal. When the calm and collected persona dropped away, she was the most human-sounding person he had yet encountered in his sheltered life. He turns, just his head- makes a point to pay attention, to show some enthusiasm- "You might think you're different, but... being different to most those folks down there is probably more of a good thing than not. You are extraordinary, never forget that. Even without everything that's happened, I think you were always going to be a problem for us. You've always been good at seeing things other people don't."

She pauses for a moment, deliberating on whether or not to bring something up- she chews her cheek, looks off to the side as she weighs up the power of her words- remembers her job, her duty, and the mask goes back on with a sympathetic smile, "We really do need that water chip- our vault has enough water to last about 150 more days, but after that, we'll be out. If you head north-east, ask around and you'll find a place that used to be a town called Shady Sands; it's not exactly close to here, but if it's any motivation I'd bet that's where your sister, Miss Maclean, will have headed too. When you get to Shady Sands, go directly east- I only know of a few vaults outside of ours, and I hear there's an old vault somewhere in the hills there- Vault 13. I'm sure they'll have a water chip to spare. Get the chip back to us, and you'll be a hero to this vault forever..." She certainly makes it sound appealing, but Norman knows better, "...but I'll never be allowed back inside." He finishes the sentence for her.

She hits the button, and Norm finds himself overcome with trembling uncertainty once again. Was he crazy? Just because he wasn't built for vault life didn't mean he was any more suited for the wastelands just beyond the door- the tomb unseals. Once again, a thought occurs to Norm at an inconvenient time- as he tentatively steps towards the radiating light that blinds him from above, he turns a final time to look at his now-former overseer with a quizzical expression, "Does... does Vault 32 not have a water filtration chip?"

Her smile doesn't change, but it takes a sinister feel as her next cheery words come out, tainted and barbed, "I did say our Vault has 150 days of water left- I'm afraid I can't speak for Vault 32, Overseer Harper would know more about that. Unfortunately, until we have a functioning filtration chip of our own, we won't be able to spare any of our own resources. But I'm sure everything will be just fine."

Norman began to run.

#image in my head of 'pick me! choose me! love me!' but its norm screaming 'pick me! choose me! send me!' so he doesnt become buds new bud #greyfics ✰°.• ➸ [ norman maclean ]#greyfics ✰°.• ➸ [ fallout ]#fallout fanfic #norman maclean fanfic #norm maclean fanfic #fallout tv fanfic #fallout series fanfic #norm maclean #norman maclean #fallout fanfics #fallout 1 reference

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dartxo · 6 months ago

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"Proud"

2024

This Pride Month my heart and my thoughts are with Queer Palestinians, whose existence, too inconvenient for Zionist propaganda and western liberal imperialism, has often been minimized, hidden and denied. And yet they exist, and like queer people everywhere, they struggle, they overcome, they love, and they dream.

The state of Israel has gone to great lengths to paint itself as a haven for gay rights in the Middle-east; a bastion of civilized, liberal values in a region filled with barbaric, murderous fanatics. And like most of its propaganda, this argument is based on a complete distortion of reality, if not flat out lies.

Homosexuality has been legal in the West Bank since 1951. Efforts to re-criminalize it or to ban LGBTQ advocacy groups have been successfully opposed by civil society. In Gaza homosexuality is illegal (from a law dating back to the British Mandate, I may add), but it is punishable by imprisonment, not death, and this is rarely enforced. By contrast, homosexuality is legal in Israel, but same-sex marriage is not. The rise of the far-right in recent years has coincided with a spike in homophobic hate crimes. Israel has also a notorious record of blackmailing queer Palestinians into becoming informants, threatening to out them to their relatives if they don't cooperate with the occupation.

All this to say: whatever taboos remain to be overcome by Palestinian society, neither them nor their governments make it a habit or a priority to go block by block, house by house, looking for queer people to round up and kill. And however gay-friendly Israel may seem in comparison to its Arab neighbors, it is far, far from what western liberals have come to expect from a "gay paradise", to say nothing of their treatment of Palestinians, queer or straight. In fact, if anyone seems to be the one going out of their way to target queer people, to use them for their own ends, to threaten them with punishment, it is Israel. They use their own LGBTQ community to pinkwash their crimes, and they weaponize the identities of queer Palestinians to turn them against their own people.

Indeed, queer Palestinians face far, far greater danger and oppression from Israel than from whatever Palestinian government nominally rules over them. I imagine things like Pride flags and Pride parades, same-sex marriage, coming out even, are not the first priorities on ones mind when one has the entire apparatus of a colonial nation-state suffocating them; when there are bombs raining down from the sky, and you don't know if you're going to live, or have a home, or a future. It's frankly absurd to be expected to see the absence of rainbow flags as a greater evil than the bombing of cities, the murdering of families, and the destruction of an entire society...or worse, to use it as justification for such crimes.

Because ultimately, it doesn't matter if the fantasy concocted by Zionist propaganda were true or not. It doesn't matter if Palestine really were a hub for murderous homophobic fanatics, and Israel a wonderful gay utopia: occupation is still wrong, apartheid is still wrong, genocide is still wrong. Period. The cheerleaders of this genocide even undertand this on some level. They use the lack of gay rights in Palestine as justification for the killing, but you never see them apply the same reasoning for homophobia in the West, of which many of its proponents are far more vitriolic and draconian than Palestinians actually are. Yet as always, white western people are given leniency for their crimes, no matter how monstrous, while Palestinians and other racialized societies are savagely punished for their flaws, real or imagined.

My hope for the people of Palestine, queer or otherwise, is for them to be free of the crushing weight of Zionist oppression, and to not let anyone else dictate the terms of their own freedom and their own dreams.

Happy Pride 🏳️‍🌈 and Free Palestine 🇵🇸

#free palestine #from the river to the sea palestine will be free #gaza #art for palestine #lgbtq #pride month #digital art #photoshop #artists on tumblr #mexican artist #autistic artist #dartxo

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thebluemoonjune · 7 months ago

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New Beginnings (Richonne One-shot)

A pregnant Michonne is ready to welcome the new year with her family, Rick, Carl and Judith. She is thankful to where they have reached and hopeful for better days ahead. A New Year's Richonne oneshot. No saviour arc, no Negan.

A joyful new year always began with the sharing of meals and desserts that spoke to people's spirits. Additionally, we shared them with family and friends, demonstrating that our blessings were also theirs.

They called for a home to belong to a community, comfort, food, and safe water. They both required a secure haven for their well-being and for their existence to have meaning: a utopia rather than hell on earth. They owed it to each other and their precious children to fight back against an entity that could devastate everything, that turned friend against friend and separated them in innumerable ways. They were a family and a team that were prepared for the future and now that they had it, they'd protect it. A new year.

A new life does not begin with a gift wrapped in colourful bows and the promise of security, but rather as a path through the unknown with a degree of fog and frost. As a result, it requires a determined heart to seize it, daring feet to traverse it, and a brave sight to remain alert to its curves along with its peaks and valleys. If there were any other way, people would not live such lacking lives from birth to death. To achieve more, one must accept the feeling of danger and risk as one strives for the far distance. The world at large had been devastated and transformed. It had fewer people in it. So many people perished, yet it didn't stop life from going on. As she watched Judith play with Gracey, Michonne stroked her full-term stomach. One day at a time—that's how they took it.

“Did you get the black eye bean?”

“Yep. Now you ain’t gotta rip my head off for it.”

“I’m not that bad!” Michonne watched her husband tilt his head to the side, eyebrows raised to the sky. “Okay, maybe a little, but just a little… My mom used to cook on New Year's for good luck… I want us to start our new year right.”

“Carl always hated beans—beans of any kind.”

“Well, he eating it today. Judith too. No one and I mean no one, is getting off.”

“Yes, ma'am!” He chuckled at her. “You know, you never talked about your mom much, or both your folks for that matter.”

“I never realised…”

“Is it painful?” The couple stared at each other till Michonne broke the silence.

"No, not anymore… My mother was upbeat, opinionated, and the ultimate decider of everyone's life journey... Like any good army drill sergeant, she planned what to do, the schooling, and the fun that followed. Did I ever mention that I was homeschooled?"

"No."

“I was… till I was eleven years old.”

"I could see that. She was a drill sergeant?"

"No, but she acted like one." Michonne laughed, stoking her stomach, before cracking a weary smile. "She was actually a writer; children's books... Strange, huh?"

"Nah... makes perfect sense..." His eyes softened. "She made you."

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment, Rick…”

“It’s a compliment.” He couldn't take his sight off her.

"I hear you… My father did nothing but work: work at his job, work on the house and work on getting enough sleep so he didn't fall asleep on the way to his firm. He inspired me to become a lawyer. He would sometimes grin or laugh, and when he did, the world brightened for those brief minutes. Then he'd fall back into his whirlpool of worry."

“He sounded a lot like my old man.”

“He probably was… They were good parents—not perfect but good enough. That’s all they can hope—that we can hope.”

“We’re doin' fine and we’re gonna do a whole lot better.”

“Alright, whatever you say, old man. Don’t you have to help, Daryl? Don’t keep him waiting.”

“I can cancel, stay with you… Ain’t no big deal.” Pulling her closer, he planted a longing kiss on her lips, causing her to giggle when he finally broke away.

“No, you go. I just have the peas left. By that time, you should be all done and you can fetch Carl from Edith and Judy from terrorising Hershel and Gracey.”

“Soon she’ll have someone else to nag… You sure you’re right? You been out of it since yesterday.”

“I’m fine, Rick you worry too much… They’ll be here soon, any day now. It’s normal.”

“I never thought this would happen again, for us.”

“We deserve it, Rick... A new beginning, as you said… Now go.” Rick planted a kiss on her forehead, then her belly, before she turned from him to continue the preparation of their celebration meal.

“If anything happens, send for me. I’ll come to you as soon as possible, Okay?”

“Go! I send for you.”

Regardless of his wife's words, he couldn’t help but stall and linger at the kitchen exit. She was late in her pregnancy and he wanted to treasure every second till the baby arrived. He was thirsting to be by her side. They never expected to ever have this. He never thought she’d allow herself the chance after all that had happened in the past. However, she gave him one and gave their family one as well. After being hit with a side eye, he managed to make his way to Daryl. When they completed their duty at hand, he fetched Carl and Judith to go home.

…

The family of four placed themselves in their seats for lunch after Michonne snatched Carl to help her set the dining table. Rick took Judith into his lap, knowing that he’d have to feed her since she was even more picky than Carl.

“Since we're here, I think we should say what we’re thankful for… and our hope for the future.” Michonne’s eyes never left her boys for one second. “ Carl?”

“I just want things to be the same as always and I’m thankful we’re all here.”

“Me too, Son.” Grinning at Carl’s answer, Rick leaned over to rub his head.

“Did you say ‘me too’ to not come up with something different, Grimes?”

"Maybe, but I mean it. You know that.”

“Well, I know that… I’m thankful that I found you. I’m thankful for getting me out that day, even if you were an asshole afterwards.”

“In my defence, I didn’t know you well yet, and I still kept you around when I sent the others away. That’s gotta count for somethin', right? After all, we were the same.”

“You didn’t know or trust me, but that didn’t stop you from checking me out, did it?”

“You noticed that?”

“Judith and I are still here, you know?” They both crackled at their son’s embarrassed distaste for the current topic but kept going.

“You not kicking me out is part of the reason I put up with your behaviour.” Rick sighed at her pettiness. “Us being the same and me longing to stay with you guys is another part as well, though I didn’t realise that last part just yet... Carl?”

“Yeah?”

“You and Judybug saved me. You don’t know how much you two did. Thank you for making me one of you and thank you for being my best friend and not letting me chicken out… You gave me a second chance, all three of you and I love you so much for it… What I want is all of you safe and sound and happy, and by my side. The baby included, of course. Thank you for giving me back my family.”

Her eyes welled up with tears of unfathomable affection. The happiness dripped from her eyes and they were soon all overcome with shared emotion. It was such a warm, heart-gripping moment, only disrupted by Michonne's booming grunt of pain. At that moment, she came to face the fact that she’d been having contractions all day. Part of her was in denial, only being focused on celebrating New Year's the right way with her family. She stood up, grabbing the tablecloth, and Rick understood immediately. He knew she was acting weird.

"Carl, go grab Siddiq!”

“It’s happening now?”

“Yeah! Go!”

…

Childbirth has always been risky. It makes little difference that it is natural. It is also quite natural for a mother or baby to die. That is why they had made so much progress in medicine for safe childbirth. Michonne and the infant were in far more danger now that the world had changed. Rick became aware of a massive natural birth occurring at his feet. It had struck him, just now. Panicked and fearful, he still stayed by her side. It was his job as a father and a husband. No matter how hard it was on him mentally, she was having it a thousand times worse. She was the one in pain; she was the one in danger. He sat behind her and supported her back with every push, encouraging her whenever she began to falter.

“Rick!” She cried out in search of unconscious comfort for her partner-in-crime.

“I’m here, darlin'; I’m right here! You’re doing great!”

“Why did I think this would be easier the second time around?”

“Because you’re amazing; that’s why! You’re doin’ great!”

They traverse till the drawing of beautiful angel breath, serenaded by freedom. A sign of their baby's existence.

…

A happy new year was partly about starting again and partly about being grateful for all the blessings that had been granted the previous year. It was a warm welcome to new fortunes and the courage to confront problems gracefully and compassionately. Rick stared at his family as their attention fell to the newest member; his son from his departed first wife and his adopted daughter. They had fought so hard and lost so much to ensure they made it. reminding him of the bad, his mind ran to his dear, long gone friend Hershel, and his words to him,

'Things break, but they can still grow. These little bristles, they'll take root,'.

His wife was spent but she still held a peaceful smile on her face, gawking at their son swaddled in her arms, the first biological child between the two of them. Judith slipped her finger into his outstretched palm and watched as the tiny body curled around it. His gentle breath touched the back of her hand. Her playful day already slipping away as she observed her new brother.

Rick was going to speak again when Carl spoke first.

“We can’t use fireworks to celebrate but we do have the sparklers! It’ll be nice just to have something, right, Judy?”

“Yeahhh!”

“Alright, you two go now. I’ll keep Michonne and the baby company.”

Carl took Judith after she planted a kiss on her new baby brother and off they went. Michonne, feeling her husband’s eyes on her, allows their gazes to meet. They both knew this was what they struggled and fought so hard for. It wouldn’t be easy but year after year, he would make sure his children—all three of them—lived the best life, a full life. Michonne stretched out her hand.

“Rick…” Her words were weary and had a dream-like quality to them, as she seemed to crave the solace of rest, the enticement of the nice bed beckoned to her tired body.

“Darlin, what's wrong? Uncomfortable? Tell me, I’ll get it…” She shook her head, confusing him.

“His name; I have it.”

“Yeah?” His tone was gentle as he lowered his body next to her and she placed their newborn in his arms. “What is it?"

“RJ. Richard Daniel Grimes Junior... Do you like it?”

“I grateful…” Rick's eyes grew damp. He didn’t expect her to name their little boy after him. “You sure?”

“I’m sure… He’ll be as smart, sweet and determined just like his namesake… Just like his dad.”

“Thank you.” Bending over, as he kissed her forehead and whispered into her ear.

“No, thank you.”

#rj grimes #richonne fandom #michonne grimes #judith grimes #carl grimes #richonne #richonne fic #richonne fanfiction #rick x michonne #Rick Grimes #Michonne

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bestworstcase · 5 months ago

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general question that is not ... That ... deep (i think). do you think it matters where characters or their families are from in terms of cultural differences or like world events, like cinder's backstory reveal making the atlas arc more personal for her but also stuff like "sun's from vacuo, so of course he's going to show up in vacuo during that arc of the show" (i must admit i'm asking this because i have a pet theory that summer is from either mistral or atlas and that this informs her role as a paragon and also because when you start counting so many people are from mistral and it adds to the worldbuilding for me)

character origin is absolutely something that narratively matters and in rwby’s case these decisions are being made with imo a lot of intention. for example,

argus was founded prior to the great war as a client city of mistral, having been conquered with help from mantle’s military—thus sealing the alliance between these two powers. this political arrangement persists into the present day with argus still being a mistrali territory but under the protection of the atlas military.

one of the key sources of international tension leading into the great war was vale’s criticism of the mistrali-mantelian reliance on slave labor. from this we may infer that argus was probably built on slave labor and, because it served as a hub for trade between pre-war mantle and mistral, with mistral “providing goods [that were] unavailable in the frozen tundra,” argus was a central hub of the mistrali-mantelian slave trade. the vytal accords ratified by the four kingdoms after the great war abolished slavery worldwide, one of ozma’s greatest achievements; decades later, ozpin lifted atlas into the sky to serve as a shining example of his ideals to the rest of the world.

cinder fall is trafficked into slavery from an orphanage on the outskirts of what appears to be argus, based on the terrain. what does this tell us about cinder and the world she grew up in? slavery was abolished on paper, but mantle (now atlas) and mistral never enforced these new laws in any meaningful way—the industry went underground, likely mutating into new forms (indentured servitude, prison labor, child trafficking fronting as legitimate orphanages), and argus is still the central hub of the international slave trade. this reveals the weaknesses in ozma’s approach to social change (doing and saying things that look and sound right, but failing to actually stand for his notional commitments and allowing problems to fester out of sight rather than risk confrontation / unrest / division) and the rot behind the façade that salem alludes to when she calls this his “so-called free world.”

and so, cinder is in many ways the crowning achievement of ozma’s efforts since the great war—his gilded idealistic utopia, atlas, could only exist through the societal choice to accept the enslavement and torture of a child (and cinder is certainly not the only one, so in this narrative she symbolically represents a multitude of other victims).

<- this is why rewrites / “fixes” that either have her originating in mantle or being enslaved in mistral for all her life tend to lose thematic punch; the underground continuation of the pre-war order is fundamental to what the story is doing with cinder.

similarly, sun is not just from vacuo, he’s a vacuan faunus who went to school in haven, which is in mistral, which is notoriously the most overtly racist kingdom out of the four—token faunus headmaster or not. (mistral has anti-faunus sundown towns and in the CFVY books velvet is terrified specifically of people from mistral because in her experience all of them are virulently bigoted—this is a girl who spent a lot of her childhood in atlas, so her lack of aversion to atlesians says a lot about how bad it is in mistral). so when sun in v1 says stuff like the white fang are a bunch of cultish freaks who use force to get whatever they want, that’s an opinion he formed while living in the racism capital of the world and should be taken with several handfuls of salt, in the same way that blake’s view of the white fang in earlier volumes is clearly colored by her experiences with adam.

<- but at the same time sun functions narratively as a herald for the repair of this cultural problem and healing of the divide between mistral and vacuo, because he’s a vacuan faunus who went to school in mistral, unlearned that bullshit, and went home to vacuo to strive toward a better future.

personally my money is on summer being from either

vacuo (malik the sunderer -> sundered rose, sword of destruction + summer maiden -> summer rose being vacuan), or

mountain glenn (yang and ruby are well-informed on the tragedy, v9 called back to v2’s mountain glenn arc, and signs look pretty strong for the vacuo arc to confront the history with mountain glenn via the destruction of vale)

…both of which follow a similar principle to cinder’s backstory being reserved until v8, when it emerged to inform our understanding of the narrative events happening in atlas. (i know it was originally planned for v5 and time/budget considerations factored into the decision to delay, but narratively it ended up being the stronger choice to wait anyway). basically summer enters the story properly in the arc when her history carries the most weight.

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aroaessidhe · 26 days ago

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read in october

audio favourites

Inara: Light of Utopia - 4

The Crimson Crown - 3.5

Blood Over Bright Haven - 4.25

This World Is Not Yours - 3.5

This Fatal Kiss - 4.25

Graveyard Shift - 4

The Scarlet Throne - 4.25

The Summer Queen - 3.75

The Unfinished - 3.25

The Gods Below - 4

The Brightness Between Us - 4.5

The Hysterical Girls of St. Bernadette’s - 4

Long Live Evil - 4.25

At The Feet Of The Sun - 4.5

Old Wounds - 4

The Ballad of Jacquotte Delahaye - 3.75

Mirrored Heavens - 3.75

Petty Treasons

Metal From Heaven (reread) - 4.75

Those Who Hold The Fire

Clever Creatures of the Night - 3

Don't Let The Forest In - 4.5

gn/comics

Not Even Bones (the webtoon) - 4.5

Our Bones Dust - 3.5

The Worst Ronin - 3.25

nonfiction

Recognising the Stranger: On Palestine and Narrative

#laya reads #hilarious how i read 19 non-audio books last month and this month...4. tbf two of them were really fucking long #(i'm not counting the two novella/ettes)#i've been busy with conventions. that's all.#(the fanfiction relapse has nothing to do with it uhhh don't worry about it)#total: 26 #i read the NEB webtoon over the last 2 months possibly but most of it in october. so counting it as one here

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poisonousquinzel · 2 years ago

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Batman: Urban Legends (2021 - ) #1

Hi, am thinking about Harley and Ivy gardening and setting up Ivy's greenhouse together because they should be allowed to embrace each other's passions and build each other up and help with the other's plans 💖💖 instead of it being an unnecessary sexist and ooc hurdle

(cough @ P*ul D*ni & Br*ce T*mm cough hahahahhahahhahah)

Cause really, Harley would love doing anything with Ivy and would 1000% count gardening with her as dates. It's daily dates! 💞🥺

She loves everything about her enchanting, plant obsessed lady. Ivy sees cool moss and is like !! Moss!! ❤️❤️ And Harley matches her enthusiasm not cause she loves moss but because she loves Ivy. And Ivy being happy and excited about something inherently is gonna make Harley happy because she loves it when her partners are thriving.

If she can help in that, she jumps at the chance. She may mess up and get distracted, but she loves and listens and notes what little things makes them tick because they're special to her.

Harley Quinn: Make 'em Laugh (2020-) #2 "Housewarming"

Like this!!! More of this!! She knew that the Bonsai tree was something Ivy would want to save if she went there and she knew it was something that would be in better hands in the care of Ivy anyway. And then in the end, even though she wasn't able to obtain the tree because of the guard robot, her snake swallowed a couple of rare seeds and hacked them up on Ivy's floor. A bit gross, sure, but Ivy's delighted!

"These--These are gargantua seeds! Some of the rarest in the world! Stolen from their rightful homes centuries ago, and all but extinct! Genuine man-eating trees! This is better than anything I could have dreamed of! Thank you!"

Lots of exclamation points when you write out the dialogue but skdjsksks like they're just so 💖💞💖💞💖 special to me

Omg and the "My Harls" 💞💞💞

And the loveliest "Garden" trope of them all for Harlivy, the Paradise/Eden/Utopia 💖🤌 my Fucking Beloved,,,, I've posted the bits here 💖 but like these ones ?!?

Batman (2016) #97

"She built this paradise for me in a cave system under the park, after a rough time with Mr. J... I wasn't ready to let go of him then, but he'd poisoned me....

This was kinda sorta my rehab clinic. That's why I wanted to bring you here."

"Ivy's usual rules are No Clothes In Eden, but I don't think you and I have that kind of relationship.

And if any of these plants have her residual personality, they'd probably try harder to eat you.

This is where I used to go with her to get my brain in order. To a point, anyways..."

Like the months they probably spent together throughout the years in Eden, their own secret safe haven, a place that Ivy would take her when she needed to get away from it all. And the way she says "if any of these plants have her residual personality, they'd probably try harder to eat you."

the plants probably reacted to Ivy's emotions whenever they were there before, there together. Just the two of them, nude, vulnerable and completely and utterly alone besides the other, far far beneath the world above.

Just the idea of casual vines, grass and ferns brushing lovingly against Harley's legs and arms as they walk together, a perfectly bloomed flower and it's stem wrapping around her bicep.

The two of them spending each night together in the bud of a rose Ivy grew, entrained and intertwined for warmth and comfort. The two of them gently washing each other's backs in the river, skinny-dipping in the dark and getting lost in the feeling of each other's skin against their own.

Ivy creating this perfect escape for them where they didn't have to worry about anything, money, food, cruel and vindictive ex's.

"Trying to cut my throat open was one thing, but then you come to burn down the only place I still like in this stupid city?" Batman (2016) #98 And if Harley ever did get too cold, if they happened to venture down in the colder months, the No Clothes Rules could always be fudged to mean no Human World clothes. She could craft her clothes just like she makes her own outfits.

But, really, they both enjoy the freedom and intimacy that comes from being fully exposed and naked around each other, the inherent vulnerability and trust.

And Harley always feels okay and loved in her presence, never feels like she needs to cover up her body, because Ivy has and would never make jokes about her body (she's not him.)

And Ivy's affection and sometimes shy nature when it comes to that direct deceleration is always evened out by the connected plants easy nature to show exactly how she's feeling. Like,, If she feels nervous about holding Harley's hand, well she better get on it because those pretty ferns that look purple and blue in the right light will not stop wrapping around her and tickling Harley's palms.

Even in the night, they'll wake up curled together, most of the time in the spooning position, but Harley always has a little visitor or two attempting to warm her alongside Ivy. It makes Ivy flush every time as she wills them away, but Harley loves it and she treasures the fact that Ivy trusts her so much, and loves her so deeply that her connection to the plant life around them is tuned in to the sheer overwhelming emotion she feels towards and about Harley every time she lays eyes on her silly little clown.

Harley wouldn't mention it, but she'd know. She is trained to notice those things 💞

Like, y'all, I am totally a-okay sobs hysterically

#harley quinn #harleen quinzel #poison ivy #pamela isley #harlivy #dc comics #they make me FERAL #EMOTIONAL #DISTRAUGHT AT THE PURE AND UNHINGED ROMANCE OF IT ALL #the way that comic harlivy could easily be one of the best love stories ever told if someone would just get the rights #and write out their story from beginning to end so people wouldn't get so damned confused about it cause really #its fucking 💞💕💖💕💖💕💕💖💕💖💕💖💕💖💕💖💕💕💖💕💖💕💞💕💖💕💖 perfection #the growth and overcoming trauma?!? the reluctant friends to Best Friends for Years to Lovers #the ups and downs but in the end always coming back and growing stronger and healthier because of their bond #and their want and desire to be with one another #👌💖👌👌💖👌💖👌👌💖👌💖👌👌💖👌💖#that's some good shit right there #mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah #like its actually such a great love story about a couple of traumatized sapphic women overcoming and growing and healing and i just #i love them so much and i feel like they get reduced so easily to just such a simple and tbf boring arc #that just doesn't capture the lengths and bounds that they've gone through together.#and i think a lot of people that're only getting into them / finding out about them through the Animated HQ show #are really only getting the like last 20% of their pre established arc and then get into the comics and are confused or put off #because they're more than just a quick friends to lovers arc.#the friends arc lasted so long for them and it had so much development and growth in it #like in BTAS alone it was at least 7 years for Harley. and that's just them being friends.#there's a lot of trauma on both sides and the healing process isn't just a nice simple one #that gets patched up because Harley's ex is now running for Mayor. (no i haven't fucking forgiven them 🔪🔪🔪🔪)#tw abuse mention #♢ meta & analysis ♢

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