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americasass81 · 3 years

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Because You Loved Me

Warnings:- Mentions of Surgery, Mental and Emotional Exhaustion, Very Brief Mention of Drugging, Fluff, M & F Smut (more implied than outright described). Do not read if any of these warnings are upsetting. Feedback is welcomed.

By proceeding you are acknowledging that you are over 18 and are consenting to the content below the cut.

Synopsis:- Feeling low from the grind of daily life, your man tries his best to bring a little light back to your life.

A/N:- Though not a sequel, in my mind this can take place in the same AU as my other Brock fic, Peeling Back The Layers. Yet both can be read independently of each other. Written with @saiyanprincessswanie in mind but at the same time it is still a pretty generic pile of fluff. Hope you like Missy.

Word Count:- 3,165

You were exhausted . . . mentally, emotionally, physically. You ached deep down in places you never knew you could and the more you thought about it, the more exhausted you became. As the night's respite gave way to morning's light, your first thought always seemed to be 'how do I face another day?' Yet somehow you always found a way. Despite the knocks life kept sending your way and the weariness weighing down your soul, you were at heart a positive person and was determined to embrace the good things in life no matter how hard that may be.

With that thought in your head, you dragged your feet out of bed and making your way to the bathroom, used the facilities and showered under the warm, refreshing water before returning to your bedroom to get ready for the day ahead. Heading to the kitchen to make a quick breakfast you ate in silence as you waited for Brock to show up. Thinking back on the almost six months since that fateful day he came to your rescue, it had been one adventure after another.

Despite all your health issues and the unpleasant grind of daily life, this gruff looking man had become a balm for your slowly fracturing soul. Taking you places you never thought you'd see, while telling you he loved you every chance he got, you still wondered what you had done in this life or any other to deserve him.

Finishing up your food, you deposited the bowl in the sink and thought about what you might do for the day, but found you couldn't really find the motivation. Instead, taking the latest mystery novel you were reading, you headed out to the back garden to hopefully relax and catch up on another chapter. Getting a few pages in however, you suddenly dropped the book in your lap as tears inexplicably cascaded down your cheeks.

Feeling lower than you had in a really long time, you were shocked to open your eyes to discover yourself nestled against a strong chest as two powerful arms wrapped around you. "My love, why do these tears stain your beautiful cheeks?" Brock asked and you had to smile a bit at the fact that what should have sounded cheesy actually sounded sweet. "I hate seeing you like this," he added before you could answer, "please tell me what's wrong."

Looking at the man who had come to mean so much to you in such a short space of time, you snuggled deeper into his chest as you thought about all the negative thoughts weighing on your soul. Looking up at him eventually as he waited patiently for you to speak, you took a deep breath and thought carefully about what you wanted to say.

"I don't really know Brock, I guess I just feel like one raw, emotional nerve. The world seems so full of needless hate, my upcoming surgery has me scared and exhausted and sometimes I don't know why you're here with me or what I even have to offer this world." you explained and it hurt him deeply that the girl who saw so much good in him and helped awaken and nurture it, was now questioning her own worth.

Taking time to dry your tears, this powerhouse of a man who never thought he would be worthy of anything waited until he was sure you had talked yourself out before speaking. "Oh my love, please know that while your feelings are valid and you have every right to be exhausted, you are also a shining light in the darkest night."

Gazing down at you with more love than he ever thought he was capable of feeling, he bent forwards and kissed you tenderly, hoping to convey all the emotion his heart held for you. Continuing to hold you a while longer, he soon found you fast asleep in his arms and so taking you inside, placed you lovingly on the bed before heading to the bathroom to clean up. Looking at himself in the mirror he hoped with every fiber of his being he would be able to find his sweet, beautiful girl again and bring her home.

Returning to the bedroom to dress quickly and quietly, he placed a soft kiss against your forehead and whispered he loved you before heading to the living room to make good on his plan. Knowing that you always put everyone before yourself and that you didn't like to put people out, he also knew that a break back in nature was just what you needed. Arranging everything with an old friend, all he had to worry about now was moving you from a to b without you objecting.

Hearing you stirring around the bedroom some time later, he hurried in and told you that if you were feeling up to it he'd take you to your favorite restaurant, otherwise he'd happily cook for you and come up with some way to help you relax. Looking at him like he'd suddenly grown two heads, you blurted out the question on your lips before you could stop yourself. "Are you telling me you know how to cook? Something other than tea and toast?"

Smirking at your cheek to cast aspersions on his cooking ability, he swiftly traversed the space between you and taking you gently in his arms, kissed you with a passion that all but took your breath away before speaking as he ran his hands along your back. "How are you doing baby? Did the rest help any bit?"

Sinking into his warm and loving embrace, you wondered what you had done right to end up with this loving and thoughtful man. Sure some people still saw him as a gruff outsider, but to you he was your rock. Someone you knew in the depths of your soul would gladly take on your suffering if it meant you got to live a life free of pain and worry. Concerned by your non response, he moved a hand to your chin and cupping it gently, gazed into your ethereal features while he waited for you to find your voice.

"Yeah, some bit." you replied meekly, taking his hand and kissing his palm before bringing your fingers together. "I don't know. I just wish I could get away from it all for a while. Somewhere the stress and worry of being me wouldn't follow. Crazy right?"

"No baby," he said, walking both of you towards the bed before sitting down and placing you in his lap, "that's not crazy at all. Your battery's probably running on empty. What you need is a few days away from the world."

"Yeah right Brock and how can that happen?” you laughed, swatting him playfully on the arm. “I have doctor's appointments out my ass and you have work commitments. It's a nice dream, but that's all it is." you sighed, resting your head against his shoulder as he hummed some unknown song against your skin. "By the way, did you mention something about food?" you asked suddenly and you both laughed as a very unladylike sound rumbled through your stomach.

"I did," Brock answered between snickers, "but something tells me even if I didn't, my girl needs rations." Then releasing you and walking hand in hand to the kitchen he sat you down at the table and went about preparing a glorious meal. Finally filling you up with wine, pasta and brownies from your favorite bakery, he coaxed you onto the couch with a good book while he began cleaning the kitchen and by the time he was finished you were once again fast asleep and he could begin implementing his plan.

Moving swiftly and stealthily around the house with the skill only someone in his previous profession could master, he packed a bag of essentials for each of you, threw them in the back seat and then lifting you gently, carried you to the car and secured you in place. While he had thought about drugging you to make sure you slept through the drive, he knew you wouldn't appreciate that and so offered up a silent plea that you wouldn't wake until morning. Then setting off into the night, he hoped the next few days would recharge your battery and reignite your dimming light.

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Waking up the next morning to a warm body at your back, which had become the norm since Brock Rumlow entered your life, you worried you had actually lost your mind as you opened your eyes to be greeted by a room that wasn't your own. Further cementing your out of body experience, you pulled back the covers to reveal that you were currently wearing your favorite comfy sleepwear when your last conscious memory was falling asleep on the couch after dinner. Looking now between your surroundings and your boyfriend, you quickly realized some major shenanigans were at play and taking a pillow, proceeded to start whacking the sleeping giant beside you.

"Brock? Hey Brock? RUMLOW." you eventually shouted while bringing the pillow down with as much force as you could muster. "What the hell is going on here?" you asked as he opened his eyes and stared up at you.

"Baby, keep it down. It's still early." he whined, reaching out to pull you down gently against his waiting body. Kissing every available inch of skin his lips could find, he carefully and easily rolled over you, removed your shorts as he rested between your legs and proceeded to eat you out twice until you were nothing more than a blissed out mess beneath him. Then leaving the bed to retrieve a cloth, he cleaned you up while you questioned what was to be done with the prominent bulge hidden within his boxers.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about that baby. This trip is all about helping you unwind. Now how about we get up, have some breakfast and I can show you around?"

Agreeing half-heartedly as your eyes still lingered on his crotch, he promised he might let you cop a feel at some point. Laughing at his crass choice of language, having just brought you to two of the most pleasurable orgasms you could ever remember experiencing, he helped you out of bed and handed you a duffle bag before reaching for what you could only assume was his own. Pulling open the zipper, you were both surprised but not, when you discovered a few days worth of clothes inside. Taking out some jeans and a t-shirt you dressed in time to see Brock put away his bag and reach out his hand for yours.

Opening up the bedroom door, he explained the bathroom connected to both the bedroom and the living room, while the kitchen made up the rest of the cottage. Allowing you out the front door while he made a start on breakfast, you discovered the cottage called Daisy Grove, was aptly named given that the cottage was indeed surrounded on either end by the most beautiful patches of wild daisies you had ever seen.

Watching the birds flying and nestling in the trees all around you, you took a few tentative steps off the porch along the scrub lined path and relished the sound of twigs and leaves underfoot as nature sang as far as you could hear. Totally engrossed in your own world, you were unaware of a keen set of eyes now following you from the door as Brock watched you slip away into a space that brought joy to your heart and a lightness to your spirit.

Hating to drag you away from the one thing that seemed to bring you peace, you turned back sharply towards the door as Brock called your name. "Breakfast is ready, my love. Perhaps after we've eaten I can introduce you to the treasures awaiting you out the back door. Running carefully back to your man, you threw yourself into his strong arms and all but squealed as he picked you up and carried you inside.

Sitting you at the table as he plated up the food, he tried to eat as best he could as you juggled between eating your own breakfast and firing any question you could think of at him. Enjoying how invested you were in the wonderful property you currently inhabited, you having to take a sip of juice as you nearly choked was enough of a risk for the former soldier. "Baby please, I say this with the utmost respect, but shut up." he laughed as your breathing returned to normal and you playfully stuck out your tongue at him. "I promise I'll answer any more questions you have once we finish eating."

Nodding in agreement, the rest of breakfast was eaten in silence until Brock got up to clear the table and your questions began again. "Where did you find this place? How long are we staying? What is there to do around here?" Oh that last question he answered with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

"What we're going to do here is everything and anything that calms your soul, warms your heart and makes your spirit soar. In short, all the things you've done for me." Smiling now as he took your hand and led you out the back, your eyes widened when you saw the river waiting before you. Though totally unsure about the boat Brock pointed to, you placed your trust in him and was pleasantly surprised when a wonderful, relaxing day was had.

Treating you then to a wonderful dinner, the rest of the evening was spent relaxing in front of an open fire with a sappy romantic comedy before Brock carried your tired form back to bed, where allowing his cock to get reacquainted with your pussy, you once again had a gloriously peaceful sleep.

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Facing the world anew at sunrise, the next few days were everything Brock had promised and you couldn't remember when you last felt so well rested. Feeling so carefree at this moment in your life as a result of the routine your wonderful man had set up, waking you up every morning with his mouth attached to your pussy, your days were then spent leisurely walking through the surrounding area, enjoying boating and Brock fishing on the river along with foot rubs, reading or watching various rom coms.

Then once he had you properly fed on spaghetti with wine and brownies or steak with baked potato and chocolate chip cookies after, he would ensure that one way or another your world was rocked before sleep claimed you. You even remembered the fun that was had on your last day when Brock had tried unsuccessfully to get you to eat some of the fish the river had provided.

Telling him in no uncertain terms that you would not eat anything you had watched him kill while in the middle of baking brownies and cookies together, half an hour later as a glorious smell filled the cottage and Brock's solid shaft filled your pussy, you finally discovered the real fun that could be had baking together.

When he finally had you satisfied and removed the delicious treats out of the oven, Brock informed you he was going to do a quick sweep of the property before you left in the morning. Snuggling into the couch with a good book, that was exactly where Brock found you an hour later when he finally returned to the cottage. "Hey baby, you still where I left you?" Brock called out as he closed the door behind him.

Looking into the living room before you had a chance to answer, he was indeed rewarded with you stretched on the couch bathed in the glow of the firelight. Swearing that he had never in his life seen anything so heavenly, he sauntered into your presence with a sly smirk on his face and his hands hidden behind his back. "Hey Brock, you were gone quite a bit. Is everything alright?"

"Everything's perfect baby. Everything's tied up or put away as it should be, I just had to pick up something for you," and he couldn't hide the grin that graced his features as you suddenly sat up eager to see what he had for you. "Now keep in mind it's nothing fancy, but it made me smile and think of you." he continued and with that he produced a beautifully woven circle of daisies.

Looking at him as he sat down beside you and placed it over your head, your eyes then fell on the flowers before speaking. "It's beautiful Brock, but what is it?"

"It's a daisy chain baby. Stronger than shackles and chains, it ties you to me forever. Just like mine ties me to you," and with that he removed the t-shirt to reveal the chest you just now realized he had strategically kept covered since before this trip began. The reason for this soon seared itself into your memory, when there above his heart was a tattoo of the same daisy chain you now wore, but in its center nestled your name. Trailing his lips along your neck as they made their way towards your ear, his next words brought you to tears. “Forgive my lips.” he whispered between pecks. “They find joy . . . in the most unusual places.”

"Oh my god Brock, you are such a dork." you sniffled as you reached out and ran our fingers over the ink. Kissing your lips passionately once again before resting his forehead against yours, he knew he would do whatever he had to to maintain the light once more shining in your eyes.

Still watching you play with the daisies, he quickly answered your playful statement before laying you down on the rug beside the fire. "We both know I may be a dork my love, but I'm only your dork." he said, as he then proceeded to spend the night pulling you apart multiple times on his mouth, fingers and cock. Thoroughly fucked and covered in sweat, cum and various parts of each other's bodies you closed your eyes and drifted off towards the approaching morning.

Rising before you once again, Brock set about loading everything back into the car before walking into the living room to wake you up. Helping you from the rug and guiding you into the bathroom, a gloriously hot shower and Brock's skillful hands worked out all the knots sleeping on the floor had given you before breakfast filled the void in your stomach. Then reluctantly driving away from your little retreat knowing he had to take you home so could face what lay ahead, he drew comfort from the fact that for the past few days you had once again been his beautiful north star, burning bright with the energy needed to conquer whatever your illness and life threw at you.

Tagging: @saiyanprincessswanie

#soft!brock rumlow x reader

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atmilliways · 3 years

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I was channeling exhausted Charles a little hard, because gd is moving tiring... I know I have some messages I should really get to answering, and I promise that will happen soon.

Anyway, happy belated birthday, @insomniac-pens!

Charles is couch surfing against his will; Emeto mention; Implied/Referenced Drug Use; Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism; Early klok

C'mon, Charlie, Stay

There was, for a brief period, a time when Charles was between apartments due to an unfortunate infestation problem that had allowed him to break his lease early. It allowed him to lease a much better place, closer to both his office and the new band he was managing, but with one catch: it wouldn’t be available for him to move in for another six weeks.

To his surprise, once the band found out about this they flat out refused to leave him alone until he agreed to crash on their couch. No amount of pointing out that he had the money to just stay in a hotel until his move-in date seemed to sway them. So, he dutifully shelled out his hotel money to pay for Dethklok’s apartment to be professionally cleaned and the couch reupholstered, and that was that.

Except, dear god, when did these men sleep.

Charles tried to think of them as men, but frankly it got harder the longer he stayed with them. Murderface had only recently turned twenty-one, and Nathan and Toki were still technically underage; that didn’t stop them or Skwisgaar or Pickles from constantly partying themselves stupid.

In the very living room (which they also used for band practices) where he was trying to sleep.

The last straw was when they gave Toki shrooms for the first time and he puked all over the coffee table, including the glasses that Charles had carefully folded and placed there before settling in for the night. Without a word of complaint or reprimand, he was simply up and packed and dressed enough to drive to the nearest hotel, because this was clearly not working.

“Dood dood dood, where’re ya going?” Pickles gabbled, dragging on the manager’s arm as he tried to head out of the front door.

“To get a hotel room, a hot shower, and a good night’s sleep,” Charles replied, although personally he felt that this should have been obvious.

“But you can do all that here!”

Charles sighed, resettling his duffle bag on his shoulder. “Thank you, Pickles, but we both know it’s, ah, only a matter of time before I get vomited on, and cleaning my glasses off was unpleasant enough.”

As if on cue, there were more retching sounds from further inside the apartment, followed by shouts and whoops of “He got the couch,” “That’sch twenty points,” and “Directs hits, everiesones does to takes the drink-shots!”

Pickles grimaced. “Okay, so maybe the kid wasn’t ready for caps. That’s my bad, I’m sahrry. But dood, you should still stay. . . .” He trailed off, looking around with a kind of urgent disappointment that Charles had only previously seen when the drummer was trying to find a misplaced stash. Then, with an uncertain grin, he added, “You can, uh, you can stay in my room if ya want.”

“Ah. . . .” Charles blinked. He was very, very tired, and not entirely sure he’d heard that correctly. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s got a door’n everything,” Pickles continued, obviously warming to the idea as soon as he saw that Charles wasn’t rejecting it outright. “You can even have the bed, I can ride the floor. Which I can actually see again now, thanks again for hirin’ those cleaners, dood! And I think I can even find ya some clean sheets and stuff. C’mon, Charlie, stay.”

So, soon afterward, Charles found himself back in his pajamas. They were just the t-shirt and boxers that he’d thrown a jacket and slacks over to leave, really, which by his temporary housemates’ standards apparently made him a prude. He was also swaddled in clean sheets and blankets on Pickles’ bed, as promised, and Pickles had receded back out to the party with a vague, Sleep tight, dood. Despite the lumpiness of the mattress Charles was actually quite comfortable and, with the door closed and the lights off, fairly well insulated against the noise of the band’s continued revelry.

He was asleep within seconds.

Some time later Charles woke not to loud noise or something landing on him, but because he had to pee. Not bothering to find his glasses or slippers in the dark (though he was wearing socks; he wasn’t an animal), he slipped out of bed and shuffled towards the door��

His foot connected with something warm and soft, possibly a stomach, and someone groaned, “Oof.”

“Shit,” Charles muttered. He groped along the nearby wall for a light switch. “Ah . . . Pickles, is that you?”

The lights snapped on harsh and bright, and it was indeed Pickles curled up on the floor, red dreads spayed out like fireworks against the dingy carpet, without even a pillow or blanket. “Yeeeeeeah?” Pickles replied blearily, squinting up at him.

Charles sighed. The last thing they needed was Pickles unable to play gigs because he’d tweaked his back or neck sleeping on the floor—although, in the short time he’d known the man, Charles had seen him passed out in worse positions. Still, couldn’t be too careful while Dethklok was still starting out.

“Get in bed,” Charles told him.

“Nnnn.” Pickles rubbed clumsily at his eyes and swiped and the drool that had collected on his goatee. “You get the bed, couch’s fucked fer now. . . .”

It was only a twin-sized mattress. Charles squinted back at it, then gave a mental shrug. “We’ll share. Just get in, I’ll, ah, be right back.”

He stepped over Pickles and headed for the bathroom. Both the toilet and sink were splattered liberally with vomit, enough that he doubted it had all come out of Toki. He hadn’t smelled any on the man he’d just invited to bunk with him, which . . . was all Charles had the energy to care about, at the moment. He sighed again and just pissed in the bathtub, because fuck it, he was still half asleep.

When he returned, Pickles had already burrowed into the blankets in the dead center of the bed. Not in the mood to be deterred, Charles turned the light off and wedged himself into the available free space on the mattress.

“Mmmhey,” Pickles mumbled drowsily somewhere near his shoulder.

“Scoot over,” Charles grumbled back, and when he got no response gave another shove with his hip. That seemed to get the message across because Pickles did scoot, squirming over and turning into him, clinging to Charles’ arm.

“‘S cold over here,” Pickles offered in explanation. He was pressed close all along the other man’s side, mouth closer to his ear in the darkness; his breath smelled of whiskey, cigarettes, and reefer. “‘Mglad you stayed, Charlie. Hotels fuckin’ suck . . . this is better, isn’t it?”

“Hm,” Charles hummed. All he really wanted to do was settle in and go back to sleep—although the warmth of a body next to his was nice. The hint of smoke was nice too, despite it having been years since he’d given it up himself. Lulling. Like a steady surf washing over him, pulling back, washing over him again. His eyes drifted closed and he felt himself relax, sinking into the mattress as far as the uneven springs would allow.

Then, a warm press of lips against his, so soft and tentative that at first he thought it was a dream—he often dreamed that way, slipping from real to unreal so quickly the change was imperceptible. And if it was a dream, why not kiss back? Charles let his lips part, turning into it, that warmth, placidly enjoying the gentle scratch of facial hair against his own clean shaven face.

It was the arm suddenly draped over him that gave him pause. That felt real, a solid palm splayed as near to the small of his back as it could get while he still lay mostly flat. A body leaning flush into his, silently crying out for closeness. Pickles.

Pickles tasted like a shot of Fireball in a dim, crowded bar.

Charles blinked his eyes open, breaking the kiss with a hand on the man’s shoulder. A client. A boss, if the band ever made it as big as he was determined to ensure they would. This was a huge breach in his personal code of professionalism.

“Charlie?” Pickles whispered, and it sounded so much like a plea (I want you, I need you, please don’t stop) that Charles gave his shoulder what hopefully came across as a reassuring squeeze.

“Pickles,” he murmured gently, “you’re drunk. I’m, ah, not sure this is a good—”

“I’m always drunk,” Pickles interrupted, mumbling petulantly.

True enough. Charles just hoped the fame and fortune would kick in before lover failure, for all the guys. Boys, really, playing around with their music and drugs and anyone they could get into bed with them. . . . Case in point.

He just wished he wasn’t so damn tired. Or at least that he was awake enough to handle this situation with the delicacy it deserved, because he hesitated, and sensed instinctively that Pickles noticed.

Still, he said, “Regardless, I don’t, ah, think this is a good idea.”

“So? Make a bad decision fer once, gahd.” Then Pickles kissed him again, throwing a leg over his manager for good measure and crowding into him once more with an urgent but surprisingly slow rhythm.

Charles had only known Pickles for several months—personally, anyway, but he wasn’t about to admit to being a Snakes N Barrels fan back in the day now—and had seen his usual approach to getting into someone’s pants. It usually involved lots of smiling, suggestive looks, wandering hands, and friendly offers to share whatever drugs he had on hand at the time.

Not once had he turned those attempts at charm towards Charles. He’d been insistent, stubbornly helpful, and . . . nervous. Even now, there was a fluttery quality to his grip, as though he expected to be pushed away more than anything else. Charles wasn’t very good at reading this sort of thing, and was only catching up on all this in retrospect, but Pickles seemed to be acting as though this actually mattered or something.

And Charles was tired, and it felt nice. Warm and comfortable. Pickles was drunk; maybe he wouldn’t remember by morning.

He let himself kiss back, and by the time he fell asleep again it was with an uncharacteristic smile on his face.

#metalocalypse #pickles/charles #chuckles #chickles #my fanfiction #earlyklok #charles foster offdensen #pickles the drummer

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lachlanwrites · 3 years

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Black market hormones: How red tape is forcing a trans generation to self-medicate

HORMONE THERAPY: Treatment for trans people in the UK is woefully inadequate, forcing many to consider risky alternatives

Lachlan Mykura reports on the difficulties of treatment for transgender people, documenting his own experiences and the bureaucracy surrounding them.

Transgender issues have long been a source of controversy and debate. In recent years, these issues have come under the spotlight. Younger generations are more able to explore their gender, and the concept of a strict binary is being slowly replaced with a far more fluid and flexible umbrella.

Not everyone who is transgender will transition medically, but for those who do it can be an arduous process bogged down by bureaucracy. While it is important to note that those who choose not to transition, or have no desire to transition, are valid, this article will specifically focus on the people that do.

I am Lachlan Mykura, and I am FTM - female to male transgender. My transition has been marked by wait times, delays, gatekeeping and uncertainty, so I did what a growing number of transgender people are doing. I decided to start taking hormones without a prescription.

To understand why I, and many other trans people do this, we need to look at the system and its failures. There are currently seven NHS gender identity clinics (GIC’s) in the UK, with plans for three more in Manchester, London and Merseyside. In 2015 there were 1,408 referrals to these clinics. In 2020 there were 2,728. With only seven clinics for thousands of referrals, wait times for NHS GIC’s have skyrocketed, and many clinics no longer publish their times, estimated to be years. Indeed, many of them seem to have completely ground to a halt.

One such clinic, The Laurels in Exeter, has 2,592 people currently on its waiting list, and yet saw only 2 people in 2020. One patient has been on the list for nearly 6 years, 17 times the NHS legal guideline of 18 weeks.

Many GP’s are uneducated or unused to trans issues, and don’t know the proper procedures for referring patients on to a GIC. I found this myself when I was beginning to consider medical transition, with one GP outright telling me they didn’t know how to help me.

Nearly a year later I managed to get a referral, and my waiting game began.

These wait times add to an already time sensitive process. Transgender people under 18 cannot go to most GIC’s. Tavistock is currently the only GIC that will see underage patients, and even getting to this clinic before you become 18 is a struggle.

Although transition can be successful at any age, the younger you start medical transition, the better the results are likely to be, especially for male to female (MTF) patients. By the time you can start hormones on the NHS, you will likely have gone through puberty entirely, and will have the sex characteristics of your assigned gender at birth (AGAB).

The NHS is a clumsy beast when it comes to gender care, and with the rapidly rising number of referrals, it may fall even further behind.

The NHS is also not currently very supportive of non-binary people looking to transition. A diagnosis of gender dysphoria is necessary to start hormones, and while the NHS has become more accepting of non-binary identities in recent years, some non-binary people may struggle to meet the criteria.

If you don’t want to wait for NHS treatment then there is the option for private treatment. In the UK this comes in the form of two providers, Gendercare and GenderGP.

Gendercare is a private network of doctors, and is staffed by some of the most experienced gender specialists in the UK. Unfortunately, this means it also has a price tag to match. Each of the doctors working at Gendercare set their own prices, but most tend to be around £300 for an initial appointment, and then £150 for follow ups, which are necessary to start on hormones.

GenderGP is a cheaper alternative, although the quality of treatment they offer is arguably worse. They are a telemedicine service, working on a system of ‘informed consent’. This means that during their consultations, they will tell you about any possible risks and effects of the treatment, but the end choice to start hormones is down to you. They don’t require any formal diagnoses. On paper, this sounds like an excellent choice, and I originally decided to go with them, paying my £65 initial appointment fee and talking to one of their psychologists.

However, GenderGP is not the most reputable service. Doctors Helen and Mike Webberly, the couple who started the service, have both been struck off by the GMC for providing hormones and puberty blockers to those under 18. This gave me cause for concern, but having seen firsthand the politicization of trans treatments, especially for those under 18, I thought that this wasn’t enough for me to stop using their services. The nail in the coffin for GenderGP came in October 2020, when their pharmacy, ClearChemist, said that they would no longer be working with GenderGP. This put GenderGP’s ability to prescribe hormones in jeopardy. Even though their services were cheaper, faster and accessible online, I didn’t know if they could fulfil what they promised. I decided to switch to Gendercare instead.

“The NHS is a clumsy beast when it comes to gender”

TESTOGEL: One of the forms of hormone treatment available to FTM transgender people.

I contacted two of the doctors working for Gendercare, who I thought would have the shortest wait times. One of them said that he could not accept me as a patient, and the other said that he could offer me an initial appointment in January 2021. Progress.

This January appointment would be followed up by another appointment or two with one of Gendercare’s endocrinologists. I would have paid around £1000 without even being sure I could get a prescription. As a student, I had more important things to spend money on, like instant ramen and rent.

I was sitting with friends one evening and the topic came onto hormones. I was lamenting the trials and tribulations of transgender treatment in the UK when one of the friends I was with, another trans man, piped up “I could give you my spare bottle.”

Bingo.

I thought about the prospect for a while, I knew people who took testosterone without a prescription and their transitions were going well. However, I was really nervous about it, I had no way of knowing my hormone levels, I wouldn’t have a consistent supply and, well, it just wasn’t a very good idea.

I did it anyway.

A few weeks of soul searching later I realised that I had known I was trans since I was a young teenager. I had been sitting on these feelings, hoping they would ‘go away’ or second guessing myself as to whether or not I was ‘really trans. But they hadn’t. They had stuck like toilet paper on a shoe throughout my teenage years and into my twenties. My excuses of waiting until I was an adult had no weight, after all, I was an adult now. Years of waiting, doctors appointments, and questioning and now here I was, being offered hormones on a silver platter over a glass of wine. I had to take it.

I had no way of knowing my hormone levels, I wouldn’t have a consistent supply and, well, it just wasn’t a very good idea. I did it anyway.

Gel is, in my opinion, the easiest and best way to take testosterone, the other popular one being injection. Gel is a daily application which means that your hormone levels don’t suffer from the same rises and falls that weekly injection causes. However, with these smaller doses comes slower changes, on average.

I wasn’t too worried about this, since I didn’t really want incredibly quick changes when I had no access to a specialist to help monitor my levels. Injections are also cheaper than gel, but I didn’t need to worry about that, after all, I was getting mine for free. Besides, even if I didn’t hate needles, I wasn’t about to go injecting myself with drugs unless a doctor had told me to.

In order for trans men to do their injections, they need to be shown how to by a nurse, generally at their first appointment. If done wrong, injecting testosterone can cause pain, swelling, and infection.

The gel I use is called Testogel. Testogel dosage is measured by pumps, the bottle is designed so that each pump will give the exact same amount of gel. I started on one pump, since I wanted to stretch out the amount of gel I had for as long as I could. I didn’t know if I would be able to get another one on time, and I was fully aware that I was relying only on the generosity of my friend.

The changes have, as expected, come rather slowly. I have been on testosterone for around a month and a half now, and, unfortunately, I’m no closer to resembling Chris Hemsworth or Zac Effron than I was when I started. All in good time. What I have noticed is that my voice has dropped, and I’m plagued by embarrassing voice cracks at the worst of times. Every man has to go through them at some point and I’m no exception. God help me when I get stuck trying to grow a beard.

None of my fears about making a mistake have come to pass. I have been happy with all the changes, which is not something I could ever say about going through my first puberty.

The reasons that people choose to self-prescribe hormones are vast, not least because of the cost and time that goes into getting a prescription legally. The reasons, however, run much deeper than just personal cost.

Transgender treatment is a subject of fierce debate worldwide, and the UK is no exception. Recently, a lawsuit was brought against the Tavistock GIC by a woman who started taking puberty blockers when she was a teenager, and then detransitioned at 23. She believes that the NHS did not take enough precautions before prescribing her puberty blockers - which are fully reversible.

As a result of this, under 16’s in the UK may now no longer be able to give informed consent to start taking puberty blockers before they start on hormones at 18. While people who detransition are facing a very difficult time in their lives and deserve support, the backlash falls on actual trans people.

TERF groups (trans exclusionary radical feminists) see these detransitoners as martyrs who have been brainwashed and victimized by ‘the trans cult’. As a result, actual trans people face not only increased waiting times and inaccessible appointments but also increased media scrutiny and online vitriol.

Trans issues are in the limelight. Recently, Elliot Paige, who plays Vanya in The Umbrella Academy, came out as FTM, becoming one of the most high-profile celebrities to come out transmasculine. Trans men are often left out of public conversation, as trans women are more often the focus of transphobic tabloid media and TERF rhetoric. With more and more people coming out, either as transgender, or in support of transgender rights, trans treatment should hopefully become more and more accessible.

Written December 2020 By Lachlan Mykura

#ftm #transgender #transmasculine #hormones #testogel #NHS #gender #gender identity #transition #testosterone #journalism #news #lachlanwrites

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fascinationuniformed · 4 years

Text

Festival Tipi

by Mr. Scade https://www.patreon.com/fascinationuniformed http://iancooketapia.com/ Story originally inspired by the photo above.

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Marco unzipped his tent and the light was agony. Immediately, the leftover alcohol beat at his skull like smiths to iron, as if the very understanding of daylight had injected them with energy.

He scrambled inside his tent and found his sunglasses. With a contended sigh, he sat his ass on the plastic of the tent and rested his bare feet on the wet grass outside.

“How’s that headache?” Jen appeared. Before he knew what was going on, a water bottle was in his hands. He drank greedily.

He made a non-committal sound, and then flopped back onto his sleeping bag. He groaned, forgetting that he was lying on a patch of semi-dry farm field and not his feather down bed.

Jen chuckled. “Drink that whole bottle. Go for a piss. Come back, and we’ll start getting you feeling better. Trust me, it feels worse if you stay there.”

And with that, Marco heard her feet mulch on the wet ground towards the sound of sizzling bacon.

Marco’s first festival had so far been a loud, wet, rambunctious and drunk affair. Everything he had heard and more. Constant drizzling rain and mud splatters up to your chest? Check. Popular crap music as well as fascinatingly good unknown bands? He had already bought some CDs he doubted would be available on Amazon. Drunk and a little rude? Well… not just a little rude but in a near-constant state of passive-aggressive confrontational entitlement. It is alcohol, after all! That was expected. Required, even. The drugs had surprised Marco, though, but the more he walked around the festival grounds the more sense their presence – if not outright requirement – made.

Without those drugs, then some of the attractions in the festival would either be empty or burnt to the ground. Especially the tents. Oh, there were tents dedicated to forest spirits, tents designed to put you in a sensorial overload or a deprived state that really made you see things. There was an entire little tipi hut made of furry, soft things that people went in just to, kid you not, roll on the floor laughing. It was called the ROFL Tipi. Going into one of the tents sober was a trip on its own – they were just that good – but seeing the reaction from those whose perception of reality was, should we say, enhanced was a riot. Being on acid must make some of them a truly mind-bending experience.

No. Of all the things that stood out about his first festival experience, it was the bare skin that surprised Marco the most. The grand majority of those showing extra skin were women, with the occasional dude or older gentleman bare chested or wearing naught but a banana hammock. It was on the second day when it suddenly became a pattern, when Marco finally realised it. Perhaps his own heterosexuality affected his perception, but he hadn’t really seen that many guys dressed up like peacocks during mating season. A relatively fit man in naught but a speedo and wellington boots? Yeah, okay. Some heavy set obese man, glowing pale white, in a vest and assless cowboy chaps? Well, someone might be into that. Perhaps the sample size was too small. But the girls? Yes. Not all the women were dressed like rave culture had an illegitimate child with hair metal and then had it raised by Eddie Izzard. But those that were? Neon bikinis with fishnets, plastic-tassels wigs and gaudy, giant sunglasses. Leotards with cut-off breast holes, tear drop-shaped pasties covering the nipples, and that getup wasn’t half as eye-catching as their holographic wellington boots. One girl had high-waisted shorts, a black PVC harness on top, a sheer bra, and pink hair in messy pigtails. Marco noticed the earphones leading to a secret pocket inside her shorts, as she danced by herself next to a bin overflowing with beer cans.

Two days, and Marco had trouble not staring. After all, those outfits were meant not so much to be looked at but gawked at; eye-catching, proudly proclaiming “here’s my woman’s body” and making a statement. If it was political, sexual or just going with the flow of the festival, Marco didn’t know. And the longer he was there, the less he cared to even think about that. Booze, dance and the few hot girls amongst the sea of impractical outfits made it hard to have such lofty conversations with his friends and even with himself.

It was a festival, after all. Rules and normalcy were outside this muddy field. In here, anything went. Possibilities could be bent. People could even look attractive wearing high-waisted jeans!

By the third evening, Marco’s initial anxiety had been drowned and everything felt pretty mellow and right. His gut didn’t feel like exiting in an emergency, and the meal they had made from what was left of their store of tins had been edible. And he managed to keep it in, unlike the bacon-heavy breakfast. That very morning, however, he had learned the dangers of mixing alcohol and weed. But after drinking a little cocktail from one of the health stations – little kiosks manned by some NGO dedicated to safe consumption – he felt more human than usual. He even went for a second one. Whatever that thing was, it felt like all the lies healthy supplements try to sell but, you know, real.

The day had been pretty chill after that. Some shows, some games, a lot of standing around in what had at some point been a green field but could now double as a “junta de embarre”. Come the evening, though, he and his friends were feeling a little bored.

Down the hill, a show of lights and loud synth guitars shook the ground. A mass of people holding glow sticks moved like one wave. With one mind, one body. It was beautiful to witness from far away. And sitting down. Not for the last time that night, Marco rubbed his feet. He should’ve brought hiking socks to this place. Or hiking boots. Something comfortable, at least.

Jen passed a joint to Brando, who tilted his head back as he inhaled. An old habit of his. After a moment, he passed it on. Marco took a drag, and then drew hoops with the smoke and then passed it on to… whoever had made their way into their little campsite. In any other situation, Marco would’ve worried. But the tangy, mellow flavours in his mouth made it easy to not care. It was a festival, after all. Make friends and make love. Rules were abandoned outside these muddy fields.

“D’ya see that?” Jen said suddenly, pointing up to the sky.

They had agreed to no lights at night. Some stars could be seen overhead, but mostly it was the lights reflecting on the clouds. An ethereal, otherworldly show, half-imagined, half-there.

After a while, Jen pulled the hood of her frayed hoodie down and pointedly pointed at something in the dark, past their tents. “We should do the Experience Tipis.”

“Which one, though,” Marco said, a little unsure.

“Take your pick. I would so,” Elongation. The syllable hanging in the air for too long. “Love to go into the expansion tent.”

“The what?”

“Expansion tent,” Jen repeated.

Brando coughed some smoke, rubbing his nose on his shirt sleeve. “She means the spandex tent – tipi, I mean,” He coughed some more. “It is covered in soft spandex and the floor is a big shaggy carpet. Soft. And dry.”

There was general assents at the word dry. The floor mulched under the plastic tarp they all sat on.

“And with the show down there,” Marco pointed down the hill. “It should be emptier.”

“Sounds like a plan,” The person next to Marco turned out to be a woman with a thick accent. It was a pretty accent, though.

They zipped down their tents, and then trudged through trenches of brown-grey mud and slush. Past piles of plastic cups, tin cans and the occasional guy passed out on a wet puddle that could’ve been anything.

A no-nonsense woman guarded the entrance to the Tipi Village. She eyed them, shone a light on their eyes, and sniffed around.

“Strong stuff?” She asked, as she made a note of their festival bracelets.

“Mellow. Could run a mile, but might get distracted by a tree,” Jen said. Whatever that meant satisfied the guardswoman and she let the four of them through.

The Tipi Village was arranged in a horseshoe shape, with the heavily decorated gate at one end. In the middle of the space, there was a big bonfire that turned the people there into eerie shadows. Most were unmoving, some were eating. They were all quiet.

“This one!” Jen cried, opening the flap to the tent with the sign that read Relaxation and Rebirth Tipi.

One girl sitting near the fire glared at them, shushing loudly.

Marco looked at her, in her star-shaped bikini, a row of tiny, strawberry-sized hair buns giving her hair something like a ridged spine. Discreetly, he adjusted his erection. The whole gathering was made up of these festival girls in their gaudy and trashy and, frankly, pretty hot outfits.

“Hey, you coming?” Brando said, waiting just inside the tipi. Some of the light landed on Brando’s face, illuminating the scar on his lip.

Marco was glad for the darkness. It hid just how close that phrase had come to reality.

“Yeah,” Marco said before stepping into a world made of soft pastels inside. Warm lights gave the whole place a colourful glow, not too intense, and very homey.

His friends had found a little step of soft plush green carpet, pink beanbags, and other soft items. Jen was already stepping into what looked like a cocoon hammock made from whatever soft spandex-y fabric Marco felt under his socks. Brando flopped onto a bean bag. While their new friend simply lied down on the plush carpet. She was tall and plump.

With a shrug, Marco went towards them.

The tipi had other people. Some on their own, others in small groups. They must’ve been here for a long while, because they looked asleep or, rather, a little out of it. Every single one of them was just lying down, on the floor, or on the steps, cradling themselves on the soft fabric. One or two seemed to be sinking into their chairs, blissful expressions on their faces. What he did notice was that every single person in the tipi was looking up at some sort of projection of a psychedelic dream. Just looking at it made Marco feel a little dizzy.

“Hey,” The stranger girl said. “Come. Sit down. It is so nice.”

As Marco sat down on a soft plushy chair and—

“Holy shite, this is so soft!” He cried.

“Told you,” Jen said, mumbling like a happy cat.

“It is life, bro,” Brando sighed, already halfway swallowed by the too-soft beanbag.

And Marco couldn’t help but sigh as he let his weight be taken by the plush… object. It wasn’t like any beanbag he had ever sat on – it was like stroking a soft cat and being wrapped in silk all at once.

It was then that Marco looked up and saw the shapes. Not just the psychedelic colours straight out of a Pink Floyd-induced nightmare, but the shapes hiding between the colours, inside the patterns.

“Guys, do you… d-do you see that?”

The patterns were shifting, circling, psychedelic dreams, perfect truths, new realities unheard of. Like every trippy piece of media, ever song composed while high as a kite, like every epiphany about the size of the universe all neatly put together in an impossible pattern of impossible colours.

Marco heard someone shush him. He turned, and from the corner of his eyes saw Brandon’s happy, blank face slowly sinking into the plush chair as if he were on quicksand. With a pop, his friends’ visage disappeared and all that remained was a round, plump fuzzy chair.

“G-guys?” He tried again, his attention snapping to the patterns.

The world felt so soft. So snug and warm and comfortable and, damn, those lights even felt warm on his skin.

Marco moved his neck just in time to see the floor swallow their new friend. It was like she was a leave floating on water, dipping the surface tension but not breaking when, suddenly, the woman disappeared with a pop.

“What the fuck!” Marco tried to get up, but something snapped him back into the plush cahir.

“Shhh… Marco,” Jen moaned hard and long. “It feels so much better when you let it take over.” She moaned again like someone getting their brains fucked empty.

Marco blinked, glancing to the side. Jen’s shape was visible, writhing and twisting, inside the tight green spandex cocoon. Her hands were groping at her boobs, between her legs, as the hammock closed down as if someone was reverse-peeling a banana. With a sigh, Jen’s face disappeared under the fabric before it tightened around her features as if she were being vacuum packaged.

“W-what the—” Marco’s voice was swallowed by the soft, green furry plushness of his chair. He could move his arms and legs, but just barely. The heavy plushness weighted on him, making it hard to kick or punch. Besides, just moving felt so nice that Marco would forget to even fight and just idly start stroking the fabric, letting it swallow him.

As the plushness came over his face, darkness didn’t appear. Instead Marco saw a world of technicolour spark through his eyelids and into his mind.

Eventually, the four of them left the tipi and sat around the fire, staring at it for a long while. Silent, enjoying the orange glow on their bare skin.

Jen sat with legs spread wide, letting the warmth of the fire lick her skin. The sheen of perspiration shinning on her bare midriff, her exposed breasts and naked legs reflected some of the light. If the sweat was from external or internal heat, that was hard to tell. The girl simply sat, eyes staring into a place far away inside the fire. Her star-shaped facepaint impervious to perspiration. Her hair, shiny green, cast a shadow over one half of her face.

Next to Jen, the plump girl coughed a little before she was shushed quiet by all the other festival girls basking before the flames. She looked abashed for a moment, before she leaned closer to the fire. Her neon-green bikini top disappeared under a rain of pink tassels from her plastic poncho enveloped her. Her enormous pink sombrero made her look like a giant, plastic Mexican statue.

A small girl kept playing with her boobs muttering something. Every squeeze sent her body shivering, letting a moan escape lips coloured a deep red. The colour, however, was carefully applied to avoid the scar that decorated her pretty face. The rest of her was wrapped in tight, shiny red spandex, a unitard of some sort, with a plunging neckline. Her arms and legs, however, were wrapped in fuzzy, furry, shaggy, pink hair.

A fourth girl, sat by her friends, looking around nervously. Something was odd about her friends, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. A sound broke her rumination. She turned, seeing a group of guys going into the same tipi she had walked into just a couple of – hours? days? – ago. As she moved, she felt something graze her legs. She looked down, seeing grass tickling her fishnet-covered legs. She giggled, and it made her bouncy tits bounce. They looked nice in their neon-green bikini top. Comfortable, like they had always been there.

“Oh, of course I’ve always had them,” Marco said. “I’ve always been a festival slut.”

Another sound. Someone shushing the boys.

She turned, seeing one of the tipi caretakers approach her. The woman was dressed in stars and tassels, in bright neon spandex and with colourful face paint. She looked hot as.

“Oh, Marcella, darling, you have to look into the fire,” She placed a hand on Marcella’s face and she felt her pussy tingle.

Softly, the caretaker tilted Marcella’s face towards the controlled, multi-coloured bonfire. “Look into the Fire. Let it warm up your heart. Your pussy. Let it fill you with feminine power. Let it burn away what was. Learn to burn bright and blinding. Learn to look like no one could ever look away.”

Marcella shuddered, feeling the warmth of the fire lick her skin. The caretaker’s skin caressing the inside of her thigh.

“Learn to be a festival slut, dear.”

FIN ‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘

If you’d like to help me make more of this type of content, and explore new ideas or styles, consider pitching to my PATREON where not only can you see my newest work early, but can even affect the nature of this work!For more of my writing and illustrations, do visit My website. My Twitter| My DeviantArtAll work on this blog should be understood in context. Any portrayals of non-consent are, themselves, consensual between author and reader.

#short story #fiction #transformation story #my story #mcstories #male to female transformation #festival girls

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bibbleboo · 4 years

Photo

new blog new commission post!! here’s also my full portfolio, and my guidelines are listed below 😘

the short rulez;

✔️ Humanoids ✔️

✔️ Bust and full body ✔️

✔️ Gore, drugs/alcohol, self harm/suicide ✔️

❔ Romance❔ ❔ Backgrounds ❔

❔ Politics ❔

❔ Nudity ❔

❔ Mild kink ❔

❌ Sex ❌

❌ Anthro, Robots, etc. ❌

❌ Insects, Astrology, Abortion/Miscarriage/Infant death ❌ <- these are personal triggers

longer rulez (explained):

🐇 Humanoids = characters that are humans or have Mostly human based anatomy. So anthro would be too far from a person, but something like a werewolf or catboy would be fine. I can also create my own humanized designs of any non-human character, or draw yours if you have one 👍 🐇

🐇 Bust or half body is my preference, the third tier is the only one available for full body because it looks best as a blend between my sketchy lineart and color+shading process. If you really want it a different way, I’d do a flat, black and white, full body sketch for $25, and a clean, colored/shaded full body for maybe $35-45 depending on how complex the rest of it is. 🐇

🐇 All prices are based on just one character, if you want more than that it has to be double the price based on whichever tier you chose. 🐇

🐇 I’m not experienced with drawing intimacy (kissing, holding hands, hugging, etc.), but I’m all right with trying single model nudity. If you want something involving a kink please go ahead and ask, some I’m comfortable with and some I’m not, just depends. 🐇

🐇 Under no circumstances will I draw ped0philia or 1ncest. My personal line is also drawn at most ‘controversial’ age gap ships, ‘aged up’ nsfw, adopted/step siblings, etc. I will also not do kinks outright involving the roleplaying of these concepts. 🐇

🐇 I’ll draw OCs, canon characters, live action characters, etc. but I prefer not to draw ‘real’ people unless it is you/your friends with their permission. Characters that are loose/artistic interpretations of ‘real’ people are (usually) ok. 🐇

🐇 For ocs;;; I prefer drawn references (of any skill), along with a short personality description, and expression sheets/a list of their most common expressions is a GODSEND. But I’ll work with Anything, other commissions, picrew/dress up doll references, faceclaims, or even just a very in depth physical description, so long as you are ok with being asked questions as I go, and acknowledge that it still might not end up as accurate as you want without your own artistic input. 🐇

🐇 Depictions of “positive” politics are ok, such as All types of LGBTQ+ pride, (nonwhite) race pride, All types of mental and physical disability/illness pride, Most religious pride (sa.tanism unfortunately triggers my paranoia, and cult-like religions such as je/hovahs witn.ess and morm.onism make me uncomfortable), and overall support for Anything else benign is fine by me. So on the flipside, I won’t draw hatespeech, pride for oppressive groups, lgbt+ g.atekeeping, etc. And I am also uncomfortable drawing cringe/caricatures for any type of group, depicting anything super aggressive/ranty for any opinion, no character hate, no community policing, and NO p.ed0philia pride. (sfw age regression and things in that vein are fine, just no fucking actual m.ap/s please) 🐇

🐇 Backgrounds aren’t my forte, but I can do basic/abstract scenery or patterns. 🐇

🐇 If you want anything not listed, like a comic or a gif or smth, please ask me about it and we can negotiate a price! 🐇

🐇 I have to be paid through paypal before I start, just can’t afford to be cheated OTL but i’ll do my best to make you happy with the result, including tweaking things if need be. 🐇

🐇 It may take 1 to 2 weeks for me to finish your piece, please plan accordingly. 🐇

🐇 don’t repost my art without a credit please!!! 🐇

Thank you for reading, hope to do business with you 💖

#commission #commisions open #my art #artists on tumblr #digital art #signal boost #tagged as signal boost bc i am literally always struggling with money hsdjfbsjf

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caerwynherondale · 4 years

Text

Saving the Gremlin Princess

The bed felt hard beneath Caerwyn’s body as, for once, she laid still against it, eyes shut in order to help block away the awful veil of white that had overcome them entirely about two weeks ago. At least, she thought it had been about two weeks, but she couldn’t be certain. It was hard to determine any type of time when you couldn’t see the clock or tell if it was night or day anymore and Caerwyn had long since given up on trying to determine something as dismal as the amount of time she had spent in this awful place so far. She was cold, the room chilly, wearing just a set of sweatpants and a sweatshirt that she had outright refused to change out of for almost the entire time that she had been here but she would rather stay cold than ask for anything from those people. Now, Caerwyn was perfectly aware that the people entrusted with taking care of her were probably nice in general, but she didn’t like the way they worked, at least, not when it came to her. It had more to do with her own attitude than anything else though.

About a month before, Caerwyn had climbed into the back seat of her parents’ car, having been promised ice cream and some ‘Mammy, Daddy, daughter time’ that she had seriously been lacking since she’d run off last winter. She had been convinced they were trying to make things up to her after the outburst that had occurred over Easter break as well as the talk they had had before Christmas. It had actually been a pretty nice day. She had talked to them a bit about school and her friends, mostly Rose, and they had gotten delicious ice cream cones to eat while they walked along the shore. It had been sunny and beautiful out, the wind blowing just enough to keep her from overheating with the added coolness of the ice cream. Everything had turned when they’d gotten back into the car and Caerwyn shortly realized that they were heading the opposite direction of home. At first she had been placated with a simple ‘oh just the long way around’ answer given by her father. But the ‘long way round’ turned into over an hour of driving that had Caerwyn rapidly becoming more nervous, but telling herself that these were her parents. She was safe with them, she always had been. Lingering in the back of her mind was Carnegie, and the fact that he had been left home with Cleo instead of being taken along with them. It didn’t really make sense to leave him behind…

It wasn’t until they were pulling up through iron gates and along to a large white building that Caerwyn had really begun to panic. The moment she was able to read the name on the building, Caerwyn had unbuckled herself and began trying to get out of the car on her own despite the fact that it was still moving. It was then that she realized the child-safety locks had been activated and she couldn’t escape. She had started yelling at her parents, screaming obscenities while her mother cried and told her it was the best thing for her. Her doctor’s recommendation when he had been told that Caerwyn’s medication wasn’t able to keep up with her ‘mental illness’ any longer.

“Only for a little while.” Her mother had promised. “Only until they find something that works properly.”

It had taken two strong men and her father to carry a kicking, flailing, screaming Caerwyn into the building. She had done everything she could to break away, even attempted biting when she was able to, but it hadn’t worked very well. They had dragged her inside, her small stature making her easy to hoist up so that she wasn’t able to reach the ground and make a break for it. They had taken her right past the lobby and into an elevator before they had gone through two large double doors that had locked shut moments later, only able to be opened with a special code. It was here that she had been given some kind of tranquilizer in order to calm her down enough to get her through the admission process. She’d been given a proper physical exam while her mother stayed in the room with her, the cold paper johnny she wore doing nothing to take away the chill of the metal table. All of the hickeys that used to dot her skin were gone, long since faded away with no lips to replace them. Caerwyn hadn’t liked the poking and prodding, but at least it was something she was used to. She had to have this type of exam at least once a year anyway, but it was never comfortable. When it was finally over, she had been given a set of clothes that weren’t her own and some grippy hospital socks that would keep her from slipping on the tile floors. Her boots and regular clothing had been taken away, bagged up for when she went home. Her parents had packed her a bag of essentials. Some books, a hair brush, toiletries, and a few painting supplies to help keep her occupied. They weren’t from the nice set she had gotten for Christmas from Rose and Albus, those were still at home, safely tucked away on her bookcase.

Caerwyn’s parents had left her there, staring at them from behind the glass window of the doors that kept her from escaping. She was in a state of shock, holding her things in her arms before she was led off to her room, one she would share with a roommate for the next week or so before it became clear that that simply wasn’t going to work out. Caerwyn had too much fire in her to get along with others, especially when they annoyed the crap out of her and soon, she was placed in a room by herself and constantly monitored when she left it. She hadn’t done much, just beaten the other girl up to get her to leave her alone after she’d nonstop jabbered her ear off and said some pretty nasty things about Caerwyn’s hair. Things had gotten increasingly worse from there, especially as they weaned her off her regular medication and began testing new things. At first, Caerwyn hadn’t noticed the lower dosage, but slowly, things began to get worse faster than they usually did to the point where she was maybe getting a couple of hours without the spirits bothering her. In her therapy sessions, she asked to remain on the same drug, but had been denied, told that they needed to try something else now that it was no longer working properly. Caerwyn had been removed from the office after lunging over the desk in a fit of rage, shouting that it wasn’t fair and that it was the only thing that worked, so why couldn’t she just have it for now?

It had only taken about a day and a half after that for Caerwyn to lose her sight entirely. She had woken with it gone, spirits screaming in her ears as she shouted at them to shut the hell up. She’d slammed her breakfast tray off the table, kicked and screamed when anyone tried to get her to change her clothes or hop in the shower, and was reduced to flailing any time anyone came to get her. Caerwyn screamed at them over and over again that she couldn’t see to the point that they had an optometrist come to look at her eyes. They were completely silver and clouded over in a way that made it look as if she had cataracts, which, was strange considering she hadn’t had them before being admitted. Was it the medication? Unlikely, but they switched it anyway, to something else. It didn’t help either, and only made Caerwyn all the more agitated. She began lashing out whenever anyone got too close to her, making it so no one would come into her room on their own. Better to have back up.

As the spirits plagued Caerwyn more and more, she began to lose her mind. There was very little time when she was actually calm any longer actually and she spent most of her days flailing about, shouting at them to leave her be even though it did no good. She couldn’t see to read or paint and didn’t want to interact with anyone who might have been willing to pick up a book to read it to her. Caerwyn’s hands ended up in her hair, tugging at it until she was picking it free, the pain centering her a bit as she distracted herself from the awful spirits. A bald spot began to form on the side of her head and it was noticed shortly after. With permission from her parents and doctor, Caerwyn had been held down as her hair was chopped shorter than she’d ever had it since she was small. The lack of weight down her back felt weird, but it hadn’t stopped her from pulling it free, so they had done it again, this time having to knock her out with drugs in order to shave her head down to a buzzcut short enough to keep her fingers from being able to grasp at the individual pieces. Caerwyn had cried that night as she felt her head, one piece of herself she had actually liked taken away from her.

After that, Caerwyn began to seek out other ways of causing the pain that helped to ground her. Her braces were easy to dig into her lips, making them bleed, rough and raw. Again, she was sedated and they were removed, bits of glue left stuck to her teeth that would eventually wear off with time. Her nails came next, digging into her thighs, her arms, anywhere she could reach. This too was quickly noticed, and Caerwyn, kicking and screaming, had had her hands bound to the bed rails to keep her from hurting herself further. She had fought her bindings, trying to break free from them to no avail, and thus, used her toes to remove her socks so she could scrape her toenails up her legs instead. Less than twenty-four hours later, her ankles had been tied down as well, for her own protection. From then on, if Caerwyn was alone in her room, she was tethered to the bed, usually shouting obscenities that would echo down the hallway and upset the other patients to the point where they had to close her door.

When she was finally left alone, Caerwyn would cry. She felt so lost and overwhelmed, with no one to care what she wanted, what she actually needed. Even when her parents called, she refused to speak to them on the phone. She wanted Carnegie, or Rose or Albus or even Cleo. Just someone, anyone… She had even been thinking about Louis. Despite having left school on bad terms with the redhead, Caerwyn found herself dreaming of times when things had been good between them. The way his arms had held her so close and tight, making her feel genuinely safe. How he had always smelt of bitter coffee, cigarettes, the sea, and fresh air from flying. She would have given anything to be with even him right now, to feel his calming touch, hear his soothing voice. Caerwyn had broken up with him shortly before school ended, before their exams. It had been heart wrenching for the Gryffindor, something that she had needed to do for herself, to protect her heart from the potential lies he had told her but that hadn’t made it easy.

Caerwyn had never expected that being without Louis would be like trying to breathe without oxygen. It made her entire body ache, her mind dull and full of discomfort. Nothing Rose and Albus said or did could help fill the absolute void that it left in her heart. The last month of school had been the most painful, especially when she’d seen him in the hallways and avoided him. She didn’t look at Louis, didn’t speak to him, refused outright to be around him to the point where Rose and Albus would split their time. There were days when she doubted her decision, but she would quickly correct herself. He had used the Charm on her once, he had lied to her, or at least, he probably had. How could she stay with someone she couldn’t trust?

Still though, Caerwyn thought of him, of Louis. Perhaps even more than she did of her friends and siblings. Eventually, for short periods of time, she was able to calm herself long enough to relax and that was what she was trying to do right now. To breathe, to focus on something other than the voices that had been ringing in her ears for weeks. If she’d been able to, she probably would have tried to run again, like she had in the first week she’d been here. Banging on the door, screaming for them to let her out before someone had come to grab her and bring her back to her room to try and calm her down while she howled the whole time. Now, when Caerwyn wasn’t screaming or crying or sleeping quietly, she was humming. It was times like these when no one bothered her and simply… listened. At first, they hadn’t known what she was doing, but it soon became apparent she was just lulling herself and they let her, because at least she wasn’t fighting for once.

Caerwyn’s humming was decently loud, the song rising and falling like waves against the shore, calm at first, then stormy, and moving rapidly before descending again. It was just the one song, over and over again, but it was pretty and one that no one was familiar with. It wasn’t something main stream and no one had been able to figure out what exactly it was. When asked, Caerwyn hadn’t answered, she’d simply kept it up. Louis’s song, Caerwyn’s song. It was the only thing that soothed her soul any more.

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futurepresentashes · 4 years

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Mobile Rules

- Mundane -

I know this is long but it’s for my own sanity, and a lot of it is very common stuff. But hello! I’m Col/Spades. I’m 28, enby (no pronoun preference), ace, and disabled, and I’ve been writing for over a decade! I’m introverted and can be shy, but I do try to reach out and interact when I can. Don’t be afraid to talk to me/ask about anything, be it a thread, ship, or really anything else. Discord available to mutuals on request.

All icons, banners, etc have been capped and edited by me. Absolutely do not use them without my express permission. Don’t know why you would, but hey, covering bases.

As a note, I tend to use ‘hun’ ‘dear’ ‘sweetheart’ and other terms a lot. I’ll check your rules for anything about it, but if not, don’t be afraid to let me know when we talk, or remind me if I forget (I have a poor memory, so it’s definitely not on purpose if I do!)

Onto the good stuff!

- General -

1. Information used is a blend of movieverse, some comic influences, and headcanons (Please check About) but is majority movie-based as that’s what I’m familiar with.

I am, however, open to writing with comic characters and other members of general Marvel media. I’ll be building on certain aspects to make an interpretation that follows Cable’s story in the movie, while also hopefully being fun and interesting to interact with. Please be patient with me.

2. Godmoding, meta playing, etc are not tolerated.

3. Ships and verses are independent of each other unless discussed with all parties.

4. Askbox is always open with anon turned on, feel free to send whatever you’d like in.

5. Memes are great as ice breaks, and there is no timeline on them, send in any whenever you want to. However, I am not a meme resource. If you don’t want/can’t think of what to send in, reblog from the source.

6. Formatting on my posts is very basic, including edits and icons, but I don’t require that from my partners, so no worries.

7. Replies will generally be in 3rd person and I can tend towards the longer para replies, but I believe in quality over quantity, so don’t feel like you have to match longer posts. I don’t want you to feel exhausted by our thread, and will generally find a happy medium.

8. Darker plots/themes don’t bother me, and I currently tag triggers with “tag tw”. I currently tag alcohol, drugs, nsfw (tagged as both ‘fpansfw’ and 'nsfw’), blood, and gore. If you need anything at all added, let me know.

That being said, I will not be writing anything that includes things like incest, rape, pedophilia, etc.

9. Please do not reblog or add replies to threads you’re not involved in unless you have cleared it with both myself and my partner first. I don’t mind personals following so long as they follow that rule.

10. Racism, homophobia, transphobia, antisemitism, sexism, ableism, etc will not be tolerated on my blog. This is non-negotiable.

11. Duplicates are rare for me to follow, but I have no issue with interacting in banter or other small fun stuff.

12. I don’t reblog or reference real world issues on this blog. I have other socials for that.

- Following and Unfollowing -

1. I am not a follow-for-follow, but I do check out everyone that follows me. Even if I don’t follow, I do rp with non-mutuals. Shipping, however, is reserved for mutuals.

2. I love OCs, but please have an accessible About and Rules page, otherwise I may not follow back.

3. I reserve the right to follow and unfollow at will. Reasons will generally fall under excessive negativity/guilt-trippy posts, lack of interest/interactions (if I no longer am interest, or if I feel like I’m the only one driving interactions), or lack of actual rps/only posting aesthetics. There can be other reasons, but those are the most common.

4. If I’m breaking a mutual following, I’ll softblock. If you refollow me down the road, I’ll consider if I want to interact again, but that is up to my decision alone. However, if you try to give me grief about unfollowing, you will be blocked outright.

5. Lastly, all of this goes for you, too. I am not someone who expects that a follow is forever. If you don’t like my content anymore, don’t think we’re meshing well, or just don’t want to follow anymore, go for it. Could be 2 minutes could be 2 years.

- Shipping -

The main point here is I ship with chemistry. So long as we discuss it enough and understand what we want to develop- good and bad- I’m down. I really enjoy building ships, but I’m also horrendous at reading signals, so I apologize if you try to test the waters and it seems like I’m ignoring that. I’m not trying to, I’m just dense.

Given DP2’s shaky grasp on who Cable’s wife is, I am acting with the headcanon that he and Hope are some time post New Liberty, and when he chooses to stay in the past, he does so with previous contingencies in place to keep Hope safe with trusted friend(s) (set up prior just in case he died or disappeared). Hopefully, DP3 will have more of an answer as to who she is since I can’t for the life of me figure it out.

However, if I’ve told you no after we’ve discussed it, please do not try to force a ship. If I do feel like you’re trying to force a ship on me I will talk to you about it. If you don’t back off, I’ll likely stop interactions. That being said, trying to fluster or embarrass Cable, or having a jokey one-sided deal are all allowed and I don’t consider those force shipping.

As I said above, just ask! Worst case is I gently say no or wait for our characters to interact more to see how I feel about it.

As for smut I will write smut, though it’s not the purpose of this blog. But, nsfw will only be written with 20+ muns and muses. Cable himself isn’t likely to be interested if the muse is younger than mid-late twenties

#mobile rules

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misszarves · 4 years

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this isn’t meant as like, a judgment anybody should take personally. but the range of feeling most people seem to have about homeless people goes from outright genocidal hatred up to a frustrated, patronizing kind of concern. the general but unspoken agreement seems to be that homeless people are a nuisance who can’t be trusted to take care of themselves, that public funds directed towards them should be used carefully and sparingly lest they be misused or otherwise “wasted” on this intractable population that just won’t Help Themselves. examples of the latter abound: detox beds, needle exchange centres, and naloxone kits used by or for people who don’t stay sober; low-income housing that, especially if privately-owned, deteriorates in condition for various reasons which are then often blamed on the occupants; policing, policing, policing that these goddamn ingrates keep complaining about even while they continue to steal cars, get assaulted, be on drugs, be poor in general: bring it on themselves, essentially. and don’t get me started on homeless camps in parks that, as one sugary-sweet ignoramus on facebook opined the other day, should be reserved for the enjoyment of families.

that was a longer introduction than I intended to address the shelter issue specifically: even people who genuinely care about homeless people often think that a tough-love approach is warranted and justified. generally, it goes like this: forced detox and rehab, perhaps “for as long as it takes”; forced housing either in modular cabin-type units (designed to replace tents), or in low-income apartments (both, though the latter more than the former, dependent on continued sobriety); then some fuzzy ideas about helping some of them get (back) on their feet, and policing the others to continue behaving and being grateful. the bare bones version of this involves simply forcing them into shelters after going to every effort to make adequate space available. and one step down from this is just telling them to “go to a shelter” whether one exists and is available or not.

so here’s the straight skinny on all of that! addiction is a complex and lifelong mental health condition, not a temporary loss of control one can be snapped out of with a bit of support and hard work. even the lucky few who stay sober after only one rehab attempt will remain addicts for the rest of their lives, and whatever underlying trauma, inner imbalance, or outer chaos led to the substance abuse in the first place will still need to be dealt with. if that second step is not taken, relapse is a virtual guarantee. even with the best support, many addicts lose their fight. see every rich and famous person dead from an overdose or suicide.

all mental health conditions, including addiction, can be helped with therapy and medication, but these are still no guarantee. and the really good shit that gives someone the best fighting chance? no homeless person is getting it. not one. they’re lucky if they get an appointment with a counselor once every two weeks, and god help them if they miss a couple of appointments and have to start the whole application process all over again. and to reiterate: generally these conditions are chronic. I’m talking about things ranging from PTSD to schizophrenia to traumatic brain injuries* that likely contributed to the person ending up on the streets and pose a serious if not insurmountable impediment to them making it in the straight world.

I promise I’m getting to the shelter thing. basically, people do not choose to be homeless, and there are no simple solutions to ending homelessness (free housing for all would be great, but it would still not adequately meet this population’s needs). but homeless people are not inert lumps who should be grateful for scraps, no matter how counter-productive they are. people may resist staying in shelters for a variety of reasons. they may justifiably feel unsafe there because of violence or harassment from other residents. they may not want to leave their neighbourhood or community to stay in a shelter in a different part of town. they may be unable to meet a shelter’s requirements for abstinence from drugs and alcohol, and no matter how much the Concerned Public pouts about this like it’s a genuine choice that should be punished by withdrawing support entirely, addicts are still going to act like addicts. they may not want to give up all or some of their personal belongings, which are all they have in the world. their pets, who are their family, may not be welcome. and I haven’t even addressed the basic problem which is a lack of beds, time limits sometimes of hours (ie dinnertime to sunrise or something similar) and sometimes weeks or months after which they have to leave the shelter anyway. some shelters are in squalid condition, some have discriminatory policies, some don’t have room for kids. I could go on and on. the upshot is that while no one chooses to be homeless, some people do choose to live outside or in some situation (squatting, etc) considered to be detrimental to people with homes who have to look at it.

you cannot just shove homeless people around like bags of garbage. they do not have to be grateful for “help” that harms them in the long run. they should not have to sacrifice their autonomy and dignity as payment for the crime of being annoying, depressing, or bad for tourism. they are simultaneously the experts on their own lives and a population that quite literally cannot “help themselves”. the usual paradigm of blaming them for imagined bad choices that led to their situation while talking down to them, surveilling them, and dictating their movements should be flipped around. their profound needs should be funded and addressed as fully as possible, but only with their consent, and with the utmost respect for their life experiences and wisdom.

this ended up so long and I’m sorry. I also want to throw in a disclaimer that the homeless population is made up of all kinds of people, not all of whom are addicted to drugs or who commit crimes for any reason (not that this protects them from police harassment or even violence). I may have drawn too great an equivalence between addicts and the homeless, but I would rather go too far in that direction than not far enough. there are people on the street with advanced degrees, who had long careers, who have amazing talents. probably more than a few have even won the lottery. but on the whole, the homeless population disproportionately suffers from extreme trauma, poverty, instability from childhood onward, mental health problems, other disabilities including a shocking incidence of traumatic brain injuries, addictions, and exploitation in various forms (prostitution being the most obvious example). I think it is important not to tokenize those extremely unlucky people who fell the furthest from middle class success to destitution, both because they are not representative *and* because their number overlaps with those suffering in other ways. addiction, for example, does not discriminate. as stephen king said, “we all look pretty much the same when we’re puking in the gutter.”

anyway homeless people are people. you can’t shove them out of sight and expect them to be grateful.

respectful corrections and additions are very welcome to this messy post which I am publishing in its rough draft form. I didn’t even get into race or austerity measures for ppl on disability and other social assistance.

*I guess it’s not technically correct to lump those in with “mental health” issues but I’m painting with broad strokes here and do not have a degree in this, pls forgive me

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mishaxdleggfn96insurance-blog · 5 years

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acsversace-news · 6 years

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Rather than offering standard gore and merely giving us the willies, The Assassination of Gianni Versace, Ryan Murphy’s second installment of American Crime Story on the FX channel (now available on Amazon Prime Video and ITunes), is one of the rare serial killer dramas genuinely interested in sexual mores, complex character, spiky history, and salient issues of class. Demanding, sometimes confounding, but nevertheless searing and absorbing, the series piles on layer after layer of pain, irony, and god-awful coincidence, its counter-clockwise structure designed to take us deeper and deeper into a human abyss.

Andrew Cunanan, the elusive Minotaur at the heart of this real-life ’90s labyrinth, is a deadbeat on the lam, a name-dropping, designer-obsessed social climber. On a tried-and-true procedural-thriller level, the limited series, chronicling the curly-haired monster sacré’s notorious murder spree and suicide, sheds light on the largest failed manhunt in U.S. history—a fascinating botch, the whole law enforcement fiasco resulting from rampant homophobia and pure incomprehension regarding “a gay parallel universe,” as Vanity Fair reporter Maureen Orth labels it in Vulgar Favors, her juicy recounting of the roller-coaster case. Another key factor is the homicidal young con man Cunanan’s startling ability to evade the cops. A wizard at blithely rearranging his Filipino-Sicilian heritage to suit his gold-digging needs, Cunanan could blend with chameleon ease into different communities—Italian, Greek, Latino, Asian, etc.—as “a multi-purpose ethnic.” Since the fugitive Cunanan had never been arrested, the only fingerprints to be found were on his California driver’s license.

The series is set in 1997—a pivotal year in LGBT history, as it marked the discovery of a viable treatment for AIDS, so the dread disease was no longer an outright death sentence. The show’s backward historical movement is a strategy that illuminates the beleaguered gay world of the period and ably avoids a Psychology 101 approach to motive and pathology, creating a dramatic and poignant memorial to the fleshed-out lives of Cunanan’s victims: we get the appealing, even ecstatic early moments of Cunanan’s relationships after we’ve witnessed the desperate, unraveling scenes and harrowing murders, and the effect is unsettling and difficult to shake.

As the far-reaching series spins further away from Versace’s sumptuous life in South Beach, “the pleasure capital of the gay world,” and from the spirited realms of high fashion, its trajectory and intent become a little puzzling, but the last few riveting episodes suggest Murphy’s main focus is to plumb Cunanan’s lethal mix of unhinged aspiration and greed and to link Versace’s well-documented life as a lauded fashion king, an openly gay man (challenged by AIDS-related illness), with the accomplished lives of Cunanan’s other gifted gay victims. Protean Andrew, a glad-handing, money-flashing teller of tall tales, functions as a soul-crippled shadow version of the flamboyant Italian designer. It’s primarily the last two episodes, “Creator/Destroyer” and “Alone,” that underscore the genius of Murphy’s overall design.

In his native Calabria, the child Versace, shored by his seamstress mother’s approval, sketches and discovers his interest in fashion, developing his métier, despite cruel bullying by his Catholic teachers and classmates. In contrast, Cunanan is raised, in neurotic, almost farcical fashion, to be a petulant Filipino-American prince by his dictatorial, cock-of-the-walk father, an embezzler and reflexive con man, so it’s clear Andrew’s propensity for around-the-clock deception is a direct result of his appalling daddy’s over-the-top spoiling, with a pinch of his Sicilian-American mother’s religious mania and mental illness added to the stew. Andrew is flimflam Pete’s and frail MaryAnn’s Frankenstein child. What we see of Cunanan’s shaky upbringing also clicks with his penchant for hooking up with “beaucoup-bucks” johns and well-heeled patrons: just as his father gave him the best and biggest room in the house, Cunanan lives and moves, for the most part, from one gravy train to the next.

Facing jail time for financial crimes, Cunanan’s dad flees his wife and children for good, but later an unusually determined Andrew tracks him down in Manila. In a savage moment, in what amounts to a 180-degree turn from his previous paternal adoration, Pete slaps and spits on Andrew, calling him “a sissy boy with a sissy mind.”

On Murphy’s hit series Glee, Darren Criss had the heart-on-his sleeve emotionality of a young Streisand or Garland, gradually emerging as the most expressive musical talent on the show, which was praised for—beyond its weekly ebullient songfest—its groundbreaking emphasis on “baby queers” and high school bullying. It seemed enough that the dynamite Criss could sing. In The Assassination of Gianni Versace, he gives a prismatic performance as Andrew Cunanan: he’s voluble, sly, strung-out on drugs (even shooting up between his grubby toes) or he’s coolly, scarily detached—a crystal meth Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. As the series progresses, we get to follow Andrew-in-a-social-whirl scenes (frankly a relief after the brackish murder segments) and to observe: the precocious, nose-in-a-book child reading Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited; the attention-grabbing, boundary-less teen sneaking off in cars with married men; the deluded, self-loathing bon vivant; the facile, coke-fueled charmer, with a geisha’s skill at entertaining rich men; and a relentless operator (with an IQ of 147), lying through his teeth, working the upper echelons of the gay community.

In several of its telltale social scenes, the show resembles John Guare’s Six Degrees of Separation, a drawing-room tragicomedy about a similarly adept gay con artist, and Anthony Minghella’s elegant 1999 film version of the Patricia Highsmith classic, The Talented Mr. Ripley. I remember watching Ripley when it first appeared and actually being reminded of Cunanan: what is it about the prospect of losing the good life that unhinges once-struggling or working-class people and sometimes drives them to murder? Is the luxury and the freedom money brings really so hopelessly addictive?

Melding rock with rebel fashion and, according to Orth, “a diehard infatuation with rank and power that smacked of new money vulgarity,” Versace’s brash, innovative work was “inspired by antiquity and sadomasochism.” In revealing counterpoint, Andrew Cunanan, an outcast aiming for an A-list life with a kind of “If they could see me now” fury, keeps his S&M habits, sideline drug dealing, pimping for the rich and closeted, and serious crystal meth use on the down low, so as not to scare away his upper-crust friends, lovers, and patrons. A bondage scene in the first episode, set to Phil Collins’s breezy “She’s an Easy Lover,” is the sort of libidinous freak-out Ryan Murphy has been serving up since the late seasons of Nip/Tuck;Criss does an impromptu, preppy-trying-to-be-wild dance before his duct-taped john that’s so perfect and right for the era that I almost laughed. He’s his own demented go-go boy.

Criss gives a tour-de-force turn as Cunanan, but the moving supporting performances are also stellar: Edgar Ramirez (as Versace); Ricky Martin (as the designer’s longtime partner); Jon Jon Briones (as wily Pete Cunanan); Cody Fern (as Cunanan’s dream man, a wheat-haired Midwestern Apollo); Mike Farrell and Michael Nouri (as Cunanan’s classy, wealthy, older lovers); Finn Wittrock (as a decent, brave but disconsolate Navy man caught up in Clinton’s swampy Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy); and the always-reliable Judith Light (as the blinkered wife of one of the murder victims, a honeyed Home Network purveyor of perfumes, cosmetics, and folksy advice). Penelope Cruz gives one of her most ferocious performances as Donatella, the world-weary fashion insurgent; Cruz uses the trademark Donatella snarl and swagger in such a creative way that it becomes almost lovable, suggesting the impassioned, caring sister underneath all the come-hither leather and glamorous packaging.

Despite some initially mixed, even dismissive reviews, this second installment of American Crime Story recently garnered 18 Emmy nominations, six of which went to the risk-taking actors. Murphy has, in the past, been all about shock and showmanship, but Assassination represents a newfound candor, fraught complexity, and daring in his work: he’s gone for something deeper and subtler here than his dynamic crowd-pleaser, The People Vs. O.J. Simpson, 2016’s most lauded show, or even his affecting, Emmy-winning TV version of Larry Kramer’s AIDS drama, The Normal Heart.

Just as the emboldened right has renewed its predictable attacks against the LGBT community, Murphy’s piercing, intricate series delves into the tyranny of the closet—the toxic effects of suppression, bigotry, and mainstream rejection. I’ve never admired Murphy’s bold, baroque eye and vision more.

#acs versace #the washington spectator #article #review #darren criss #penelope cruz #december 2018 #january 2019 #.thanks musexmoirai

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hippychick006 · 6 years

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4.21 - When the Levee Breaks

or the one where Dean needs to read “the idiots guide to detoxing your little brother of demon blood” Also the one where Castiel is revealed to be a lying skank who tricks Dean and lets Sam out of the panic room.

This episode is heartbreaking from start to finish. I get why people have trouble re-watching it, because it is painful seeing the brothers as broken as they are and at such odds with one another. It’s an amazing episode though and everyone involved knocks it out of the park.

This post is very long, but since the episode frequently gets misinterpreted, I want to make sure all the important dialogue is in here. It’s a critical episode because it shows heaven’s betrayal (hell’s betrayal is coming up in the next episode). I personally wish both had been shown in the same episode and I wish that Kripke hadn’t went back on the angel betrayal with Castiel growing a pair at the last minute. It completely unbalances the season. Anyway, I’m going to stow the bitterness for that episode and concentrate only on this one.

We open on the panic room. Sam’s inside - and would it have been too much to give him a television or an xbox (other gaming stations are available). Dean opens the window in the door and they have a conversation, the best part of which is:

Sam: Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you. Just open the door. Dean: You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault. It's not your fault that you lied to me over and over again. I get it now. You couldn't help it. Sam: I'm not some junkie! Dean: Really? I guess I've just imagined how strung out you've been lately. Sam: You're actually trying to twist this into some kind of ridiculous drug intervention?

Upshot of the conversation is that Dean thinks Sam is weak, desperate and pathetic and he’s earned himself a benchwarmer seat to the apocalypse.

Also, this important line, for people that conveniently forget that Dean was also wanting to kill Lilith (and therefore unknowingly break the first seal): “Oh, Lilith's gonna die. Bobby and I will kill her. But not with you.”

Dean closes the door and returns upstairs, we hear Sam screaming to be let out.

Sam’s not doing well, he’s strung out and having hallucinations (and kudos on Jared for this entire episode). First hallucination is Alastair who is delighted to see Sam again and wonders how they’ll pass the time. Cue Sam strapped onto a torture bed. Sadly, since it’s Sam’s hallucination and not really Alastair, Sam gets to keep his clothes on (which Ruby didn’t in a previous episode).

Torture scene is difficult to watch, so thankfully we switch to Dean and Bobby, in Bobby’s study, where Sam’s screams aren’t quite so loud. Dean and Bobby are having whisky which is... nice for them I guess. Dean is listening to Sam’s screams and asks Bobby how long this is going to go on.

Bobby: Here, let me look it up in my demon-detox manual. Oh wait. No one ever wrote one. No telling how long it'll take. Hell, or if Sam will even live through it.

Heh. The phone goes at that point, Bobby answers with: “Hello. ...Suck dirt and die, Rufus. You call me again, I'll kill you.”

I would watch a whole season of just Bobby and Rufus, hunting back in the seventies. That would be fun. Anyway, when Rufus calls back, it appears that Rufus “knows”. Not sure what it is that he knows right now.

Back to Sam in the panic room and Sam discovers he’s no longer bound and being tortured. Alastair has disappeared, but wee!Sam is there and he’s pissed that they didn’t get to be normal.

Sam: I'm sorry. I am. But life doesn't turn out the way you thought when you were fourteen years old. We were never gonna be normal. We were never gonna get away. Grow up. Wee!Sam: Maybe you're right. Maybe there's no escape. After all, how can you run from what's inside you? [Wee!Sam’s eyes turn yellow].

I love Jared and Colin’s interaction here. We’ve never seen them interact together on screen so it’s great that we got this scene between them.

Back to Bobby and Dean. Rufus was calling about the seals; 3 have broken in a single day. Bobby questions “ is now really the right time to be having this little domestic drama of ours?”

Dean: So what? Sacrifice Sam's life, his soul, for the greater good? Is that what you're saying? Times are bad, so let's use Sam as a nuclear warhead? Bobby: Look, I know you hate me for suggesting it. I hate me for suggesting it. I love that boy like a son. All I'm saying is maybe he's here right now instead of on the battlefield because we love him too much.

Back to the panic room and Sam’s getting worse. He hallucinates his mom this time. She tells him he looks awful. This is the most important hallucination so far, because hallucination!mary tells Sam exactly what he wants to hear. It’s the one that justifies to Sam what he’s doing (obviously this is all in Sam’s head). As an aside, I had to look up Samantha’s eye colour because I thought they were greenish and they are, a very light colour, but in this entire scene they were dark, almost black.

Sam tells Mary to go ahead and tell him she’s disappointed, “You never thought I'd turn out this way. I'm a piss-poor excuse for a son. Your heart is broken. Am I close?”

Mary says no, that Sam’s doing the right thing, and that she’s proud of him. That Dean doesn’t understand the hard choices or what needs to be done to get the job done. Hallucination!Mary confirms Sam’s suspicions that what’s inside him is evil and Sam questions if Dean’s right, is it stronger than Sam.

Hallucination!Mary: Dean can never know how strong you are, because Dean is weak. Look at what he's done to you. Locking you in here? He's terrified. He's in over his head. You have to go on without him. You have what it takes. You have to kill Lilith.

Sam: Even if it kills me. Mary: Make my death mean something. I'm counting on you, Sam. Don't let anyone or anything get in your way. Not even Dean.

Dean’s outside in the scrap yard. It appears he’s been screaming for the angels for the last few hours. Castiel finally turns up and he’s pissy. Yet again, their entire conversation is laser focused on Sam - so much for Destiel. All they ever talk about is the “eye fking”. They aren’t ever actually listening to their conversation at all. As an experiment, replace Misha in all of these scenes with Zachariah and then question whether Destiel exists on screen. The answer is a resounding no. It exists in fantasy, not because of their dialogue or interactions or that it makes sense to the story, but because 2 unrelated hot guys are on screen at the same time (though I strongly dispute one of them is hot imo, even back then).

Anyway, Dean asks Castiel to tell him what he was going to tell him before he was yanked back up to heaven. Castiel answers it was nothing of import.

Dean: You got ass-reamed in heaven but it was not of import? Castiel: Dean, I can't. I'm sorry. Get to the reason you really called me. It's about Sam, right? [bolding this for the hellers benefit because it is always about Sam].

Dean asks if Sam can do it, can he kill Lilith. Castiel answers possibly, but that Sam would have to take certain steps, that; “Consuming the amount of blood it would take to kill Lilith would change your brother forever. Most likely, he would become the next creature that you would feel compelled to kill. There's no reason this would have to come to pass, Dean. We believe it's you, Dean, not your brother. The only question for us is whether you're willing to accept it. Stand up and accept your role. You are the one who will stop it.”

Dean: If I do this, Sammy doesn't have to? Castiel: If it gives you comfort to see it that way. Dean: God, you're a dick these days.

If I can interject at this point; he’s always been a dick, Dean. He’s just the least dickish of all the angels we’ve met so far.

Dean walks away and sighs: Fine, I'm in.

I want to be very clear here. Dean thinks he’s agreeing to stop Lilith so that Sam doesn’t have to. He thinks he’s agreeing to stop the apocalypse. This is an outright lie on Castiel’s part. He already knows at this point that the plan is for Sam to break the final seal to start the apocalypse and that Dean’s only role is as Michael’s vessel to fight Lucifer once he’s free. This betrayal is so much more than just letting Sam out of the panic room. why do people gloss over this? Tell me again why I should like Castiel? This is why the narrative that started at the end of season 11 (that Cass is best friend, brother even) pisses me off.

Dean has to swear he gives himself wholly over to the service of god and the angels. He asks what’s next? Castiel answers to wait and they’ll call when it’s time. This scene takes ages to fade away from and Cass and Dean are both just standing there awkwardly for several seconds. Bad editing.

Believe it or not, we are only just a third of the way through this episode. Sorry, but blame decent writing!

Back to the panic room, and I was wrong earlier, Sam has magazines for entertainment, including “Weekly woodsman”. He’s sitting on the floor and he’s jittery. The veins on his hands turn black and he gets up to look in the mirror, the veins in his face turn black too. He screams for help.

Cut to Dean who ignores the screams.

Bobby: Correct me if I'm wrong, but you willingly signed up to be the angels' bitch?

Note it’s plural, angels not angel, so no, this line is not ship pandering and Bobby is correct, because that’s exactly what Dean’s done.

Dean glares at Bobby and Bobby amends, “'m sorry. You prefer 'sucker'? After everything you said about them, now you trust them?”

Dean: Come on, give me a little credit, Bobby. I've never trusted them less. I mean, they come on like shady politicians from planet Vulcan. Bobby: Then why in the hell did you— Dean: Because what other option do I have? It's either trust the angels or let Sammy trust a demon?

SEASON 4 IN A SINGLE LINE!

Both suddenly realise that it’s went quiet and rush to the panic room. They open the window in the door and see that Sam’s having a fit on the floor.

Dean: What if he's faking? Bobby: You really think he would? Dean: I think he'd do anything.

Sam suddenly starts being thrown around the walls.

Bobby: That ain’t faking.

No shit Sherlock. They rush in to help.

Sam wakes up strapped down to the bed and this episode isn’t getting any less traumatic to watch, even for a hurt!Sam fan. He can sit up at least and we see Dean is in the room. This is a great scene between Jared and Jensen. They have an argument about why Sam did this to himself, leading to;

Dean: Revenge for what? For sending me to hell? Did you happen to notice I'm back? Alive and kicking. So what's the point? Sam: Point? How about 'stop the damn apocalypse'?

We see that Sam is talking to himself so this is Hallucination!Dean.

Hallucination!Dean: My gig. Not yours. The angels said so, remember? God picked me, man. So you got any other fantastic excuses? Hmm?

Back with Bobby and the real Dean and Bobby is still having doubts about what they are doing. He thinks the demon blood isn’t killing Sam, they are.

Bobby: I'm sorry. I can't bite my tongue any longer. We're killing him. Keeping him locked up down there. This cold-turkey thing isn't working. If—if he doesn't get what he needs, soon, Sam's not gonna last much longer. Dean: No. I'm not giving him demon blood. I won't do it. Bobby: And if he dies? Dean: Then at least he dies human!

I down a third of the whisky bottle as we go back to hallucination!Dean and Sam. He tells Sam he knows why he drinks the demon blood. That Sam’s never felt normal his entire life. “You were always a monster...”

Back to the real Dean with Bobby: “I would die for him in a second, but I won't let him do this to himself. I can't. I guess I found my line. I won't let my brother turn into a monster.”

Takes a deep breath before returning to Sam in the panic room. Hallucination!Dean’s still talking: “And I tried so hard to pretend that we were brothers. That you weren't one of the filthy things that we hunt. But we're not even the same species. You're nothing to me.”

Sam: Don't say that to me. Don't you say that to me.

Sam turns away and when he turns back, Dean has disappeared. Sam falls asleep, exhausted. We see the passage of time from the window above the bed as day turns to night. Love these shots.

We stay on Sam as he wakes up. The hand and foot cuffs are shown to open, as does the panic room door. I think Sam still thinks he’s hallucinating at first, but realises it’s real and he escapes. As he walks up the stairs, we see that skank angel in a trench coat formerly known as Castiel, close and lock the panic room door.

Bobby and Dean are asleep as Sam slips past them.

The skank angel in a trench coat formerly known as Castiel, is at the docks. Anna appears and asks why he let Sam out when Dean was trying to stop him. Castiel says he was following orders and says Anna shouldn’t have come. Angels come and take Anna away. Another betrayal.

This next scene is heartbreaking (and that’s in an entire episode of scenes that are heartbreaking). Sam’s trying to steal a car and we hear a gun cocking (will that word get past the new censorship on here? I doubt it). It’s Bobby. Jim and Jared just kill this scene. Bobby tells Sam he’s going back to the panic room. Sam says no and that Bobby won’t shoot him. Bobby says not to test him, that they are trying to help Sam.

Sam walks forward until the gun touches his stomach, he raises it and holds it against his chest and says “Then shoot.” Bobby doesn’t of course, and Sam grabs the gun and knocks him out. We can see that it devastated him to have to do that. He drives off.

SEND MORE WHISKY!

Dean and Bobby investigate the panic room, wondering how Sam got out. They suspect demons, Ruby in particular. Me screaming at the television right now: NO, IT WAS THAT SKANK IN A TRENCH COAT FORMERLY KNOWN AS CASTIEL! Dean hopes that Sam is with Ruby when he catches up to him, “'Cause killing her's the next big item on my to-do list.”

Bobby: I thought you were on call for angel duty. Dean: I am on call. In my car, on my way to murder the bitch.

As he leaves the room, Bobby says, “Sam don't wanna be found, which means he's gonna be damn near impossible to find.” Oh Bobby, this is Dean we’re talking about. He knows his brother inside out - which is why I can’t understand his approach in this entire episode.

Sam’s in a very nice room (compared to their usual standards). He’s jittery. Ruby arrives, Sam asks if Ruby let him out. Ruby says no. Sam says he’s been trying to get her for weeks, Ruby says she’s been busy trying to find Lilith.

Ruby: I'm sorry you're hurting. Really. I had no idea that Dean would do that to you. Sam: You and me both.

He confirms he knows Dean’s going to come after him, that Dean knows exactly which habits, aliases and motels he’d pick. Which is why they are switching it up in the honeymoon suite in Sam’s attempt to shake him.

Ruby: It won't be easy. I mean, he knows you better than anyone. Sam: Not as well as he thinks.

Sam’s had enough talking and drinks Ruby’s blood.

Dean’s still at the scrap yard, I think he’s fixing baby, and I love mechanic!Dean scenes. Bobby tells him the cops found his stolen car and 2 more have been reported where it was found: One “nice and anonymous like Sam likes” and the other “White oh-five Escalade with custom rims. It's a neon sign.”

Dean: You're right. He'd never take that. Which is exactly what he did. Bobby: You think? Dean: I know that kid...

Back to Sam and Ruby, and there’s a lot in this scene. Ruby says they’re down to the final couple of seals and Ruby’s found out that the final seal can only be broken by Lucifer’s first - the first human soul he tempted and twisted; Lilith. So Sam figures out if he can get to Lilith first and kill her, the apocalypse will be stopped. Ruby says she’s closing in on a member of Lilith’s entourage; her personal chef.

Sam: Chef? Seriously? What does she eat?

Ruby: You don’t wanna know.

And it turns out that no we didn’t want to know. We really, really didn’t want to know, because Lilith eats babies.

Back at the motel, Ruby tells Sam that he’s going to need more blood than she can give him. Sam sighs, and Ruby thinks it’s because Sam still has problems with the blood drinking. That’s not what it is, Sam’s fine with the blood drinking, he’s just thinking about Dean (of course he is).

Sam: I just—I wish he'd trusted me, you know?

Ruby: Sorry. Sam: I just hope...you know, when all this is over...I hope we can fix things.

Dean’s driving and Bobby tells him the cops found the Escalade dumped in a ditch. The town near there is lighting up with demon signs, so Dean will head for there. Bobby gives some sage advice:

Bobby: Us finding Sam? It's gotta be about getting him back, not pushing him away. Dean: Right. Bobby: I know you're mad, Dean. I understand. You got a right to be, but I'm just saying. Be good to him anyway. You gotta get through to him. Dean doesn’t respond and hangs up.

We see Sam leave the motel room. We also see Dean waiting and he goes in when Sam leaves. He tries to kill Ruby with the demon knife, but it appears Sam has forgotten something. He stops Dean. Dean says solid try on trying to ditch him. Sam says he’s glad Dean’s here and wants to talk.

Dean: Soon as she's dead, we can talk all you want.

Sam tells Ruby to go. Dean moves to stop her, and Sam moves to stop him. I can’t with this next scene. A very long scene that needs to be watched carefully. Dean says Ruby is poison and that she’s been manipulating Sam. Sam says he’s wrong.

Dean: Sam, you're lying to yourself. I just want you to be okay. You would do the same for me. You know you would. Sam: Just listen for a second. We got a lead on a demon close to Lilith. Come with us, Dean. We'll do this together. Dean: That sounds great. As long as it's you and me. Demon bitch is a deal breaker. You kiss her goodbye, we can go right now.

Sam says he can’t, that he needs her to help him kill Lilith. “I know you can't wrap your head around it, but maybe one day you'll understand. I'm the only one who can do this, Dean.” Dean: No, you're not the one who's gonna do this. Sam: Right, that's right, I forgot. The angels think it's you. Dean: You don't think I can? Sam: No. You can't. You're not strong enough. Dean: And who the hell are you? Sam: I'm being practical here. I'm doing what needs to be done.

Dean: Yeah? You're not gonna do a single damn thing. Sam: Stop bossing me around, Dean. Look. My whole life, you take the wheel, you call the shots, and I trust you because you are my brother. Now I'm asking you, for once, trust me. Dean: No. You don't know what you're doing, Sam. Sam: Yes, I do. Dean: Then that's worse. Sam: Why? Look, I'm telling you— Dean: Because it's not something that you're doing, it's what you are! It means— Sam: What? No. Say it. [Sam has tears and mine are starting as I know what;s coming.]

Dean: It means you're a monster.

Sam turns away so he misses that a tear slips down Dean’s face. Sam turns back and punches Dean and the brother fight is on. Sam’s hopped up on demon blood, so gets the upper hand. Dean’s on the floor and Sam chokes him [I think this is finally the anger we’ve been told about all season but has only appeared in the last episode]. Just as it looks like Sam is going to kill Dean, he stops himself.

Sam: You don't know me. You never did. And you never will.

Dean: You walk out that door, don't you ever come back.

The episode is finished and so is the whisky. The anger management toy is in pieces and I need another picture of Zachariah for the dart board before the next episode.

I don’t know how anyone can watch this episode and think either of the brothers had the moral high ground. They were both wrong.

Dean chose to trust heaven rather than Sam and they betrayed him in this very episode (though obviously Dean doesn’t know that right now). And in something that annoys me very much, he never learns the full extent of their betrayal - he never finds out about the panic room or the altered voicemail in the next episode.

Sam trusts Ruby. She will betray him in the very next episode (though obviously neither Sam nor us know that right now).

They both chose to trust other people, who betray them both, instead of who they should have been trusting all along; each other.

Up next, Lucifer Rising. I hate it. So need caffeine before I attempt to watch, but I’ll try and get through it tonight to complete analysis of Season 4.

#supernatural #season 4 #rewatch #4.21 #when the levee breaks #episode review

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douxreviews · 6 years

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The OA - Season 1 Review

By Billie Doux

(The first part of this review is spoiler-free. I'll discuss the ending underneath the adorable spoiler kitten.)

The OA is an eight-episode series currently available on Netflix that was created by Brit Marling, who plays the lead, and Zal Batmanglij. It tells the story of a young blind woman named Prairie Johnson, missing for seven years, who returns home unexpectedly.

Prairie, no longer blind and inexplicably referring to herself as "The OA," won't tell the FBI or her parents (the wonderful former Borg queen Alice Krige and equally wonderful Walking Dead alum Scott Wilson) what happened to her during the seven years she was missing, although there are physical indications that she was imprisoned and abused. Instead, she begins telling her story to five random people in an abandoned house at midnight. The story, and it's a wild one, is told in chapters on successive nights throughout the succeeding episodes, and it has a dramatic effect on the lives of the five listeners, all of whom are from the local high school.

The ending of this series, or possibly first season since there are rumors that there may be a second, is controversial and is generating a lot of discussion. For me, The OA isn't so much about the ending, although I'm one of the viewers who found it quite powerful. It's my opinion that The OA is about the strength and transformative power of storytelling. We've all read books that have changed our lives and made us see the world in a new way. That's what this story did for the OA's five acolytes, four of whom are high school students: Steve, a violent outcast who deals drugs; druggie Jesse; brilliant and disadvantaged Alfonso; Buck the youngest who is trans and struggling to make his parents understand him; and Betty Broderick-Allen, a teacher.

I'm not sure if I can wholeheartedly recommend The OA. Some are finding it utterly fascinating and well worth watching (like me. I thought it was), while others are pissed about the ending and think it was a huge waste of their time. Caveat emptor?

And now, some spoilers. If you're planning to watch The OA, go no further until after you do!

What was real?

It appears that Prairie Johnson was kidnapped and imprisoned for seven years. She was blind when she was kidnapped, and regained her sight before she returned. Her five acolytes indeed used "the movements" she taught them to distract the school shooter long enough to keep him from killing the children in the cafeteria. Were the five actually sending the OA through an interdimensional portal so that she could rescue Homer and the others, or was that all in her head?

Honestly, I was about to give up on this series while watching the first episode, until I got to the end when the "I was born in Russia in 1987" thing started, oddly coinciding with the title sequence. Who puts the title sequence at the end? It was like saying, the story actually begins here. Of course, her childhood in Russia and the way she came back from the dead was very secret princess. It was so unbelievable that this was the point where I started wondering if OA was making the whole thing up. Or if maybe she believed it, but was stark raving mad.

There are so many hints and parallels throughout that make it seem possible that OA is either lying about her past and her seven years of imprisonment, or that she is mentally ill and honestly believes things that are not true. Her parents kept her medicated for nearly her entire childhood because of her unbelievable stories. There were multiple references to her head injuries. After her return home, the doctors in St. Louis said she should be committed. In the final episode, she is again being medicated and has an ankle monitor. There are also many indications that OA is psychic, which could be true even if she fabricated the whole thing.

After I finished the series, I rewatched the pilot, searching for clues. The first thing she asked when she woke after jumping off the bridge was, "Did I flatline?" She said that she was trying to get back to where she'd been held captive, even though she knew that they were gone. She also said, "We all died more times than I can count." The first thing she did when she arrived in her childhood home was attempt to find Homer Roberts on her computer, and later, she did. Although why couldn't Steve and Alfonso find evidence of her story online, too?

Did Hap exist, or was his search for proof of life after death a way that the OA used to humanize her captor? During the series, we often see things from Hap's viewpoint, even to his trips to find other NDE survivors and that strange murder of his friend at a morgue. (What the hell really happened in that morgue? What was that other guy doing?) The OA told her five acolytes that her father was a miner, and Hap's house was situated at an abandoned mine. When the OA was little and her name was Nina Azarova, her father forced her into freezing water in order to cure her fear of her nightmares of drowning in an aquarium, and note the similarity to Hap repeatedly drowning his captive subjects. Plus, the series began when the OA jumped off a bridge, and the kids on the school bus in Russia went over a bridge. Note also the use of glass or plastic during the OA's seven years of imprisonment and in the final shooting scene.

The neighborhood that the OA and her acolytes lived in was outright creepy. It looked like a typical suburb on the surface, but it consisted of jarring and oddly naked tract houses and there were often strange objects in the street. And I dare say most suburban neighborhoods don't have a half-built abandoned house sitting in the middle of an empty street? There was also the weirdness of the OA's instructions to her acolytes to leave their doors open while they were at her storytelling seances, something I found uncomfortable in present-day America; was that because the FBI instructed the Johnsons that "doors should remain open at all times"?

Steve, the OA's first follower and the character who changed the most, was introduced with a jarring, explicit sex scene right in front of a picture window showing that strange neighborhood. A drug-dealing bully with rage issues, Steve was the one who chose the other acolytes — except for teacher Betty Broderick-Allen, who basically chose herself. Grief-stricken by the recent death of her twin brother, Betty at first appeared to be a closed-minded teacher parroting the views of a rigid educational system uninterested in connecting with children who are different. Phyllis Smith is wonderful as Betty, and I thought her developing relationship with Steve, and in particular, the night she gave away her inheritance to save him from the goons from Asheville, was one of the high points of the series. I also really loved the scene where the OA impersonated Steve's stepmother and talked Betty out of expelling Steve, especially the bizarre little detail of one of the OA's fake press-on nails popping off while they were talking. Note that the OA guessed correctly that Betty had just lost a sibling, another bit that made me think she was psychic.

So let's talk about the ending.

The scene where Alfonso found the books under the OA's bed was very Usual Suspects, but it was also ambiguous. Yes, the OA could have used those books to create the details in her story, but she also could have been reading about subjects that had a relationship to her life, couldn't she? Why did Alfonso look in the mirror and see himself as Homer? And here's the big one for me. What was FBI agent Elias doing in the Johnson home alone at night, and why was he so weird and unconventional in the first place?

After I finished all eight episodes, I checked out a lot of articles and reviews on the internet. What seems to upset critics the most is the insertion of a school shooting into the narrative, supposedly out of nowhere. (That, and the admittedly silly interpretive dance "movements" that were intended to open the interdimensional portal.)

Honestly, I don't think the school shooting came out of nowhere. The focus of the entire series was saving the lives of children, and the five acolytes were all from the high school. The OA's story began with the Russian children dying on the bus, and then focused on five youths trapped under glass and killed and revived repeatedly in Hap's basement. Plus, it seemed to me that Steve fit the profile of a possible school shooter, and even though he momentarily reacted to the OA with anger in the pencil-stabbing scene, he was the one who changed the most, and for the better, over the course of the story.

We're now hearing that there may be a second season in the works. I cannot imagine what a second season could be about. Almost anything they do to answer questions about what happened in the first season might ruin the whole thing. Then again, what if the OA really did go through a portal in the end? What if Homer, Rachel, Scott and Renata do exist and are still imprisoned, waiting for her to rescue them?

A few bits:

-- OA may have meant "original angel." I thought that it could have been an interpretation of the word "away."

-- I didn't notice it the first time through, but there is a lot of purple, the color of royalty (secret princess), magic and spirituality.

-- There's Braille, too. There are actually strips on Braille on Khatun's face during the afterlife scenes. Also, the OA kept touching her white bedspread that had knobby protrusions like Braille.

-- How on earth did the OA and Homer write the symbols representing the movements on their skin? They couldn't touch each other; could anyone physically do that? Was that the reason the OA was told to make her arms longer during that scene with the bill and the trench?

-- Why were there potted plants in Hap's underground prison?

-- Why did the OA's mother Nancy freak out in the restaurant?

-- Loved the tiny blue quail eggs in milk for breakfast, and the bit in the afterlife about swallowing a bird.

So what is this show? Is it pretentious arty crap, or is it a powerful story about storytelling, mysticism and life after death? Lines are open. What did you guys think?

Billie Doux loves good television and spends way too much time writing about it.

#The OA #Brit Marlin #Prairie Johnson #The OA Reviews #Doux Reviews #TV Reviews #something from the archive

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