#building seamlessly on another. such that I had to paste a shocking amount for later parts to have nearly the context and the punch! they

[ravencromwell]

we grow not like a flower blooming, so what’s innermost becomes what’s outermost, but like trees, our earliest structures and twists shaping what comes after, hidden beneath the bark.

Sometimes I think we build time in order to escape that raw forever. Sometimes I think we spend our whole lives trying to get back there: chasing castles on hills and green lights at the end of piers and various visions of God. When you are caring for a child—and I think this is especially and particularly true when caring for your own child, in that daily, inescapable way I never managed when I was, for example, visiting with my sister’s children when they were young—you find yourself, every day, in their full and awake presence. And in the presence of what you were, when you were the seed crystal of yourself.

That sensation is… not always comfortable! Back then we were scared and back then we were hungry and back then we wanted as if there was nothing else in the universe and we couldn’t do anything about any of it, not because we were not strong or stable enough, or did not have enough fine motor control, or language, but because we did not quite yet know that these overwhelming feelings could pass, can pass, do pass. We did not know there was such a world as after. But also back then we could stare in awe, forever, at the underside of an iron table outside Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square, at the leaves and the sky through the diamond spaces between the metal. We could stare forever, even if we only stared for five minutes, or two—because the distinction between two minutes and five and forever was not so firmly wrought.

You start to see the children in other people, and in yourself. Humans on the whole seem less fundamentally good or evil and more tired, hungry, thirsty, asserting their independence from mommy / daddy / nurse, needing care, navigating this or that difficult transition, being unexpectedly, breathtakingly kind. It’s not like seeing The Matrix, this weird new vision doesn’t suddenly explain everything, and it certainly doesn’t excuse everything—one reason we try to help one another grow up is that a toddler with the tools of a grown being is a dangerous creature, to themselves and to others. But still, reading parenting books and connecting them with my experience, I gasp—the way you do when a physical therapist finds just the right place to push, or when the couch-and-chair kind of therapist asks just this one innocent question. Oh. Oh, that’s how it is.

Take transitions, for example. (This particular bit is from Tovah Klein’s How Toddlers Thrive.) Toddlers tend to have trouble with state transitions—from playing to eating, from eating to storytime, and of course the big transition to sleep. The problem is (Klein says, and I buy it) one of control, and time. We understand the now, we understand what is in front of us and around us. We understand that we are right here with a book or a toy sheep, and we are comfortable. Even when we don’t like the now, we know it. We can navigate.

The next, though, that’s a problem. That’s an issue. Who knows what happens next? Anything could be out there! In fact, the very prospect of next, the fact that there is such a creature, suggests that we don’t actually have as much control of now as we like to think. Next undermines us. So we cling to now. In those moments, it falls to the parents to help the child through the arc: begin with sympathy for the emotion—of course you want to keep reading, you were happy there, of course you don’t want to get up and sit down for a meal, of course, you have some measure of control and comfort in this moment in this uncertain world and you don’t want to go to bed, because who knows what happens tomorrow—and then, once sympathy and empathy have been established, offer structure. This is what we have to do now. And: continuity.

I’m still here for you. I love you.

So there I am, at my dining room table, reading this Tovah Klein book on a Sunday night, up too late, in the pandemic, still, not wanting to go to bed, because tomorrow I have to get up at six thirty if I want to write before parenting, and then there’s parenting, and then the same thing tomorrow, and the day after, and if I just stay here, reading about toddlers and their transition difficulties, I will know what’s going on, and be happy. And my chest is suddenly tight. Because I still don’t want to get up. Because who knows what comes next.

... This makes me think, too, about these little magic mirrors we carry in our pockets or pocketbooks or leave on the table in arm’s reach, about our phones, that is, about all the many ways they talk to us and remind us that they exist. I think about email and slack and SMS and the tweets and the facebooks and instagrams, how they’re always there, how unless we’re careful and clear in our boundaries, they never stop talking to us. I’ve read no end of “distraction crit,” those essays and eleven-chapter books about how what we really need is focus, freedom from the device’s interruptions. I eat that stuff like I eat Thin Mints—too many of them, too fast, because they feel too much like exactly what I want. I want to spend more time in maker time, I want to spend more time in Deep Work, in Flow. I don’t want to get Hijacked by Evolutionary Plains Ape Survival Strategies that don’t match with what I Need to Do as a Knowledge Worker in the Modern Economy.

But: maybe it’s not just the distraction. Maybe it’s not just the evolutionary plains ape whatever. Maybe the phone’s buzzes and dings and pop-up notifications offer not so much interruption as the promise of a life without transitions—a life without time. If we’re in some sense always on email, we never have to get off email and go do something else. If we’re always on Twitter, we never have to put Twitter away. No matter how awful we feel, we are always in that place, which means we always are. There we are seen, and remembered, and loved. However much we are, at the same time and in the same place and sometimes even by the same people and devices, hated.

Of course, your phone does not love you. But it can kick out a little picture of a heart every once in a while, which makes you feel good, because in second grade you cut one just like that out of a piece of rough red construction paper. We are not complicated creatures.

Often, a toddler doesn’t need more than a kiss. A word, a calming touch. To be lifted. To be hugged in a way that doesn’t make them feel they’re falling. “I know how you feel. I get it. I feel that way too sometimes. And we’re in this together.” “I love you.” “I’m right here.”

It’s shattering to realize how little we need, and how much.

--Max Gladstone: Under The Table, Inside The Tree

#Max Gladstone #poetry #words to remember #this essay--so very well worth a read in its entirety--just gutted me. structurally. in the way it mirrored a tree. with one observation #building seamlessly on another. such that I had to paste a shocking amount for later parts to have nearly the context and the punch! they #required. but mostly. in its philosophy. my GOD its philosophy. and the way that philosophy encapsulates both the macro--the insights on #tech y'all just holy hell yesssssss--and also the micro: this thing I. and a lot of folk with #mental health stuff #struggle with constantly. and struggle even more to articulate: utter mind-numbing all-consuming terror over transitions #it felt like one of those pieces of writing that come so rarely. toolkit and treasure map rolled into one. insight crystalized such that we #can name the problem and start groping our way towards a solution. a writerly gaze that gave human insight both unsparingly and with a #profound empathy: we have to grow past our terror and dependence yeah. but it's all right to feel that terror. to need to do the growing. #so long as it doesn't overwelm us. and that permission was viscerally comforting to me #even more so. I think. because community is at the heart of this: under the tree is both a metaphor for time but also for a gatheringplace #for getting the love and communal support we all desperately. fundamentally need. and that felt such a comfort to: the acknowledment #that often. what we need most is someone to say: yeah. I'm right here in the shit with you but it's ok; we'll swim it together. and that #need is no cause for shame. is this great beautiful thing we can grant even as others grant it to us #(I really fucking adore Gladstone's work and his substack is an endless joy even as I struggle to articulate why would be the tldr #explanation of my tossing 1200 words at y'all and hoping you could glean as much from 'em as I did)

[swampofiniquity]

Gasoline (Leon Kennedy x Reader)

Part Three of Point / Counterpoint

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 2829

Summary:  It took several years and almost being killed on the job, but you and Leon finally reach the breaking point.

Warnings: Explicit sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, fighting

Part One / Part Two

You could feel the judgmental gazes of the rest of the team, could hear their frustrated muttering as they filed in behind you. Someone even dared to joke, quiet laughter breaking out until a sharp warning glare from Leon sent people scattering like cockroaches after the light switched on.

So much for all the hard work you had put in to earn their respect.

Your fists were clenched so tightly that your fingers ached and your palms stung from your nails digging into the tender flesh. Your tongue was bleeding from being held so tightly between your teeth for the hours it took for the mission party to return to HQ. It was all you could do to keep your frustration from exploding all over the place like a fifth grade science fair volcano.

You were beyond furious. Rage, white and hot coursed through your blood, searing your veins as Leon shoved you bodily into the elevator, his own anger rolling off him in sickening waves. Never before had either of you been so upset with one another.

The indignity of being thrown over his shoulder and removed from the mission like a petulant child. The utter disregard for your expertise or competency as an agent. The fucking audacity to stand between you and your target, to yell at you in front of the whole team. As the elevator climbed, you could concentrate on nothing else, not the vice-like grip he still had on your arm or the acrid, lingering scent of gunpowder on your clothes. Not even the nagging worry in the back of your head that this had done irreparable damage to your friendship.

After what seemed like forever, the elevator finally stopped at the top floor and Leon shoved you out, dragging you to his office and locking the door. He turned to you with a kindred fury burning in his blue eyes.

The room echoed with two warring shouts of “What the hell is wrong with you?” and “You nearly got yourself killed!”

“Goddamnit Leon, he was right there! Another second and I could have had him if you hadn’t -” you cut yourself off, fuming. Your hands shook as you slid off the ridiculous stiletto heels that were part of your disguise. It took every ounce of what little remained of your restraint to not hurl the uncomfortable shoes at his office window.

While you primarily served as medical support out in the field, being the youngest woman on the team you also did a fair amount of what was jokingly referred to as ‘honey pot’ missions, where your job was to dress a certain way, go in and extract information from or otherwise distract targets that had a known weakness for women. It was a bit demeaning having to show up to work in a thong and push-up bra, but you had been instrumental in putting some pretty big players in the B.O.W. market out of commission. You were damn good at your job, even in a dress and heels.

And you had never failed at it, until tonight.

“We had a plan!” he roared, stalking towards you until you were forced to take a step back. “You were not to engage until backup was ready. His security made you, you realize that right? Another second and you would have been dead!”

You shook your head, bristling under his glare, his anger feeding into your own. “You of all people should have trusted me!”

Leon growled, grabbing your shoulders and shoving you hard into the wall. A twisted, pained sort of scowl marred his face. Still furious, even beyond the shock of his actions, you bared your teeth at him in a cruel smile. You weren’t some spineless rookie agent he couldn't intimidate, and you were going to just let him manhandle you into submission.

After a tense moment, he finally took a step back and let you go. Leon rolled his neck and turned to walk to his desk, to put some distance between the two of you. But somehow, the sight of his back made you even more livid.

“Coward,” you hissed.

He was back in a second, pushing you roughly into the wall with his bulk and grabbing you by the throat. For a fleeting, terrifying second you thought he meant to squeeze, but then he leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours so forcefully you were sure your lips would bruise.

It was less kissing than combat, the resulting embrace. It was remarkable how easy it was to go from hate to need. Or perhaps more aptly, for the two to blur together so seamlessly. As soon as you felt his hard body up against you and his lips pull viciously at your own, the boiling blood under your skin took on a different purpose.

It didn't matter that he was your friend or your superior or that he had just humiliated you on the job. Years of tension came to head spectacularly, leaving the two of you powerless to do anything but give in.

Your frantic hands clawed at his jacket as he gripped your waist and hauled you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around him. The ragged fabric of your once elegant gown, now torn and dirty from the harrowing failure of a mission, rucked up past your hips.

“Oh fuck,” you panted against his mouth, instinctively grinding into him. Leon groaned into the kiss and your head spun as you felt him harden through his pants.

"Jesus, gorgeous." Hit bit down on your lips as he pressed his growing erection further into you.

You were flushed. The room and your blood too hot. Your skin too sensitive. Your clothes felt like they were suffocating you. Desperately, you tried to reach the zipper of your dress with one shaking hand, the other anchoring tightly around his neck. But you couldn’t quite grasp it. A frustrated whine caught in your throat.

“Get me outta this,” you demanded, tearing your mouth from his. Leon nipped at your lips before reluctantly returning your bare feet to the floor.

Instead of bothering with the zipper, he used both hands to rip the satin fabric of your dress, the rasping sound of it tearing making you wince. What remained of the dress fell off you and pooled at your feet. His darkened eyes tracked its movement down your body and your feverish skin erupted in goosebumps under his gaze.

“Fuck,” he grunted and you weren’t sure what felt more intoxicating, finally being free of the restricting clothes or his reaction to your bared body.

You answered by throwing yourself back into his arms with enough force to make him stumble. He found his balance while you found the pulse point on the side of his neck and bit down. Leon gasped then sucked in air between his teeth as you used your tongue to soothe the mark.

“Desk,” you muttered against his skin, knowing that your legs were unlikely to hold you upright for much longer. It was the only word your brain could manage, most of its power now being focused on the feeling of his kiss, the strength of his arms, the musky spicy scent of his skin.

“No,” he bit out and his voice sounded ruined. “Here” With that he had you shoved up against the wall again, pinning you with his hips.

Your stomach swooped, like during a free-fall. He was impatient, near frantic, running his hands over every inch of you he could reach. The feeling of familiar hands in such unfamiliar territory, mixed with the adrenaline and anger from your fight left you shivering despite the fire you could feel building up to a steady roar beneath your skin.

You took a second to lament the fact that you couldn’t possibly undress him with even half as much flair or drama as he did you. Not needing to seduce anyone like you did, Leon had been running the mission from the shadows, and the usual jacket and jeans combo he was wearing was still pretty sturdy even after surviving the disastrous end of the job. You settled for slipping your hands under the jacket and sliding it down his broad shoulders. He grumbled, upset to have to take his hands off you to get the damn thing off, and flung it away carelessly. Any further attempt you made to divest him was foiled by Leon gripping both your wrists in one large hand and pinning them to the wall above your head.

“Later,” he breathed like a promise into your ear. He bent to suck and kiss down the taut muscles of your neck as his free hand grabbed one of your knees to drag up and hook around his waist. Unconsciously, you tilted your hips so your wet heat pressed firmly against the firm bulge at the front of his jeans. Your whole body shook as your clit caught and dragged deliciously on the rough denim.

All pretense, or what little was left of it, melted away at that point. Leon shuddered against you, then moved quickly to unfasten his fly and push his pants and shorts far enough down his hips to release his hard cock. You could feel the velvet heat of it brush against the inside of your thigh as it came free and a surge of liquid warmth swooshed past your belly and down to your cunt.

Without ceremony, he pulled your thong to the side and guided himself into you, bottoming out with a sharp snap of his hips. You cried out. It was almost too much, the sudden stretch and fullness. The intensity. Fuck, your best friend was inside you. You struggled, trying to pull your hands free, but his grip only tightened.

“Holy shit, Leon,” you moaned, his name leaving your lips in almost a wail as he started thrusting in earnest.

"God, you’re so fucking tight, so good,” he grit out through clenched teeth, his nails digging into the soft flesh of your thigh as he fucked you.  

You tried to keep up and give as much as you took, but he set a rough, near punishing pace. And you were only human. It didn’t take long for the spreading warmth and tingles he elicited in you to expand, then violently contract.

Your climax hit you hard and fast, like a tidal wave. You thrashed, throwing your head back against the wall and crying out nonsense oaths, either uncaring or oblivious to the other offices on the floor that could surely hear you from behind the thin walls. Leon fucked you through it, not stopping or slowing, not even when the resulting contractions in your pussy made him shout out loud.

When the wave finally began to ebb and your energy started to bleed away, you sagged, boneless, in his grip. But Leon didn’t miss a beat, dropping your wrists in favor of seizing your hips with both hands. This forced you higher up on the wall, and change of angle made his thrusts hit home deeper, the blunt head of his cock hitting your cervix.

You gasped, fingers and nails clawing into his shoulders as you held on tight. It felt like he was trying to break you in two and the new, dull pain mixed exquisitely with the pleasure every movement still sent through you.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, burying his face into the side of your neck.

His arms were shaking now and you could tell he was close. You brought your other leg up to wrap around his waist and used what little strength you had left to match his pace with your hips.

That seemed to send him over the edge. A jagged moan ripped from his throat and his fingers tightened painfully into your flesh. With a few more deep thrusts and a gush of wet warmth, he came inside you, your name leaving his lips like some kind of sinful prayer.

“Fuck.”

You ran your hands through his mussed, sweaty hair as he came down and finally pulled out. Leon slumped forward, nuzzling the flushed skin of your chest. His five o’clock shadow tickled and you squirmed, clearly overstimulated. It was enough to take you out of the post-climax haze.

“Leon,” you whispered, fear and uncertainty starting to fill in the space in your chest that your previous rage and indignation had left behind. With some space and time to cool off, you had been reasonably sure your friendship could have bounced back from the earlier clusterfuck. But this… You knew a line had been crossed here that the pair of you had religiously toed for a reason .

You were now scared you had just ruined everything.

“I came so close to having to watch you die today.” It was so quiet that you wouldn’t have caught it if his face wasn’t still so close to yours. Leon took a shaky breath before finally meeting your eyes. “I don’t know what I would have done if I had lost you.”

The honesty hit you like a sock to the gut. “ Leon -”

“No, just let me say something first.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I know I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did and I know that you’re a good agent, but damn it Y/N, you can be so fucking stubborn sometimes. I don’t know where you got it stuck in your head that you have to do everything yourself, but you don’t. You said I should have trusted you, but you gotta trust me too, sweetheart. Or else none of this shit works.”

Your heart sank, knotting with your stomach in guilt, as you finally realized what all the anger and yelling and fighting had been hiding. He wasn’t just upset that you had gone against his plan. He had been scared.

“I don’t - I didn’t,” you tried, but the words wouldn’t come.

Leon shook his head. “ I don’t ever want to feel like that again. I don’t care what I have to do, what we have to do, but I… I can’t lose you, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathed, your heart clenching in affection for the man in front of you.

“Okay.” Leon pressed a kiss to your temple and sighed heavily, the tension finally starting to bleed from his body. Suddenly, he straightened, wrapped his arms snugly around your back, and started to carry you away from the wall.

You flailed for a moment as your center of gravity shifted, but Leon never dropped you. Even though your behavior from earlier would have warranted it. You felt awful about the whole shit show of a day. With some hindsight, you could admit that maybe you had been a little too hotheaded, a little too eager to prove your worth.

Though whether or not you were ready to admit that to Leon was another story.

“Where are we going?” you asked, stifling a laugh as his open pants slid down to his ankles, forcing him to waddle like an overgrown penguin.

“Couch. I’m exhausted and you’re getting heavy.”

You scoffed in fake indignation as he finally reached his goal and deposited you on the plush cushion of his office’s modest couch. Before he could pull away, you leaned in and caught his lips in a soft, tender kiss. His hands went to the back of your head, blunt nails massaging your scalp in a way that made you melt. When you pulled away, you didn’t bother to hide your smile.

Leon frowned down at you, forehead wrinkled in suspicion. “What was that for?”

You shrugged and pecked his lips again. “Just felt right, I guess. Hey - “ he started to straighten again, but you pulled him back down until he was practically straddling you on the couch. “You know I couldn’t bear losing you either, right? I - you’re important to me.”

The L-word had been on the tip of your tongue, but you forced it back down. You had said it to each other before, but only under strictly platonic circumstances and usually with the help of more than a few drinks. Not naked and vulnerable and thoroughly fucked. After the emotional whirlwind you had just been through, you weren’t sure you could survive opening that can of worms.

“Yeah, you’re important to me too, gorgeous.”

There were sure to be consequences, both numerous and harsh, from everything that occurred. The failed mission. Going against orders. Yelling at a senior agent in front of the entire team. And it would be nothing short of a miracle if no one found out about what had just happened between you and that same agent. You’d be lucky to walk away with a suspension.

But as Leon settled down next to you and tucked you gently into his side, you found it hard to focus on anything other than how good it felt to be in his arms.

#leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy fanfiction #resident evil fanfic #resident evil #leon kennedy smut

[joanaflbarbosa]

How Therapy Works: What it Means to "Process an Issue"

People are often advised to go to therapy to “process” some issue. But what does “processing an issue” actually mean? And why and how does this “processing” help?

For starters, we may define “a process” as a series of actions or operations taken toward achieving a particular end. “To process,” hence, is to perform a series of operations on something in order to change (or preserve) it—processing milk to make cheese or yogurt, for example. In therapy, these operations are performed through the therapist-client interaction, and they may take several forms.

First, processing an issue in therapy may mean working to place it inside a coherent life narrative. We experience our life as a story, of which we are both protagonists and narrators. And we make ourselves known to others in this manner, too. If someone wants to genuinely get to know you, giving them a list of facts and numbers describing you will not suffice. They will want to hear your story. For human beings, processing information involves organizing it in narrative form.

In this framework, shocking or traumatic events damage us by disrupting our stories, mangling our established narratives of self and the world. They do this by refusing to fit into our established narrative (“This is not me; this can’t be happening”) or by flooding and overwhelming it (“I can’t stop thinking about it; nothing else matters”). To “process an issue” in this case is when therapy helps us to either integrate the traumatic event into our life's narrative or pull our story out from under the weight and confusion of the trauma.

Second, processing an issue in therapy often means bringing past events or habits into present consciousness and analyzing them using our current tools and knowledge, resulting in fresh insight. One reason this is helpful is because difficult events often lead to avoidance. Places, emotions, and memories associated with the traumatic event are avoided, and thus they fail to undergo the constant reevaluation and examination that would have updated their meaning in light of new knowledge and experience. Thus, the meanings of these difficult events remain frozen in a past perspective. This means that the only reactions in our repertoire regarding these events are our original ones, which by now may be dated, ill-fitting, or suboptimal. If a dog bit you when you were 4 years old, leading you to hate dogs and carefully avoid any contact with them, whenever you do finally encounter a dog, you will have the terrified reaction of a traumatized 4-year-old, which you no longer are; likewise, the dog you are responding to is the one from your childhood, not the one in front of you now. Such a rigidly disproportional reaction is, by definition, neurotic, and neither healthy nor helpful.

Another example: Children often experience their parents’ divorce in real time as somehow their fault, and thus may harbor guilt and self-doubt related to the event even many years later. Observing the events of a divorce from an adult perspective allows the client to realize that their parents’ divorce was not their fault, and that the childish expectation that their behavior could somehow have mended their parents’ rift was both developmentally understandable, even inevitable, but also factually incorrect, even absurd, when viewed from the perch of the grown-up perspective.

“Processing” in this context often includes not only updating and reexamining the meaning of old memories and emotions, but also developing a new language with which to describe, experience, and understand the past and present. Moving from a language of powerlessness (“I’m a victim”) to a language of resilience (“I’m a survivor”) is one example. Moving from self-demeaning, perfectionist language (“I made a mistake; I’m stupid, deserving of punishment”) to a language of empathy and self-nurture (“I made a mistake; I’m human, deserving of compassion”) is another.

A third way to understand the notion of “processing an issue” is through the prism of cognitive developmental theory, specifically the seminal work of the pioneering cognitive theorist Jean Piaget. According to Piaget, the child is akin to a scientist, exploring her environment and experimenting with its properties in order to gain an understanding of the world and its laws. As the child experiments with objects, she learns about the character and attributes of reality itself. The child thus develops cognitive “schemas,” the building blocks of her mental architecture. Piaget defined a schema as, "a cohesive, repeatable action sequence possessing component actions that are tightly interconnected and governed by a core meaning."

In other words, schemas are organized ways of interacting with the world. Through experience, our schemas over time become increasingly numerous, at once larger and more specific, and they help guide our movement in the world. Having acquired a "restaurant schema," for example, allows me to know how to behave and what to expect in any restaurant, even one I had never visited before. Because I have a "party schema," I know a party when I see it, I know how to behave at a party, and I have a set of party-related expectations by which to evaluate whether the party was any good.

According to Piaget, schemas develop through two cognitive processes: assimilation and accommodation. We assimilate when we use an existing schema to understand novel information. Accommodation happens when the new information cannot fit our current schema, and we must then adjust our schema to fit the information. My “mammals” schema may easily assimilate a lion glimpsed for the first time. But upon encountering a whale, I may need to change my schema to accommodate this new information. If your wife gives birth to a new baby boy, assimilating him into your "male family member" schema will be easy. Yet if your adult daughter decides to transition to become a man, then you may need to accommodate your old "male family member" schema to include transgender persons.

From this perspective, processing an issue in therapy amounts to an effort to assimilate and accommodate new information, to improve our ability to understand and move in the world more seamlessly and effectively.

Fourth, processing an issue in therapy requires that we engage it, think and talk about it. In doing so, we are practicing de facto exposure with regard to the emotions attached to the issue. Exposure is a therapy technique that lets a client face up to a scary or uncomfortable situation. The goal of exposure is to achieve physiological habituation, psychological mastery, and behavioral skill. Physiologically feeling your emotions and remembering your memories will result in nervous system habituation and, with that, lower anxiety. Psychologically confronting difficult memories will lead to a sense of agency, courage, and achievement. Behaviorally learning to feel, identify, express, and discuss one’s emotions will lead to improved communications and interpersonal skill. Moreover, with exposure, the client learns new associations regarding the issue at hand. (Through interacting with dogs, I begin to associate them with playfulness and companionship rather than with the pain of the initial attack.)

Processing in this context can be viewed as a way to familiarize a person with unfamiliar territory. When we process an issue, we learn the terrain, thereby becoming less afraid of it and more able to navigate within it.

Working for many years in this area, the influential psychologist Edna Foa has proposed that fear is represented in memory as a cognitive structure, a program to escape danger (e.g., you see a lion; your heart races; you run away). The fear structure however, may in the course of one’s life become faulty, acquiring inaccurate associations between benign stimuli and exaggerated fear response (e.g., you see a lion at the zoo; your heart races; you run away). In Foa’s system, emotional processing, achieved through exposure practice, involves activating a person’s fear structure and then introducing new information that is incompatible with earlier faulty associations (e.g., hanging around the lion’s cage is safe; your heartbeat will eventually come down; you don’t have to run).

Fifth, processing an issue in therapy means bringing the issue into the light of another’s benevolent attention. Such interpersonal light is often, as it were, the best mental disinfectant. We are social animals, and we define ourselves, and our circumstances, in part by others’ responses. For example, if you kill your enemies in socially approved ways (say, by becoming a soldier and going to war), then you become a hero, but if you kill your enemies in a way that is not socially approved (you poison your nasty neighbors), then you have become a murderer. It’s all about how others see and judge what you have done. Receiving a 5 percent raise at work will make you feel good, but only until you find that all your coworkers have received a 10 percent raise. Your mood is determined not by what happens to you, but by how it compares to the experience of others. For good or bad, social connectivity is our foundational psychological currency. As Alfred Adler argued a long time ago, in the human psychological calculus, social connection is akin to health. Social isolation is akin to illness.

The engine of therapy is the human connection at its core. In this context, processing an issue means communicating it inside a safe, supportive interpersonal space. A secret loses much of its power to paralyze and poison us internally when shared with others who are capable of resonating with our experience, accepting and understanding it. In the act of discussing difficult matters, we become less alone, less opaque to ourselves, and thus less fragile. We manifest and build our strength when we express and own our weakness.

In sum, therapy may help you “process” a difficult issue by helping to place it inside a coherent life narrative; by reviewing past events using current tools and knowledge; by adjusting your cognitive schemas to include new information; by helping you confront previously avoided uncomfortable feelings in order to increase your competence in managing them; and by bringing the issue into the light of another’s benevolent and empathetic attention, thus reducing shame, fear, and isolation.

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/insight-therapy/201801/how-therapy-works-what-it-means-process-issue

[nyruratchet]

Time...

“...Why you punish me?”

So, I explained last time the situation regarding the creation of my music...monetarily. But let me explain and expand on how my time is utilized on a monthly basis.

If I haven’t made it clear, I hate my job. But here’s the thing, it’s flexible (for the most part), has benefits: (insurance, free-ish air travel, scheduled pay increases). Cons: passengers are allowed to treat crew like shit, always working with new people (that you may not mesh well with), anyone you try establishing a relationship with has pre-conceived notions/little to no faith you will ever be around, pay SUCKS until you get REALLY senior (7+), and...more, but I digress. But that flexible schedule, albeit limited, has afforded me the ability to work on music; until it doesn't. 

See, I was getting “comfortable” in my work situation a few years ago until certain a situation beyond my control forced me into deep debt, bad credit, and deeper depression. In order to fix all of this, money is needed. How do u get money? Work more. More work leads to more depression and sometimes health issues. So, I’ve been stuck in this seamlessly endless cycle of paycheck to paycheck living. And my desire and NEED to work on my music has not helped it (as explained in the previous blog post). Every time I get a bit more money, it goes to my craft. 

See, after you put all that money into creating art, you have to then put it OUT there. And in the case of a performer, you need to do live performances. That is a whole other situation in itself. There are lots avenues to get live performance experience. Open mics, concert showcases, live cabaret/karaoke bars, etc. Guess what THEY ALL COST MONEY. But not only money, LOTS of excess time is involved. 

This past spring, I was dragged into a showcase by my producer friend (who I’m partially in love with but he’s straight...but that’s another story). In order to do a showcase, you have to apply for acceptance. Applications involve you submitting current work and having a worthy social media following (which you have had to spend constant time building). Once you fill out the application, send the files and info, PAY your entry fee ($25) and receive your acceptance, you then have to sell tickets. Yes, how do they get people to come to the showcase? By having YOU bring them. And if you cannot find people to buy your tickets, all of those tickets come out of YOUR pocket. So, I was given 25 tickets to sell (last minute mind you); 25 tickets to sell at $20 bucks each. So, if I don't sell them, I owe the company $500 dollars. Yup, that’s correct. In order for me to perform my original content on their stage, I needed to make sure they got their $525 and help them get people in the venue so that they buy drinks at the bar (which we were given ZERO drink tickets for). Now before stepping on stage, you don’t get a sound check. So, you show up early before everyone to check in and simply check they have your correct music file(s) then wait...and wait...and wait. But your music has to be edited within their restrictions (this means more studio time. Remember, studio time =more $$...just making sure ur following me. Too many times you’ll hear big recording artists talking about how they have just sat in studios for hours creating a song from scratch. Yeah, only if you are signed to major label is this a thing! But anyway...back to the showcase.) 

Needless to say, I did everything I needed to. But I had some help since I asked to do this last minute and told them UP FRONT they would have had to get that unsold ticket money from me in blood. I landed from working a redeye the day before, got a nap in, did my vocal exercises in my car on my way to New Jersey, checked in and sat there. Since some people didn't show up on TIME, I was abruptly grabbed from drinking my whiskey at the bar and told “YOU’RE ON NEXT!”  Being the seasoned professional that I am, took that shot to the head, said “Actually, that’s not my slot...but ok, I’m ready.” NO SOUND CHECK, NEVER given TIME on the stage beforehand...I went on. Sung my ass off with a standing ovation from the judges. Then, went back to drinking with my friends who were in shock because they had never heard me really sing live. Then I had sit for HOURS while mediocre “rappers” and “singers” rapped over pre-recordings of their own vocals. Finally, they were ready to announce the winners. I won that sucker.

But what did I win? ...A promise to be put into another show... *DICK FACE*  No money to recoup what I just spent getting to this moment. No free promotion on social media to help me and my art. NO, some bullshit. So, I took the experience fore what it was and cut my losses. I got some exposure and was able to test out an unreleased song...but besides that. Nothing but wasted time and effort. I left there feeling somewhere between elation and disappointment. Not to mention, I was exhausted; I had done all this after working my full time job, and had to work again the next day. So all I had time to do was drive home and sleep. 

“Like a wave bashing into the shore...

Since this, I have had some money issues and mental health issues, so I have just barely been able to work on music. On my days off, I have to sleep and get back in the groove of being a real person instead of a redeye zombie. Then when I’m feeling slightly normal, I’m back to work...it is a vicious, irritating, restraining cycle. I’ve tried working shorter flights so I’m home more; nope, the pairings (schedules) for those flights work you in a way that leaves you feeling raped. My company will build a pairing with a duty time of 27hrs and only pay you for 15-17 of those hours. DOESN’T MAKE SENSE. Then on top of that, your rest time at the hotel is set to 11hrs...WTF?? 

Let me explain this for those of you with normal jobs. On these pairings, you are schedule to work a number of flights each day. So, 3 day pairing means you work 3-4 flights each day and have 2 layovers. Now lets say FLIGHT time is 1.5-2.5 hrs each (8-12hrs). Then you land from your final flight for day one. We’re usually delayed at our carrier...honestly, rarely on time. So, you have minimum rest at 11hrs. BUT, before you can leave the aircraft we have to get all passengers off the plane, CLEAN the seats, wait on our shuttle which is probably late if your pilots are sucky human beings and haven’t called ahead to make sure they’re there (Pilots aren’t required to clean; just us lowly peasants). So, by the time you get to the hotel, down to 10hrs. If you get there and rooms are ready, great. IF NOT, another 20-30 min or longer. But, lets say you’re down to 9.5hrs now. Get to your room. Hopefully your key works, air/heat works, no one is already in you room (yes...it happens all the time), room already cleaned, no bed bugs, and you aren’t by a noisy ice machine/elevator. You then have to shower and eat. Let’s say you get all that done in an hour. You now have 8.5 hrs to sleep...BUT WAIT, the van is scheduled to pick you up from the hotel 45 min to an hour before you are supposed to report at the airport and you need to be dressed and ready to make that van. So instead of 8.5hrs, you actually have 7hrs at best to sleep and pop outta bed, get dressed and properly ready to do the shit show all over again; all the while, knowing they are really only paying you for the time you spend on the aircraft, AFTER THE DOOR IS CLOSED AND THE BRAKE IS RELEASED. Time before like boarding, checks, delays? nope...no pay. Just us waisting our fucking time. Literally.

Why, is this? cuz everyone does it is the answer. That is how all airlines do it, so you have no leg to stand on. Got a union, the company retaliates like a reprimanded toddler. Now as I said before, once you get to be a super senior in your company and can choose what you want to work, when you want to work, in the position you want to work, getting $40/hr at base hours and a crazy amount for premium (overtime) hour, etc. the job is GOLDEN. (Unless that company gets purchased/merged.) But for a young person/flight attendant in debt, living in NYC, with a high cost of living, life ain’t fun. I tried living in New Jersey for a lower cost; that came with its own issues. I’ve taken out loans, became a hermit to save money, worked holidays, etc. Dug my hole deeper is what I did. And I’m pretty good at setting goals and managing my time and getting things DONE. But for some fucking reason, life is not working in my favor. This job is not working for me. I see younger people coming up behind me doing LITTLE to no work, getting musical accolades with trash “music” (I know, matter of opinion...but really. C’mon now), young white/latino/asian twinks shaking their ass for anything that breathes and getting rich men to pay their bills or marry them, all the while telling me they just want my BBC or other racist BS like that (Yes, I have receipts) and I’m just like WTF AM I DOING WRONG?! Have I spent my time stupidly? 

And the most recent shit that really hurt my feelings: If any of you remember (to the three of you reading this lol), a few months ago I posted about help getting into bartending. Well, I had actually asked a friend in person before that about bartending and if he knew any directors who could do a music video. This “friend” told me “no, not really”. Didn’t know anything about that, he just does movies and short films (which I’ve donated to his kickstarters for btw...) but no one who he thinks does music videos. THEN, I asked this same “FRIEND” how much he would charge to be IN a music video, as I had a song (the one I won the showcase with) that he would be perfect for as it deals with subject matter he rallies for. I wanted to help his career out in turn by help my video out, because I’m ugly and having beautiful actors in my video would be a better sell (as again, I need this song to make money. He then tells me me, he’s not sure how much he would charge for that. SEVERAL MONTHS LATER...this bitch releases a music VIDEO to his NEW SINGLE about a SIMILAR SUBJECT!! Without promotion, he gets instant 2.2k hits on the video on youtube. MIND YOU, he would always be shy to sing around me and I told him, “you need to give yourself more credit. You have a beautiful voice.” Meanwhile, I’m asking for some knowledge from him, and he wouldn’t help me with ANYTHING. I have NEVER asked for a hand out. Just tell me where the door is, I will get in even if I have to pick the lock. But he not only pretended he didn’t know where the door was, he was holding the keys, had lock picks on the side and duplicates to share; But, for whatever reason...didn’t want to share that with me. Even though, I was going to include him in MY art without any thought and was willing to pay. Now, I have some thoughts on why he did this. But seeing as I’m on the verge of tears, I’ll end on that note.

...You wash away my dreams.”

[serenephenix]

... To help you

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Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

…To help you

[Fandom]:Voltron: Legendary Defender

[Rating]: Gen/ Gen

[Genre]: Family, Hurt/Comfort, centers around Veronica, Marco & Lance

[Warning]: mention of very protective but ultimately supporting siblings

[Word count]:  4.800

[Status]: completed

Post season 7 – related to this post I made

[Omg help me I’m back on my shit again. After months of having been unable to write I can’t seem to stop. Have fun guys. This is suuuuuuper self-indulgent by the way. Kudos to anyone who makes it to the end.]

[Important PSA after the first comments on Ao3: No bashing the team, be it in the tags or in a reblog. Lance is not a prize to be won by either side]

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 Once might have counted as nothing more than a fluke. A second time she might play off as a coincidence maybe. By the third time, Veronica had a sinking feeling plaguing her. After the fifth time, she had stopped counting and instead started to consider that this had to be more than a mere “fluke”.

Far be it from her to hold grudges or make hasty decisions, but the more time Veronica spent around team Voltron, the angrier she became almost every instance.

Honestly, the fact that her ire had grown enough to be noticeable even to her family was admirable in itself – there were few people that could pride themselves in having disturbed Veronica’s inner peace so profoundly that she was falling back into bad habits.

“You’re chewing on your pencil.”

She startled, taken aback by Marco’s nonchalance. She cleared her throat and demonstratively put the poor, abused tool down to recline in the uncomfortable chair they had stolen from another room down the hall so that at meals everyone had a chance to sit at the relatively small workbench that served as their table and “office” outside of office.

But the last one only truly concerned Veronica herself.

Marco was idly scrolling through something on a datapad, finger lazily dragging along the surface. Judging by his expression it had to be pictures from before the war had broken out – small glimpses of the past he had managed to take with himself on an even smaller chip he had guarded with his life. It was incredible he had ever thought of taking them with him, much less having stored them there in the first place.

The original chip still hung around his neck, attached to a sturdy necklace and protected by a plastic casing that had seen better days already. A testament to the trials and losses the journey from Cuba had brought with it.

She caught a glimpse of a picture –fairly old, since she caught her nine year old herself in the left-hand corner – and she felt something in her chest tighten as she caught sight of Abuela smiling up from an angle. Such a sweet smile, unsuspecting of all the terrible things that were to come.

There was no way that Marco had not noticed her taking off her glasses to wipe at the corners of her eyes, but he had the grace to not further comment on it.

“I miss her.”

“Me too.”

She wished she could have seen her at least one more time. Once the Galra had arrived she had not managed anything more than to text her family in a group chat, telling them to run and hide.

After communications had been cut by the invaders, there had been many nights where Veronica had lain awake, wondering, worrying, sometimes crying in the privacy of her small bathroom.

So, when she had reunited with them months later after the missions in the tunnels, the joy had blinded her to the terrible truth for a few minutes.

Knowing that her family was mostly safe and unharmed was a blessing, but as her parents sat her down and told her in soft whispers that their Abuela had suffered a stroke or heart attack during their crossing, Veronica could not stop herself from thinking that it was unfair.

One more time. What she wouldn’t give to tell her one more time that she loved her.

But it was too late, and as she rationalized (as much as it hurt), she was so much luckier than many of her friends and comrades. Many of them had no more family to return to outside of this building.

The gurgling and hiss of the faucet had Veronica looking up, watching with a small smile as Marco came back with a glass of water she accepted gladly.

“Thanks.”

Marco shrugged, corner of his mouth twitching upward a little.

He had been the one to try CPR on Abuela when it had happened. Of course he would, seeing how he had been a lifeguard at Varadero beach for a few years now. Still, it had not worked. Veronica hoped that Marco did not guilt himself over it.

Likely sensing she might ask first if he did not intervene, he pointed to her pencil, her gnawing having left clear indents in the smooth plastic: “What’s up with that?”

Veronica took a large gulp of water first, deciding if she should answer honestly.

Her mind was made-up instantly.

“Lance has been considering staying with us.”

Marco blinked at her in clear shock. His flat palm came to slap at his forehead before it started smoothing his hair back.

“Oooooh… so that’s what the whole morning crying was about.”

Veronica nodded. Neither she nor Lance had explained themselves to the rest of their family and so far she had respected that, even if Maria, Luis, Mama and Papa had needled her. They were worried and Veronica understood it all too well, but Lance was the one who needed to decide for himself when to open up about his impending choice. Today though had put a few things into perspective for her and she needed a second opinion for that, and out of all of their other family members, Marco was one of the more discrete ones. He’d know not to blab.

“I personally think he should stay.”

Marco did give her a questioning look at that but waved his hand for her to go on.

“A team should be about respect and trust. And there is nothing against teasing each other or making jokes. Even our MFE fighter pilots tend to do it,” she smiled fondly at that. One might not be able to tell, but those kids were masters of banter in their own right. According to Veronica’s own tally chart Leifsdottir and Kinkade were tied for first place, not by the amount of shots fired but by the accuracy and truthfulness of them. Griffin and Rizavi, even as a united force, stood no chance.

Veronica’s smile vanished though, as she remembered the interactions she had been privy to over the past week, where she had taken over for a communications officer that had fallen ill.

It was probably due to their late night conversation and the endless praise Lance would wax about his teammates, but what Veronica had seen and heard instantly made that cold yet blazing protectiveness resurge.

As she had concluded, team Voltron was indeed made up of wonderful individuals, unique and incredible in their own ways.

When one gave it a bit of thought, having former cadet Keith Kogane work almost seamlessly with a team felt like a fever dream. While Veronica had never personally interacted with the defiant youth back in the day, she had heard complaints from all of the staff forced to deal with him. The calm leader giving instructions over the comms was almost unrecognizable. Captain Shirogane always seemed to swell with quiet pride whenever it was pointed out.

Veronica could understand him all too well – if anyone were to talk that same way about Lance, she would likely not react any differently.

Pidge, or rather Katie Holt, was indeed just as smart as Lance had emphasized. Not that there had been any doubt about it during the briefings and strategy talks leading up to their final stand, the young woman coming up with a multitude of scenarios whenever a new element and detail was added to their plans. Veronica was all too curious about finding out just how she was processing things so quickly even without a computer handy. In regards to snark, she and Rizavi would get along wonderfully.

Hunk was the main reason they had managed to salvage many of their vehicles in the aftermath of the fight. She had yet to taste any of his cooking (which Lance reminded her daily was to die for), but what she could say was that he was a creative engineer. Just the other day, she had listened to him chatter with his friends all the while helping one of their engineering groups restarting an emergency generator for a medical facility. In the end, he and the other engineers had ended up building it from scratch, Hunk throwing in suggestion to get the most out of it. Some of these adjustment sounded downright alien - which they most likely were.

Princess Allura herself was one of the most regal and beautiful women Veronica had ever had the pleasure to meet. Which may be why she was rooting for her brother and, subsequently, liked flustering Lance with comments and remarks regarding Allura’s interest in him. But as much as Allura was a princess, she was also a kind and devoted person, one of the first to rise to coordinate the actions for reconstruction and the last to leave in the evening.

Amazing people in their own rights and yet…

“I do not think staying with team Voltron as it currently is will do Lance a lot of good in the long run.”

She looked at Marco over the rim of her glasses.

Her earnestness must have hit a nerve, since slowly Marco’s surprised expression shifted from disbelief to concern, his brow furrowing and mouth pinched.

“What makes you say that? Lance seems to like them. Can’t be that bad then, can they?”

Veronica let those words settle a little.

No, the members of team Voltron were not bad people, not by a long shot. But just as any other individuals with agency, they had their faults and made mistakes.

Allura, as Veronica had noticed, could be somewhat stubborn if she saw herself in the right.

Hunk could be dismissive of others when under pressure.

Pidge had a tendency to be unrelenting, be it in her very scientific explanations or tasks she had set herself.

Keith seemed to not always think things through entirely, sometimes getting blindsided by details that had not been discussed prior, ultimately tripping him up.

But all of these, in Veronica’s opinion, were excusable.

She needed to take a deep breath, indignation rising inside her like bile. It was not helpful or necessary at the moment. She needed to keep a clear head. Marco’s judgement need not be clouded by her feelings.

“Did you know that when you are in a relationship long enough, you become deaf to certain things being repeatedly said, both parties no longer noticing it even happens?”

Marco gave a cough that soon turned into full-blown laughter.

“Tell me about it. Marta would never shut up about me messing with her nifty system for all of our clothes,” his expression lost a bit of its mirth. Veronica could only guess that he was mentally revisiting the rooms of a house that was probably destroyed like much else on Earth, “After a while, it just became a running gag. Heh, even the kids were getting a laugh out of it.”

“Exactly.”

He started at her sudden interjection, at the harshness in her voice as she gripped the glass she was still holding with a little more force.

She took another deep breath as Marco slowly came closer, taking with him his chair with protesting screeches from chair legs dragging across the floor.

Once sitting, he leaned forward, crossed arms resting on the table’s surface, face grim.

“What’s going on?”

Veronica raised her left hand, elbow still on the table and started massaging her temple with her thumb. The pain when she pressed just the right spot was distracting enough to calm her.

“I’ve been dealing with communications for a while now, to help with coordinating the reconstruction efforts. Ever since Lance told me about wanting to quit, I might have paid more attention to him and his team, however subconsciously,” her lips twitched but there was nothing funny about all of it, “And this past week, since taking over for officer Anatoly, I’ve been in charge of communicating them their tasks. For that, I’m on the comms constantly and I hear everything that’s going on.”

She took off her glasses, putting them in front of her, wiping at her tired eyes. The screens were doing them little good.

Marco was kind enough to wait, even went to refill her glass and Veronica thanked him for it.

“I cannot tell you how many times Lance has been treated as ‘dumb’ in this one week alone.”

Marco’s stared at her open-mouthed, indignation making his shoulders hunch and his brow furrow so deeply that Veronica was almost afraid the resulting wrinkles would be permanent.

His mouth closed with an audible clack that had both of them wincing, but it did obviously not quell Marco’s anger.

“All of them?” He merely asked, and suddenly Veronica was no longer sure this had been such a good idea.

She put a firm hand on his shoulder, felt him tremor slightly under it.

“Not all of them.”

It still did not seem to appease him.

“What about his commanding officer? Shouldn’t he intervene?”

Veronica resisted the urge to suck in her lips, thinking back to all of the instances where Captain Shirogane had indeed intervened when the team’s discussions went too far off topic for them to still be entirely concentrated on their tasks.

Her heart felt heavy.

When words failed her, she merely shook her head.

“Just as I said: you become deaf at some point.”

The chair went crashing down as Marco surged to his feet, stomping towards the door, and it took all of Veronica’s strength and weight to stop him as she latched onto his wrist with both her hands.

He turned on her sharply, his eyes ablaze with fury and Veronica was so, so glad that she was not at the receiving end of that raw fury.

“This solves nothing,” she reminded him, her voice calm while everything inside her was anything but.

Marco tried to unlatch her, but if he thought her training was for nothing then he was sorely mistaken.

“MY BROTHER DID NOT GO TO WAR TO BE CALLED DUMB!”

His voice boomed through the confined space and Veronica was beyond thankful that right now everyone else was still gone, that luckily it was just them here.

Marco gave another shot at throwing her off, but just as with the first time, Veronica stood her ground, digging the heels of her shoes into the floor.

“I agree with you, I do,” she amended, voice growing louder at the last few words as Marco still resisted, “But antagonizing the people he looks up to and loves is not going to help him!”

Because her brother had told her as much. Shortly after their heart-to-heart, Lance had repeatedly come to her when he could not sleep. As far as Veronica could guess, the impending decision was robbing Lance of sleep. As if recurring nightmares he refused talking about were not already doing a fine job of it. On one of those nights, as Lance had heavily leaned into her side with drooping eyes, he had whispered about the time he had spent hunting coins in a mall’s fountain to get Pidge some retro console from Earth. He had fondly whispered of Keith’s cluelessness about simple cheers, mentioned Hunk and Pidge’s reprogrammed Paladude, a gaming session with Coran and their team leader (and Lance still refused to tell her why he had suddenly been crying at that one), or how Allura had helped him train with a cool sword he had yet to show Veronica.

Lance, undoubtedly, loved his team just as much as he loved them. And Veronica did not doubt that if she asked the team, they would likely call Lance their friend. That did not mean however, that they were properly showing their appreciation.

Veronica would be lying if she said that none of their own family had never called Lance a ‘brat’ or a ‘dumbass’ on occasion. Because Lance, for all of his helpfulness and sweetness, could be a pain to be around. Still, at the end of the end of the day and after every sibling squabble, there never had been any doubt that they loved and supported him.

And as she had observed recently, Lance had very much mellowed out and matured during his stay in space.

Which was why she agreed with Marco’s statement but could not allow her very loyal older brother to hunt down any perceived offenders on Lance’s behalf.

Lance did not need added conflict in his life, and Veronica would not forgive herself if she were to become the source of it.

Marco gave a huff but remained still, face turned to the closed door leading to the hall.

Veronica seized her chance.

“I want Lance to be happy. I promised him that I would respect his decision no matter what. And there might be a chance that Lance does want to go back out there. You’ve noticed as well, right?”

The way Lance would sometimes look out at the night sky, tiny dots of light reflected in his eyes as he gazed out with a longing that was far beyond any of their understanding. It was the core of Lance’s conflict.

He had seen space and its wonders, was enticed by it like those old sailors by the sirens’ calls, but just like the legendary Odysseus, her brother was tired and weary just like most of his friends.

And if Veronica had to guess, there was a good amount of loyalty involved in Lance’s indecisiveness.

Loyalty to his friends.

Loyalty to his duty as a defender of the universe.

Loyalty to their family.

Marco was growing less tense under her touch, allowing Veronica to let go with one hand to cover her eyes.

“If Lance wants to go back out there, I will let him,” her voice dropped to almost a whisper, “but I do not want him to be stuck with people that will inevitably bring him down.”

There was pressure building behind her eyes.

“I don’t want to lose him too.”

Barely a minute ago, she had held onto her brother to stop him from leaving, and the next she found herself enveloped in a bone crushing hug.

They held onto each other for a long time, Marco drawing back first as he gave her an apologetic smile.

“Is there any way to fix this mess?”

Veronica had given it some thought over the past few days. The conclusion she had come to was daunting.

“I think the first thing that needs to be done is addressing the issue. At this point, I’m afraid that Lance will try to rationalize it.”

When they had been younger, Lance tended to do that a lot. He might grow angry if someone treated him unfairly, but in the end he would always find a way to explain it away. Usually the common nominator was Lance himself. In an educational environment, it had sometimes saved Lance’s behind, since he’d end up applying himself more for upcoming tests.

But this was not school, and this was not merely tests they were talking about.

Veronica loathed to think what conclusions her might already have or might come to in the future, should a mission go wrong.

Marco gave a groan next to her, knowing all too well what his sister was referring to.

“What’s more is that Lance is not doing himself any favors. I’m talking about dismissing input that is too complex for him and shutting down attempts to simplify it.”

Because she had heard it herself. Usually it was Pidge, sometimes the Altean advisor that Lance would shut down the moment they went to explain a given topic in depth. At this point, it also no longer mattered whether this behavior was the origin or the result of the team’s perception of Lance.

“You called?”

Marco froze at the voice sounding from the door they had not heard opening, and Veronica felt any hope of formulating a plan of attack fly out of the window.

Marco turning around allowed them to look at Lance who stood in the entrance, head cocked to the side and holding out a generic white plastic bag.

Lance’s eyebrow was drawn up, giving both of them a very questioning look.

His expression was enough to tell them he had undoubtedly heard that last part.

This was not how she wanted this conversation to happen, but if they did not tackle this at once it would only lead to misunderstandings.

Marco was ready to stammer his way through a lie, she could practically hear the gears turning frantically inside his skull, and she decided to intervene at once.

“Actually, yes,” she gestured at the table with a placating smile, faltering a little when she noticed the chair still lying on the ground. That detail did not escape Lance’s notice and he frowned all the harder for it.

This was not going as planned.

Lance needed to be as relaxed as possible. She needed a distraction.

“What do you have there?” She asked, glancing at the plastic bag still dangling from Lance’s wrist. He appeared taken aback by her sudden interest, but a genuine, excited smile spread on his face.

“Oh! Yeah, this is from Hunk. I asked him if he could cook something for you guys, since none of you believe me he’s a good cook.”

He was bouncing over to the area where the plastic plates and cutlery were stored and Veronica watched a little helplessly as Lance set the table for the three of them while Marco quietly put the chair back in its place.

He looked so happy, pouring water into an electric kettle while dumping a few spoonful of a powder substituting coffee into three mugs.

She wanted this to last. She wanted for Lance to smile like this more often, to be happy and not worry about leaving people behind.

Once everything was set for the three of them, Lance saying he hoped the others would come soon, he finally wrangled out an inconspicuous hot pink bowl out of the bag. The moment he removed the lid, Veronica could feel her mouth water.

“Are those...,” Marco started, voice almost an awed whisper.

Lance’s grin was almost reaching his ears: “Yep!”

There was no mistaking it. Veronica would recognize one of her favorites from a mile away.

She knew she was gaping in a very undignified way but…

“How?” she breathed, taking one of the looped pastries between her fingers, inspecting it with wonderment.

“Don’t ask me. I have no idea how Hunk still managed to cook half of the stuff we ate on our trip back and still make it look like Earth food,” his expression momentarily turned into a grimace before easing into something less disgusted, “Sometimes you really don’t wanna know though.“

He shuddered a little while Marco was already biting off half of his buñuelo, slapping the table with the flat of his palm.

“This is so good,” he finally said, looking close to tears.

They laughed good-naturedly as Marco reached for a second, when his first one was still held in his other hand.

It looked and smelled a lot like the pastry they had baked back at home on special occasions. Hunk had even taken care of covering it with thin streaks of dark caramel. It was every bit as soft and tasty as it looked when she took her first bite, and she now understood Marco’s sudden outburst.

It was one of the few pieces of home she’d had in a few years.

“It’s really good,” she said, actually sniffling, making Lance laugh again.

“I know.”

They ate in silence, Lance closing the lid once they each had two (“So there is some for the others!” he had reprimanded Marco), and each taking a sip from their coffee.

Marco had been won over, obvious in how he kept pestering Lance with questions.

“Where did your friend even get all of the ingredients? Do they have a secret stash of cassava here on the base?”

“Once again: don’t ask me, ask Hunk. He can tell you.”

That had Veronica looking up, still cleaning her glasses with the hem of her shirt. Under the automated evening lights, Lance looked a little washed out. Now wonder, his day had been longer than hers, even without actually having spent that much of it outside of the base.

Now or never. She put her glasses back on, turning to Lance fully and garnering his attention at once.

“On that same matter, Lance,” and she almost did not say it, not when this would instantly break this small reprieve from their everyday lives, “you get along with your teammates, don’t you?”

For a few tense seconds it looked like she had broken Lance with her question.

His chuckles were filled with confusion and discomfort.

“What are you talking about? Of course we get along, we’re team Voltron after all.”

She could feel Marco’s nervousness as if it were her own. This was not going to be a nice conversation.

“I’m not merely asking about your cohesiveness as a team, I’m asking about your solidarity as a group of friends.”

Lance was already reclining back into his chair, his eyebrows going up as he stared at her in incomprehension, hands bracing against the edge of the table.

“Veronica, I’m really sorry, but I don’t know what you’re trying to get at.”

She was ready to retort, when Marco beat her to it.

“Are you really okay with your friends calling you dumb?”

She could not believe him. Veronica threw him a glare she hoped would melt his head off but Marco just returned hers without any remorse.

Their attention was drawn back to Lance as he waved his hands around.

“Woah, woah, hold on a tick! What’s this about? And what’s up with you anyway!” He addressed Marco directly, irritation palpable in his voice.

“This is not some kind of joke Lance,” Veronica interjected, giving her younger brother a stern look that threw him off, “You know I’ve been listening to you for a while over your channels, and I admit that I… do not entirely approve of what I’ve heard so far.”

It was more than just “not merely approving” but there was no need to rile Lance up further. If he was any bit as protective of team Voltron as he was of them, there would be no getting through to him by accusing them of anything.

Still, Lance’s eyes moved from her to Marco quickly, obviously not understanding or accepting what was happening right now.

Finally, and sadly, he leaned back with his arms crossed. She wanted to hit Marco for his blunder. This was now going to be harder than ever.

“My relationship with my team is great. What do you even mean by the stuff you heard?”

Band-aid it was then. Quick and painful.

“I am not okay with my brother being repeatedly told and treated as an idiot.”

Hurt flashed across Lance’s face at that but what really caught Veronica’s attention was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. So he was not as unaware as he pretended to be.

He swallowed dryly, hunching in on himself, his eyes shielded by his brown locks with how much he’d lowered his head.

His words were so low she almost did not catch them.

“Doesn’t matter.”

She was ready to explode from tension alone at this point.

“It does, Lance. It matters to me and everyone else!”

She had not meant to shout but this was just too much. Both Lance and Marco jerked in their seats at her outburst. The defiance he had previously shown was quickly bleeding out of Lance, as he made himself even smaller. He suddenly looked like he’d aged at least a decade.

Still, he said nothing, not in his defense nor of his friends. Just sat here with them; a tense silence consuming them all.

Marco was careful in pushing his chair away as he got up. Veronica was unsure what he wanted to do, knowing Marco he might either stay or leave to fight this battle another day.

Relief flooded her when instead of going to the door, Marco circled the table and before Lance could even react, had their brother enveloped in a tight hug. It was a little awkward, Marco having bent down his bulk to embrace Lance while the latter’s arms hovered in the air a little uselessly, blinking back at Veronica in confusion.

Marco was not really a man of words, and Veronica not someone who sprung into action easily. But maybe, with their forces combined, they might be able to get through to him.

“Lance,” she said quietly, her calm voice having her brother glance at her with his still bewildered expression, “I know you really love your friends, but that is no excuse for them to walk all over you when they hurt you. Even if they do it unintentionally.”

He was enraptured by her face, not even caring about the tears undoubtedly clouding his vision.

Time to put her cards on the table.

“I would feel better knowing that, if you go back up there again, you do it with people that respect you and your boundaries.”

There was no more holding back the tears. Lance’s entire face crumbled, one of many small sobs bursting out of him as he kept staring at Veronica pleadingly, his arms at once clinging to Marco so tightly he might leave bruises.

Not that Marco minded, Veronica could see Lance’s jacket straining a little with how tightly he was winding his arms around him.

Veronica settled with smiling at them fondly.

One step at a time while the clock kept on ticking.

#vld #voltron #vld s7 #vld season 7 #vld spoilers #lance #veronica #marco #Serene writes #completed #i'm on my shit again

[thekrazykeke]

TITLE: Mad, Mad World

FANDOM(S): Black Panther, MCU

RELATIONSHIP(S): Sam Wilson & reader. T’Challa x reader.

SUMMARY: Sometimes when you’re in a dark place, you think you’ve been buried, but truthfully, you’ve only been planted.

WARNING(S): Captain America Civil War spoilers, fighting, sassiness, UST

I.

~

A pale hand appeared in your line of vision, reaching out to press a button on the vending machine. Blinking, you turned your head. It was Carter, thank God for small mercies. 

“Everything okay?” Genuine concern is visible in her gaze, while the rest of her features are carefully neutral and you’ve known the woman long enough -- much longer than the two of you have worked for the CIA -- to relax a fraction.

“Just a little shell shocked, is all.” You give her a small smile. “I’ll shake it off.” She tossed you a can of Monster. Popping the cap off, you took a swig of the energy drink. 

“Well, if you ever want to talk about it...”

Giving her a thumbs up, you took another swig of the drink as you walked away towards the cafeteria. 

Sometimes you thought that Sharon still saw you as this innocent and wide eyed, greenhorn SHIELD agent that used to shadow her around like a baby duckling. So much had happened, too much, since SHIELD was revealed to be rotten, infected, by HYDRA, since the very beginning. 

Now, this soulmate business?

Clenching the can a bit too hard, you cursed as the acid green liquid sloshed over the sides, spilling onto your hand. Tossing what little remained in the can into the trash can, you snagged a sanitary wipe or two from a dispenser attached to the wall, using that to clean up the juice on your hand before it dried and became a sticky mess. Once that task is complete, you go about purchasing a BLT and medium sized sweet iced tea. Sitting at an empty table, you unwrap the sandwich, snagging a few condiments from the container placed in the center of the table (these sandwiches are always dry as hell) and dig out your cellphone from your breast pocket with your free hand. Applying a liberal amount of mustard to the sandwich on both slices of bread, you unlock the cellular device as you take a bite, beginning to read the text message that had been sent to you from a member of your team. 

[From: Mya Hensen 18:05 The psychiatrist assigned to the Soldier is a fake. Get out of there, he’s being triggered!!]

The food might as well be ash in your mouth, as seconds later, the alarm blares through the building. Swallowing the bit in your mouth, you abandon your lunch and race for the stairs, just like everyone else that’s either a civilian, or retired. The active duty agents swarm the Soldier, and there’s no doubt that this is the ghost, the legend, not that tired and worn down guy who tried desperately to seem smaller than he was, because he’s cutting through them like they’re nothing, just nuisances in his way, all with this frighteningly blank expression. 

‘Shit! Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck!’ Part of you wants to keep moving, get further away from the danger zone, but when you see the Soldier drawing his gun, about to fire on the downed agent he’d tossed onto a table like a ragdoll, your body reacts. Placing one foot on top of the railing, then the other, you throw your body over the side, tucking and rolling to minimize impact. Having landed safely, you’re just in time to see Stark engage the renowned sniper/assassin. 

It’s a quick and brutally short altercation. 

Carter is taking lead and you’re a few steps behind her. Her approach is a frontal assault with kicks. He blocks and aims to knock her out with a right hook with his metal fist (holy fucking shit buckets!), she ducks. Romanov goes for a nut shot and any other time, that would have been amusing, especially because you saw his face, the minute surprise and shocked pain, but as you’re fighting for your life, you capitalize on his distraction and aim to take out his knees. He anticipates the move and dodges the attack, lashing out at your face. You flip backwards and seamlessly, Carter is going in again. Her heeled boot smacks him in the face and she wraps her legs around his waist, one fist held high, about to punch him in the face, again, then he throws her through a table. 

The table collapses. 

Romanov wastes no time. Swinging her body just so, her thighs are around his shoulders and she’s hitting him repeatedly. He slams her onto a table, that metal hand wrapped around her throat, choking her. You reach for a gun out of habit, only it’s not there. Cursing yourself and also cursing Ross for making you come in today, you’re about to do something undoubtedly stupid, like kick the Winter Soldier in the back of the head, but suddenly he’s there. 

His Highness, T’Challa. 

The soulmate bond, new and unexplored, hums beneath your skin. Ignoring the sensation is difficult but you manage. First, you check on Carter, she’s just knocked out, thankfully. Then you migrate towards Romanov, making sure that she’s fine, while in the back of your mind, and in your peripheral vision, you’re keeping a close eye on the fight between your soulmate and the Soldier. 

Much to your surprise, T’Challa is actually...keeping the Winter Soldier on the defensive? Logically, it shouldn’t be possible, Barnes has some version of the super soldier serum, just like Rogers, so, maybe, just maybe, T’Challa is enhanced in some type of way, too. 

Reinforcements soon arrive but it’s too late. 

Barnes is in the wind. Gone.

‘But where is he going...?’ Inserting a mini USB (or something that looks like it) into the port of your cellphone, you enter the code to unlock the screen and a red dot appears; the dot is steadily moving. 

He’s on the roof. But the only thing up there is... 

‘A helicopter!’ 

You’re about to warn Ross, when the dot vanishes. Pressing a few buttons, the screen readjusts before zooming in and you realize that the tracker you’d slipped onto him is malfunctioning. So, either Barnes found the tracker or it fell off, the former being more plausible than the latter. Engaged in your task as you are, you don’t notice anyone until the masculine scent of pine, something forest-y at the very least, teases your senses even as the soulmate bond sings to life once again. 

You want to ignore him but know he won’t go away, “How can I help you, your Highness?”

T’Challa is staring at you, his gaze intense and intent. “We need to talk.”  

And that’s not ominous at all. 

Nevertheless, you subtly signal to Ross that you need a moment and he begins to herd everyone else away, getting medics to look over Romanov and Carter. Having an inkling of how this conversation would go, you lead the heir to an area where surveillance is lowest. Leaning against the wall, you tuck your hands underneath your armpits. 

The urge to touch him is strong, but you ignore the impulse. 

It’s just the bond striving to be complete. 

T’Challa hasn’t said anything during the walk to get here and he’s not said anything for the past five minutes. Normally, you’d ignore the other person who did that, maybe play games on your cellphone, but you don’t have the patience to pull off that type of nonchalance today, right now.

“As much as I like silence, maybe more than the average person, we’re on a schedule. We do have a triggered, amnesic and deadly assassin to catch.” 

He blinked. 

Then his lips pulled upwards into a faint, wry smile, and your brain whispered ‘Oh no, he’s hot!’, which you’re trying to ignore. 

This is a serious moment. You must be serious and prof--

“What are you doing?” Although you tried to make your voice come out strong and confident, much to your dismay, it’s breathy and barely a whisper. T’Challa has you crowded in, carefully not touching you skin-on-skin (but god did you want him to) and he leaned his face towards yours. 

For a wild moment, you wondered if he was going to kiss you, and then his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, the whisper of touch causing sparks of electricity to dance up and down your spine. “I am very much taking this seriously. No one wants to catch Barnes more than myself.” The words are soft spoken, but hit you like a lash and you’re berating yourself for your earlier insensitive words. “However, while I am also interested in you, I will not chase you if that is not what you want.”

Although he probably meant his words to come out soothing, reassuring, your traitorous brain is putting it in a very different context. Swallowing thickly, even though your throat feels dry, you nod. “Barnes first. Once that’s handled,” You try to pull off an indifferent shrug, but don’t know if he believes it. 

“We’ll see.” 

His eyes roam over your body from head to toe. Then slowly, reluctantly, he backs out of your space, you can see the faint outline of a bulge, proving that no, he’s not unaffected as he lets on by your presence, that the soulmate bond might be just as intense for him as it is for you. T’Challa dipped his head in a curt farewell, adjusting himself (this guy really had no shame, but oh god, that was sexy) before turning and walking away. 

Once he’s out of sight, your legs can’t support you anymore. You slide to the floor, pressing your shaking hands to your forehead. How the hell were you going to keep from touching him, let alone resist bonding, when the time came? 

The real question is: did you even want to deny this anymore?

#mcu #t'challa #mcu imagine #t'challa imagine #marvel #black reader #marvel imagine #t'challa x reader #avengers #t'challa x black reader #avengers imagine #thekrazykeke

[nprplays]

Nintendo Switch and Legend of Zelda Road Trip Impressions: Part 1

By Stephan Bisaha

Washington, D.C. 7:05 a.m. – Back in 2006, I was waiting in line for the Nintendo Wii. Actually, it was my third time doing so; the first two failed due to my not arriving early enough to receive any of the limited supply. 

Over a decade later, I was waiting in line again for a Nintendo console. But instead of arriving hours before the store opened with more than a dozen people in front of me, there was only one other person an hour before the Walmart opened.

(Okay, I did wake up a 3:30 a.m., went outside, saw no one was waiting yet and then went back in. The perks of living above a Walmart.) 

When the doors did open at 6 a.m., the six of us that were waiting went inside to purchase our Nintendo Switch’s with little fanfare. There were about ten left and I didn’t see anyone coming in on my way out.

This isn’t all that shocking. The Wii was a phenomenon that had my father – whose previous interest in games extended to how beautiful he thought the beaches of Super Mario Sunshine looked – flailing his arms to roll a virtual bowling ball. The Switch was never going to be that, at least not at launch. The system is essentially releasing in beta, lacking basic functionality like an internet browser or even a Netflix app. 

But, just like in 2006, the main reason I woke up early to pick up a Nintendo console was for a new Zelda game, this one titled The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild. 

Of course, just as Zelda has grown up – and not in the moody, bleak Twilight Princess version of the term – over the past decade, so have I. In a couple of hours I was going to drive from D.C. to Birmingham, Alabama to report with WBHM for three months as part of my fellowship with NPR.

And while I may not have the same number of hours to toss at a new Nintendo console, the Switch has come at a perfect time. Nintendo touts the Switch as a portable console. It’s a tablet with two controllers stuck to its side and a dock to play on a TV screen. A two-day road trip to Alabama gives me an excellent opportunity to see how well the Switch functions on the go.

The plan is, after a few more hours of sleep, I’m going to start the drive down with my packed car. Every few hours, I’m going to find some place to rest, either to eat or as a simple break from the road, and start playing with the Switch. 

How well does Nintendo’s new baby function away from its dock? Is Zelda really as good as the reviews are saying? Will I actually make it to Alabama on time or get stuck in Tennessee, unable to drag myself away from a new Zelda adventure? Let’s find out.

Troutville, Virginia 2:45 p.m. – The original plan was to stop and earlier in my travels to get some play time and rest in, but the wide-open blue sky and green hills covered in silhouetted cows motivated me to put in some extra hours before stopping at a rest area on 81 South. It’s certainly been a much nicer drive than I’m used to from my New Jersey upbringing.

After parking and stretching my legs, I slid beneath a tree and started to play, at least until I remembered it is still winter and the cold drove me back to my car and I continued there.

I did start up the Switch before I left D.C., which worked out as it allowed me to download two quick updates for the system and for Breath of the Wild. Everything was packed up already so I didn’t have a TV to dock the Switch to so I’ve only used it in handheld mode so far. The main menu really is bare bones, but it does have a simple elegancy to it. The menus are intuitive and easy to navigate and there’s little clutter.

When I returned to the Switch at the rest stop, I found it had already built up a fair amount of dust. While there were some small snow flurries at the beginning of my trip, the bright Virginia sun was causing significant glare. It sapped a lot of the weight out of BOTW’s ominous and mysterious opening. I twisted in my car to avoid direct sunlight on the screen.

To add to my awkward positioning, I’m having trouble getting comfortable holding the system. It’s light enough that my hands aren’t getting tired, but the Joy-Cons strapped to the device’s sides are taking some getting used to. The analog sticks feel a lot better than the 3DS’s circle pad, but a step below what we’re used to from modern consoles.

After playing BOTW for about 45 minutes, I’m ready to get back to the road. It’s been an enjoyable opening and it really does away with Nintendo’s handholding habit. I’ve died twice already, which is probably more than my last play through of Legend of Zelda: The Windwaker. I think I can drive for a few more hours before the next stop.

Christiansburg, Virginia 3:50 p.m. – Never mind. The next rest stop I saw I took, about 50 miles down the road. My first few bad guy encounters in Zelda had me itching for more combat.

When discussing handheld games, it’s often brought up that they should be structured for quick play sessions. Luigi’s Mansion: Dark Moon on the 3DS did this by, much to my dismay, breaking gameplay into individual missions. The idea is a gamer is more likely to have shorter burst of play than a when playing on a console.

The problem with that approach is missions are often set lengths – often getting longer as the game progresses – and it’s rare for a gamer’s limited handheld time to lineup perfectly with a mission.

The Legend of Zelda: Breath of The Wild solves this by providing an open world full of quick challenges. Only have five minutes? That’s just enough time to take down this enemy camp. Have some more time? Here’s a small set of mysterious ruins to explore. 

I was able to stop for about twenty minutes and have a satisfying time, as well as granted in game rewards for those tasks so I left with at least a small sense of accomplishment. 

Atkins, Virginia 5:25 p.m. – I’ve stopped at a rest area just shy of Tennessee. The goal at this point is to make it to Knoxville and find a hotel there. 

Now that the sun has dipped further down and not directly hitting my screen, the glare is no longer an issue. And wow, this is a gorgeous game on a gorgeous screen. Switching from watching a YouTube video on a smartphone to a game on the 3DS was always jarring because of how much worse the handheld’s screen is. But the Switch’s screen, while not 1080p, feels like a huge step up.

I’m getting more comfortable with the controller, but I am getting some pain in my right thumb when using the analog stick. Supporting the system while my thumb stretches down over a decent amount of time is difficult.

Oh, and as for the battery, I’ve been cheating and using a USB-C car charger so there’s been no real risk there. 

Back to Zelda, I’m surprised how much I’m enjoying exploring this world. I had no interest in playing Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim because of how much Fallout 3 failed to grasp my attention. 

I tend to prefer more linear games. But I think the major difference for Zelda is the level of care and density. When I played Grand Theft Auto IV, I remember wondering what it would be like for every building to have an interior to explore. So much of the city was just skyscraper-shaped boxes with no way inside.

Zelda has the advantage of not needing to replicate New York City, but I’m never walking for more than a few seconds in any direction without stumbling upon a new danger or discovery. Despite the size of the opening area, every square foot feels like it was given careful consideration. I’ve logged about two hours of game time and I just stopped playing having finally bothered to address the game’s first objective.

But that will have to wait until Tennessee.  I don’t want to miss the sunset my westbound trip is preparing for me. 

Wooddale, Tennessee 10:15 p.m. – I’ve decided to stop just outside of Knoxville. The jump between staring at a screen and the road – even if both have been beautiful in their own distinct ways – has my eyes weary. I pull into a Holiday Inn Express and drag my bags to my room. After a quick food trip, I connect the Switch’s dock to my hotel’s TV and set the tablet inside.

I thought Zelda looked amazing before – playing it on a TV makes the graphics really sing. It’s hard to take in all the detail on Switch’s native screen, which is to be expected given its size. But seeing it expanded on the screen provides a much better opportunity to soak in the graphics.

I connected the Joy-Cons to the grip that came with the system. A normal console controller is still preferable, but this is more comfortable than having the Joy-Cons attached to the system. I’ll try playing with the Joy-Cons unattached from the grips tomorrow to see how that compares.

I have another day of traveling tomorrow, but so far I’ve been impressed with the Switch. As unnecessary as a portable console may sound, it motivated me to get to each new rest area and to get back to the game. And to have that seamlessly transfer to a TV is an experience still unique, and greatly appreciated, in gaming today.  

#Nintendo #nintendo switch #gaming #video games

[glassofgaytea]

FYI: A Case for Johnlock: Why SHERLOCK Should Embrace Its Ship of Dreams | ScreenSpy

Thank you!

Article link…

A Case for Johnlock: Why SHERLOCK Should Embrace Its Ship of Dreams - By Chris. B

Modern television has more “ships” than the Pacific Ocean. Virtually every character on the airwaves has been matched with another, fancied relationships dreamed up by eager fans, either to generate laughs or to satisfy personal passions.  Every fandom has its favorite pairs, but if you’re a follower of the BBC’s Sherlock, the most discussed coupling by far is that John and Sherlock, or Johnlock.  The desire to see these two together in more than a simple platonic friendship is one that is played out in blogs and fan fiction regularly, but is this something fans will ever see developed on screen? 

There are many factors to consider here.  Sadly, in 2017, there is still a certain amount of controversy about showing a gay couple in an everyday relationship, one that is not present for purposes of comic relief or sideline plot support.  Would the network and affiliates allow it?  How conservative are its politics and those of its advertisers?  Given the overwhelming popularity of the show on an international scale, I would wager their wallets would easily trump any qualms that might exist.  It is amazing how capitalism can solve all manner of perceived ills. 

Regardless, do Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat even want this to be the dynamic of their characters?  According to them, the answer is no.  In an interview with Valerie Parker in July of last year, Gatiss claimed, “…we’ve explicitly said this is not going to happen – there is no game plan – no matter how much we lie about other things, that this show is going to culminate in Martin and Benedict going off into the sunset together. They are not going to do it.” 

That sounds pretty final.  Maybe. 

Since these two have made the most of The X-Files philosophy that a lie is most conveniently hidden between two truths, there is always room for doubt.  (Really, how likely is it that a seasoned professional like Gatiss suddenly mistook the names of his characters for those of the men who portray them?) 

In any case, I think an openly romantic relationship between John and Sherlock would be well worth it.  Consider the following points and determine for yourself if this match is a just a forgettable fantasy, or if it could be an ultimate destiny. 

 5. The characters are already tightly bonded 

No one would argue with the idea that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s original characters of Holmes and Watson are best friends; through each of the numerous variations presented over the intervening century plus, this is one of the few facets has remained consistent.  They are a team. Individually, though, each member of the team is lacking.  At one point, Sherlock confesses in “The Great Game” that he’s been “reliably informed” that he has no heart, going so far as to declare several different times that he is a high-functioning sociopath.  John, on the other hand, is “abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people”; he misses the war that left him behind.  Both have a hole that they need to fill, and that is exactly what the other satisfies. 

In Sherlock, this is reinforced repeatedly.  John and Sherlock are clearly presented as two halves of the same whole, each needing the other to be a complete version of himself—John, the heart and inspiration; Sherlock, the excitement and intellectual challenge.  When Sherlock is baffled why a woman would be upset about her child’s death after fourteen years or when he too gleefully investigates a child kidnapping, John is there to mediate his reactions.  Then, when Sherlock returns in “The Empty Hearse,” he insists correctly of John, “You have missed this…the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, the two of us against the rest of the world.”  Later, in “The Abominable Bride,” John quips to Moriarty, “There are always two of us.”  There must be.  Inevitably, all roads they take lead to Baker Street, back to their roots together.   

4. There is already plenty of precedent for it 

Sherlock has never shied away from the suggestion that Sherlock and John are more than friends.  From the outset, John is mistaken for Sherlock’s date, and the man who will “outlive God trying to have the last word” makes no correction, nor does he when a reporter in “The Reichenbach Fall” asks for a quote about whether he and Dr. Watson are “strictly platonic.”  Further, the two gay owners of The Cross Keys Inn from “The Hounds of Baskerville” assess John and Sherlock as a pair; and Mrs. Hudson, who lives just a floor below them and knows them very well, refers to one of their arguments as “a little domestic” and is shocked when John is ready to move on (to marry a woman?) a full two years after Sherlock’s supposed death.  Then, Irene Adler, who sizes people up as adeptly as Sherlock, calls out John’s jealousy about the 57 unanswered texts that she’s sent (yes, John kept track) and flatly counters John’s insistence that he and Sherlock are a couple:  “Yes, you are.”  Finally, in “The Abominable Bride,” when John saves his other half from the precipice and Sherlock gushes about John’s intelligence, Moriarty himself rolls his eyes and scoffs, “Oh, why don’t you two just elope, for God’s sake!” 

There are innumerable instances of extreme devotion shown to us as well.  In “His Last Vow” Sherlock literally restarts his own heart because John is in danger, then commits murder to protect John from the thumb of Magnussen’s extortion.  In “The Great Game” John throws himself on Moriarty to allow Sherlock to escape the bomb he wears, and in “A Scandal in Belgravia,” he dumps his girlfriend and their holiday plans to stay home and look after Sherlock, a choice he makes easily after she demands, “Don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!”  (Oh, he won’t, dear; there’s no contest.)  Further, images abound of the intense and meaningful stares shared by these two, traded like stocks on internet forums and social media, all screaming of something bubbling beneath the surface.  Thus, to transition to an official couple would not be much of a stretch.  

3. It fits the transformational model of the show 

Gatiss and Moffat have shown a penchant for pushing the envelope with their version of Doyle’s characters. Would Doyle have raised his eyebrows over John’s sibling being a divorced lesbian who’s taken to drink?  I doubt the original author could have imagined Mrs. Hudson as a former exotic dancer who had been married to the head of a drug cartel.  And certainly no one anticipated that the lovable Mary Morstan would turn out to be a former intelligence agent and ruthless trained assassin. 

The creators have not been afraid to add their own special spice to these characters.  In a 2014 interview with Phil Ittner, Gatiss and Moffat asserted, “Most of [the series] is actually completely new, so there’s not a drying-up of the source…we’re slightly broadening out the world a bit and being slightly more heretical than we probably would have been at the beginning. But then that’s good, it feels like this is our version…”   To go all-in and apex this concept with the core pair would allow them to make a truly indelible mark on the enormous canon of Sherlock Holmes iterations. 

After all, side characters are only so revealing; in this universe, John and Sherlock are the only ones who matter.  The series has been proposed as the story of the development of a genius, hence its very specific title, so building Sherlock Holmes to the point where he can freely give and receive love, achieving true intimacy, would be the greatest development possible.  Gatiss and Moffat could provide that humanity for him, to create their own warm center to the notoriously melancholy sphere of the private life of the world’s only consulting detective.   

2. Proper representation matters 

All segments of society can and should have a right to see themselves recognized unabashedly by the media they consume, whether it is fiction or non-fiction.  In the twenty-first century, this should not still be the struggle that it is, yet any in the LBGTQ community know how resistant this practice is to change in the machine of social institutions.  Too often, gay characters are used as statue pieces or comic relief, sidelines or after thoughts; they are not permitted to be real and valuable human beings, but are stock characters and stereotypes, extras who inevitably get the axe if the Grim Reaper comes calling.

 Steven Moffat has been most emphatic on the issue that the showing of gay or bisexual characters in popular culture should not be approached with triviality, that it is a serious issue that should be offered (particularly to young people) in a way that denotes true acceptance.  In his Parker interview, he asserted, “You don’t want to essentially tell children that [being gay is] something to campaign about. You want to say this is absolutely fine and normal. There is no question to answer. You want to walk right past it, in a way. You don’t want to…say, as sometimes other kinds of literature or movies might, we forgive you for being gay. You’re just saying you’re gay and it doesn’t matter. There’s no issue.” 

Essentially, one’s sexuality is just an average, marginally interesting, non-personality-defining, run-of-the-mill reality.  Thus, no matter what your sexual bent, it is not odd; it is not special or different, wonderful or terrible.  It just is, as mundane to one’s whole character as eye color or shoe size.  Indeed, until this matter does not flutter pulses with its rakish novelty, true acceptance has not yet occurred.  Having Sherlock and John integrate their sexuality seamlessly into the roster of the other attributes that the audience has witnessed, to roll it into the entire picture of who they are, we would be granted a relaxed and genuine portrayal of a devoted couple that happens to be gay, one from which we could all ultimately benefit.   

1. It would count Sherlock is a global phenomenon.  

According to the Radio Times, it is shown in 224 countries and territories around the world, making it the most watched of any of the BBC’s programs, surpassing even Dr. Who, which has decades of history.  It has spawned blogs and merchandise and a number of Sherlocked fan events, which are major affairs to rival the most popular comic cons, where every artifact, set detail, and image from the show is cherished and applauded. 

The series’ leads, Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, are beloved international stars.  Thanks in no small part to this show, they are in constant demand and headline massive studio projects, like The Hobbit series of films and Marvel’s Dr. Strange.  Each has a immense following of fans, and rightly so—they are award-winning craftsmen, extremely versatile talents who deserve every bit of success they’ve acquired. 

This degree of influence and appeal leverages a lot of power. 

What this show brings to the table, the world eats; what it points to as its guides, people would notice, and what’s more, follow.  What, then, could be accomplished in social terms if Sherlock were to subtly demystify gay relationships?   What might result if a stellar product and the highly popular individuals involved indicate that a homosexual relationship is every bit as complicated and trying and boring and wonderful as every other kind? 

Respect. And with luck, progress.

Thanks, Chris. B

#tjlc #love it when the media gets it #Anonymous #johnlock

[dmellieon]

Why SHERLOCK Should Embrace Its Ship of Dreams

By The Screen Spy Team on January 10, 2017 By Chris B. 

Modern television has more “ships” than the Pacific Ocean. Virtually every character on the airwaves has been matched with another, fancied relationships dreamed up by eager fans, either to generate laughs or to satisfy personal passions.  Every fandom has its favorite pairs, but if you’re a follower of the BBC’s Sherlock, the most discussed coupling by far is that John and Sherlock, or Johnlock.  The desire to see these two together in more than a simple platonic friendship is one that is played out in blogs and fan fiction regularly, but is this something fans will ever see developed on screen? There are many factors to consider here.  Sadly, in 2017, there is still a certain amount of controversy about showing a gay couple in an everyday relationship, one that is not present for purposes of comic relief or sideline plot support.  Would the network and affiliates allow it?  How conservative are its politics and those of its advertisers?  Given the overwhelming popularity of the show on an international scale, I would wager their wallets would easily trump any qualms that might exist.  It is amazing how capitalism can solve all manner of perceived ills. Regardless, do Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat even want this to be the dynamic of their characters?  According to them, the answer is no.  In an interview with Valerie Parker in July of last year, Gatiss claimed, “…we’ve explicitly said this is not going to happen – there is no game plan – no matter how much we lie about other things, that this show is going to culminate in Martin and Benedict going off into the sunset together. They are not going to do it.” That sounds pretty final.  Maybe. Since these two have made the most of The X-Files philosophy that a lie is most conveniently hidden between two truths, there is always room for doubt.  (Really, how likely is it that a seasoned professional like Gatiss suddenly mistook the names of his characters for those of the men who portray them?) In any case, I think an openly romantic relationship between John and Sherlock would be well worth it.  Consider the following points and determine for yourself if this match is a just a forgettable fantasy, or if it could be an ultimate destiny.   

5. The characters are already tightly bonded No one would argue with the idea that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s original characters of Holmes and Watson are best friends; through each of the numerous variations presented over the intervening century plus, this is one of the few facets has remained consistent.  They are a team. Individually, though, each member of the team is lacking.  At one point, Sherlock confesses in “The Great Game” that he’s been “reliably informed” that he has no heart, going so far as to declare several different times that he is a high-functioning sociopath.  John, on the other hand, is “abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people”; he misses the war that left him behind.  Both have a hole that they need to fill, and that is exactly what the other satisfies. In Sherlock, this is reinforced repeatedly.  John and Sherlock are clearly presented as two halves of the same whole, each needing the other to be a complete version of himself—John, the heart and inspiration; Sherlock, the excitement and intellectual challenge.  When Sherlock is baffled why a woman would be upset about her child’s death after fourteen years or when he too gleefully investigates a child kidnapping, John is there to mediate his reactions.  Then, when Sherlock returns in “The Empty Hearse,” he insists correctly of John, “You have missed this…the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, the two of us against the rest of the world.”  Later, in “The Abominable Bride,” John quips to Moriarty, “There are always two of us.”  There must be.  Inevitably, all roads they take lead to Baker Street, back to their roots together.   

4. There is already plenty of precedent for it Sherlock has never shied away from the suggestion that Sherlock and John are more than friends.  From the outset, John is mistaken for Sherlock’s date, and the man who will “outlive God trying to have the last word” makes no correction, nor does he when a reporter in “The Reichenbach Fall” asks for a quote about whether he and Dr. Watson are “strictly platonic.”  Further, the two gay owners of The Cross Keys Inn from “The Hounds of Baskerville” assess John and Sherlock as a pair; and Mrs. Hudson, who lives just a floor below them and knows them very well, refers to one of their arguments as “a little domestic” and is shocked when John is ready to move on (to marry a woman?) a full two years after Sherlock’s supposed death.  Then, Irene Adler, who sizes people up as adeptly as Sherlock, calls out John’s jealousy about the 57 unanswered texts that she’s sent (yes, John kept track) and flatly counters John’s insistence that he and Sherlock are a couple:  “Yes, you are.”  Finally, in “The Abominable Bride,” when John saves his other half from the precipice and Sherlock gushes about John’s intelligence, Moriarty himself rolls his eyes and scoffs, “Oh, why don’t you two just elope, for God’s sake!” There are innumerable instances of extreme devotion shown to us as well.  In “His Last Vow” Sherlock literally restarts his own heart because John is in danger, then commits murder to protect John from the thumb of Magnussen’s extortion.  In “The Great Game” John throws himself on Moriarty to allow Sherlock to escape the bomb he wears, and in “A Scandal in Belgravia,” he dumps his girlfriend and their holiday plans to stay home and look after Sherlock, a choice he makes easily after she demands, “Don’t make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!”  (Oh, he won’t, dear; there’s no contest.)  Further, images abound of the intense and meaningful stares shared by these two, traded like stocks on internet forums and social media, all screaming of something bubbling beneath the surface.  Thus, to transition to an official couple would not be much of a stretch.   

3. It fits the transformational model of the show Gatiss and Moffat have shown a penchant for pushing the envelope with their version of Doyle’s characters.  Would Doyle have raised his eyebrows over John’s sibling being a divorced lesbian who’s taken to drink?  I doubt the original author could have imagined Mrs. Hudson as a former exotic dancer who had been married to the head of a drug cartel.  And certainly no one anticipated that the lovable Mary Morstan would turn out to be a former intelligence agent and ruthless trained assassin. The creators have not been afraid to add their own special spice to these characters.  In a 2014 interview with Phil Ittner, Gatiss and Moffat asserted, “Most of [the series] is actually completely new, so there’s not a drying-up of the source…we’re slightly broadening out the world a bit and being slightly more heretical than we probably would have been at the beginning. But then that’s good, it feels like this is our version…”   To go all-in and apex this concept with the core pair would allow them to make a truly indelible mark on the enormous canon of Sherlock Holmes iterations. After all, side characters are only so revealing; in this universe, John and Sherlock are the only ones who matter.  The series has been proposed as the story of the development of a genius, hence its very specific title, so building Sherlock Holmes to the point where he can freely give and receive love, achieving true intimacy, would be the greatest development possible.  Gatiss and Moffat could provide that humanity for him, to create their own warm center to the notoriously melancholy sphere of the private life of the world’s only consulting detective.   

2. Proper representation matters All segments of society can and should have a right to see themselves recognized unabashedly by the media they consume, whether it is fiction or non-fiction.  In the twenty-first century, this should not still be the struggle that it is, yet any in the LBGTQ community know how resistant this practice is to change in the machine of social institutions.  Too often, gay characters are used as statue pieces or comic relief, sidelines or after thoughts; they are not permitted to be real and valuable human beings, but are stock characters and stereotypes, extras who inevitably get the axe if the Grim Reaper comes calling. Steven Moffat has been most emphatic on the issue that the showing of gay or bisexual characters in popular culture should not be approached with triviality, that it is a serious issue that should be offered (particularly to young people) in a way that denotes true acceptance.  In his Parker interview, he asserted, “You don’t want to essentially tell children that [being gay is] something to campaign about. You want to say this is absolutely fine and normal. There is no question to answer. You want to walk right past it, in a way. You don’t want to…say, as sometimes other kinds of literature or movies might, we forgive you for being gay. You’re just saying you’re gay and it doesn’t matter. There’s no issue.” Essentially, one’s sexuality is just an average, marginally interesting, non-personality-defining, run-of-the-mill reality.  Thus, no matter what your sexual bent, it is not odd; it is not special or different, wonderful or terrible.  It just is, as mundane to one’s whole character as eye color or shoe size.  Indeed, until this matter does not flutter pulses with its rakish novelty, true acceptance has not yet occurred.  Having Sherlock and John integrate their sexuality seamlessly into the roster of the other attributes that the audience has witnessed, to roll it into the entire picture of who they are, we would be granted a relaxed and genuine portrayal of a devoted couple that happens to be gay, one from which we could all ultimately benefit.   

1. It would count Sherlock is a global phenomenon.  According to the Radio Times, it is shown in 224 countries and territories around the world, making it the most watched of any of the BBC’s programs, surpassing even Dr. Who, which has decades of history.  It has spawned blogs and merchandise and a number of Sherlocked fan events, which are major affairs to rival the most popular comic cons, where every artifact, set detail, and image from the show is cherished and applauded. The series’ leads, Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, are beloved international stars.  Thanks in no small part to this show, they are in constant demand and headline massive studio projects, like The Hobbit series of films and Marvel’s Dr. Strange.  Each has a immense following of fans, and rightly so—they are award-winning craftsmen, extremely versatile talents who deserve every bit of success they’ve acquired. This degree of influence and appeal leverages a lot of power. What this show brings to the table, the world eats; what it points to as its guides, people would notice, and what’s more, follow.  What, then, could be accomplished in social terms if Sherlock were to subtly demystify gay relationships?   What might result if a stellar product and the highly popular individuals involved indicate that a homosexual relationship is every bit as complicated and trying and boring and wonderful as every other kind? 

Respect.  And with luck, progress. 

(via A Case for Johnlock: Why SHERLOCK Should Embrace Its Ship of Dreams)

#Dee posts #screen spy #johnlock article #BBC Sherlock