whole nervous system

Overdramatic (a langst sickfic)

here 1/2 is the prompt for this, enjoy! (sorry if its crappy, this is my first sick fic!)

read some of of my other minifics here

To say Lance was dramatic would be an understatement. He enjoyed attention and would bask in it whenever he could, even if he got by making some things sound a little worse than they actually were. 

But that papercut he got on Tuesday? It was obviously life threatening, didn’t those strike the nerve the hardest or something? And if they did, wasn’t it imperative that he got medical attention immediately since it could mess up his whole nervous system? His actions were totally justified, no matter what Pidge might think.

Plus, that migraine (yes it was a migraine, not some small headache) he had two days ago obviously impaired him significantly, which was why he couldn’t go to training that day. Despite his pain, he was forced to go to training and on top of that, the entire team ignored his painful sorrows he grumbled as they trained. In fact, Pidge had even told him to shut up! Yeah, to say that day was a good day would also be an understatement, especially with the lecture he received from Shiro afterwards.  

All in all, Lance knew he could be a tad overdramatic at times (barely a smidge), so when he woke up today with aching limbs and a pounding headache, he knew he was actually sick. Yet he also knew the team wouldn’t believe him and after that talk with Shiro about being a team player? Lance didn’t want to start anymore trouble with the team.

He slowly pulled himself out of bed, glaring at the alarm that blared in his room before moving to get ready as fast as he could. Every movement hurt his sore body and his head would begin to spin dangerously if he moved too quickly. He could barely concentrate on putting on his socks without becoming overwhelmed with a wave of vertigo, sending his already churning stomach into a whirlpool. Before he even realized what was happening, he was retching on the floor, black spots dancing in his vision as he dazedly wiped his chin. Lance prided himself on being the cleanest of the paladins, but in that moment he was completely disgusted. Trying not to throw up again, Lance hurriedly put on the rest of his armor before making his way out of his room. By the time he reached the control room, everyone else was already there and boy were they not happy. 

“Lance, you were expected to be here over 200 ticks ago, you missed the debriefing on the mission,” Allura addressed him coldly, “You know I do not tolerate this type of behavior from anyone, even more so from a paladin!” She sniffed, eyeing him for a moment,”And you reek, please go … clean yourself in the kitchen before joining us again.” Lance could only nod silently before making his way over to the kitchen to rinse his face and mouth, catching Hunk’s small smile on the way out. He was suddenly overcome by a sudden dizziness, causing him to grip the countertop tightly as he fought the urge to throw up. He just had to make it through this mission and then he could rest up. 

Making it through the mission was easier said than done. He could barely stay up right during the debriefing and everything sounded muffled as he tried to concentrate on what Allura was saying. 

“And then.. Lance are you even paying attention?”
“Yes Princess! You were just um.. talking about the strategy we were going to use?” Allura only sighed at his response before continuing. Lance didn’t miss the glare Keith shot his way despite the black dots that were increasingly getting larger. Was that ringing always there? Lance couldn’t make out what Allura was saying over it, the ringing noise getting louder by the second. The lights seemed a whole lot brighter too suddenly, and he had to grip the table to stop himself from swaying. Despite his efforts, the room itself was already swaying and he couldn’t even make out Allura at this point or anyone to be honest. The ringing turned into a roar and then it was silent. 

“…Lance? Lance! What is wrong with him?!” Hunk yelled, immediately leaping towards his friend who was currently face down on the table. 

“He’s just acting dramatic again, he’ll wake up any minute now,” Keith retorted, eyeing Lance, “You know how he gets.” Yet even he was getting antsy as Lance sat hunched over, unmoving. Shiro placed a hesitant hand on Lance and was instantly bombarded with heat, Lance’s skin extremely hot. 

“Coran ready a healing pod, Lance is not well right now,” Shiro ordered, the table falling silent. Shiro tried to shake Lance awake and was relieved when he received a groan in response. “Lance? You need to tell use what’s wrong.” The entire team was around Lance at this point, everyone hovering around him unsure of what to do. 

“Im.. fine. ….sorry.” Lance grumbled, sitting up blearily before lurching to the side. Hunk luckily grabbed him in time, worry painted on his face. 

“Lance, you don’t need to be sorry okay? Just tell us what’s wrong,” Hunk tried, glancing down at the boy in his arms. 

“Imf… being a..nnoying..”Lance said tiredly, his eyes already slipping close,”I’m just…a little un-under the weather,” He tried to grin, but it only came out as a grimace. He missed the sad smiles when he passed out. 

A new story for my Fairy Tail Tales collection.
This one features Mirajane, Cana and Freed in a modern-day bar setting ~ I hope you’ll enjoy it!

~ 1700 words  |  FF link HERE  | AO3 link HERE

Author’s Note:

Somebody asked me to write more Mira x Freed (or at least I decided to take their question that way), so I picked a prompt at random and got this (the prompt is the title). It was supposed to be a one-shot. We’ll see.

Close Your Eyes and Hold Out Your Hands

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

How many times had Mirajane said that to others? Countless times to her younger brother and sister (set aside the ache at the memory of losing Lisanna). Many times with friends and coworkers. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but she had almost always been the one giving the instructions. She eyed the green-haired man across the bar from her dubiously.

“I’m working right now, Freed,” she said hesitantly, not quite liking to tell him that she didn’t know what to make of him yet, which meant that she was reluctant to close her eyes. It was unlike her to be so hesitant with a patron once they had been coming into the bar for a few weeks. On the rare occasions that she really didn’t like somebody, the person would find the service poor and the company surly, and go off in search of a more convivial place to eat and drink.

“Ms. Alberona,” Freed said to the woman who was nursing a dark drink a couple of seats down, “will you watch me to ensure fair play?”

“Oh?” Cana Alberona looked up from contemplating liquor in front of her. She turned on her bar stool, crossing one well-shaped, muscular leg over the other and letting a sandal dangle from one foot. She’d seen the man called Freed—whose last name escaped her—before, but she hadn’t realized that he was interested in Mira. That was surprising. Cana kept a close eye on Mira and acted as the bar’s unofficial bouncer whenever Mira’s brother Elfman wasn’t around.

“Ms. Strauss is concerned that I will do something inappropriate if she closes her eyes, I think.”

Cana snorted. “I’d like to see you try!”

“Would you?” The man gave her an appraising sort of look, and Cana felt a strange desire to shiver. That was ridiculous. Freed was a reasonably tall man, and looked very fit, but the neat, summer-weight jacket and too-new black jeans argued against the kind of power it would take to make even a dent on Magnolia’s reigning bare-knuckles champion (men and women). Cana’s eyes narrowed.

“Do you fight?” she asked peremptorily.

“Only when I must.” The man shrugged, dismissing the topic, and returned to his initial question. “I would like to give a small gift to Ms. Strauss, but rules are rules. I thought that if you were watching, Ms. Alberona, then Ms. Strauss would be more amenable to closing her eyes.”

“Are you serious?”

“About which part?”

“You know she’s nervous, but you want her to close her eyes anyway just because of some kids’ game? You know: ‘Open your hands and close your eyes and you will get a nice surprise!’ People learned not to play games with me a long time ago.”

Freed shook his head. “This isn’t a game.” He smiled at Mirajane, and Cana saw his expression soften, going from cool and impersonal to gentle and admiring. And yet, there was a weird feel to it that Cana couldn’t put her finger on. “Well, Ms. Strauss?” the man said quietly to Mira.

Mirajane had been following the rather odd conversation in silence, her usual forthright cheerfulness dimmed by the uneasy discomfort that seemed to come over her whenever the green-haired man was around. There was something about him that called to her, but she had no idea why. Called to her and made her nervous, for no discernable reason. Nevertheless, she had a job to do and she was damned if she’d let anyone make her twitchy like this in her own bar.

“Oh, sure. It’s not a problem, especially with Cana here.” Mira smiled, seeming to shrug off any apprehension she’d been feeling. “Besides, rules are rules and I like gifts!” She closed her eyes and reached her hands across the bar.

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healingmessages  asked:

Misunderstood trigger: Every time a door is interrupted with an item when I try to close it. Whether it be a jammed kver-the-door hanger, an article of laundry, even a door stopper. My whole nervous system reacts immediately as if my Dad were right on the other side, forcing his way in to hit me, while I desperately try to close the door against his adult strength.... It's the little things that shake you up sometimes, for real.

Deep Space Nine: 2x22

I’m not going to keep doing this. I really promise. I can’t keep doing this, if I ever intend to finish Star Trek: Deep Space Nine before midway through 2018. Which, at my current rate, would be the reasonable projection. Oh in case you are just now joining us: at the time of writing I have only watched through episode 4x10. And I will be finishing the series before 2018, you have my word.

But — continually feeling dissonant over how little I actually said about the season 2 episode ‘The Wire’ relative to the DEPTH & TENOR of my feelings for it, and because of and after it, it’s getting a damn recap.


Because tbh “A CRISP HOLY FUCK TO ALL OF THIS” can probably not be beat in efficacy/overall sentiment.

Season 2, Episode 22: ‘The Wire’

The first scene of ‘The Wire’ does so many things I enjoy that it could almost be a case study in How A Show Can Catch A Tarra.

We open with Garak complaining to Bashir about a late shipment, deadpanning: “Oh well, that’s the price for doing business with a culture that refuses to even acknowledge the concept of time. Though I must say, they make magnificent sweaters.” My Kinda Space Jokes.

Immediately on the heels of this blithe Stoppardian absurdity, Julian yawns, revealing he’s sleepy because he was up late last night. No, not entertaining a lady friend, Garak — reading a Cardassian epic, the nerd.

And with that we’ve neatly transitioned into Lit Crit With Garak & Bashir, my favorite PBS show. Julian gets particularly animated whenever he’s talking about ~artwork~, which is so silly and precious I want to bottle it. Garak is surely torn between professorially informing him he’s critiquing Cardassian literature from an entirely alien sensibility, and just letting him keep talking in the hopes that he’ll continue doing this soft sparkle thing:

The former wins out though, especially as Garak can’t help but wince as pain lances through his head.

Which turns us on a dime from literary theory to medical mystery, as our International Man of Secrets bundles himself swiftly around this flash of strange suffering, hoping to deflect the lighthouse beams Dr. Bashir’s eyes have turned into. As usual, Julian doctoring someone gets an A grade from this viewer, because it’s such a goddamn delight watching the Bertie Wooster of space go so sure-footed on something.

Garak assures him that it isn’t necessary to go to the infirmary. “Well maybe not, but humor me,” Julian tries. But Garak, visibly fraying under a building strain, makes a deliberate cut: “Frankly Doctor, I’m a little tired of humoring you.” And with THAT glimpse of the dangerous unknown sea always swirling just beneath their lunch dates, Garak departs, leaving Julian to hmmm at his retreating back.

What is certain is this: Garak knows what is hurting him, and he does not want Julian to find out.

Forget your Cardassian epics — THIS IS THE WAY TO START A STORY.

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Ghost, Popestar Tour 2016, Pittsburgh PA, Stage AE

So last time I saw Ghost I was baffled as to how so many people had gotten there before me and filled in the front few rows. Then I found out about this VIP ticket business and shelled out $200 extra for our two tickets this time around. And everyone in the world told me what a total asshole I was for spending that kind of scratch on concert tickets. More on this later.

Due to work-related nonsense, I only got to the venue at 5:30-ish. I anticipated a big turnout even for the early-entry tickets, and I was right. (Where are all of you Pittsburgh Ghost nerds hiding at, for fucksakes? Let’s hang out.) Which was nice to see, actually. People seemed excited, even though we were all standing around together in the hot sun in Pittsburgh (humidity: 99%, temperature: go fuck yourself°, wind velocity: yeah right MPH).

We all got herded in at about 6:30, collected our shirt/bag, then planted at the barrier about halfway between stage-right and center. We talked to two very nice ladies who were following the tour, one of whom had been introduced to Ghost by the other one less than 48 hours previously (are either of you on here? I like you, talk to me pls).

And let me tell you, friends, the VIP tickets were TOTALLY worth the absolutely stupid amount of money I paid for them. 10/10 would buy again. Ghost is one of those bands that interacts substantially with the audience, if they can see you, and if they can see you, that means you’ve paid for VIP tickets and are in the front row. (Dressed like a nun, with your Ghost alchemy symbol tattoos prominently displayed. Because you’re a total weirdo. Or maybe that’s just me.)

The show, naturally, was amazing. Unlike my first Ghost show, the sound quality was killer, and since my face was 3 feet from the speaker cabs, I could actually hear Papa singing well, instead of just the audience, singing badly.

And there was FIRE. Like, HOLY HELL ARE MY EYEBROWS OK pyrotechnics. I generally sort of think this stuff is silly (and I worry that the musicians will go up like Roman candles), but Ghost and fire are a pretty natural combo. I mean, come on.

Body and Blood happened. I really don’t love this song, but in this case I got communioned by two very nervous Sisters of Sin, led by Ghost’s equally flustered road manager. I stuffed the communion wafer in my bra. Free souvenir! Only slightly moist and sweaty!

Now, let’s talk Cirice. This is the little number that won them a Grammy (and a Grammi), and thus it’s pretty prominently featured in their set. Papa always singles out a lady (has he ever sung to men? Just curious) and serenades her. If possible, there’s often handholding. This is something that I have never even remotely considered happening to me, because the chances of such a thing coming to pass are vanishingly small.

So when the bridge part of Cirice started and Papa started meandering in my general direction, my only thought was “Sweet, he’s gonna sing to those girls standing RIGHT NEXT TO ME YAASS.” This is about when time slowed down to an absolute crawl.

Now, due to the fact that he’s got that sfx contact lens in one eye, it’s pretty difficult to tell if he’s actually looking at you. That little sucker just ping-pongs around inside his eye socket and his actual eye is darker and harder to see.

“He’s very nearly looking at me!” I thought. “Oh shit, he might have actually glanced at ME for a second there! OH SWEET LUCIFER HE’S LOOKING AT ME. DEFCON 5! DEFCON 5!”

This is where shit got weird. Papa came over to the edge of the stage, right in front of me (!), knelt down (!!!), and serenaded the Hell outta (into?) me.

“Oh shit, what should I be doing?” I thought, with absolutely no chill. “Should I smile? Not smile? Sing along? Look serious! Ok, look serious! But smile for fucksakes! OH FUCK, I have a dumb look on my face I bet. Jesus Fuck. He probably thinks I’m a complete weirdo.”

This is about the point where the parts of my brain that control higher functioning started melting down. The bridge was ending, I knew distantly, probably because I’ve heard these songs often enough that I could be in a coma and still know when the bridge was ending.


Finally some synapses got to where they were supposed to be going in what was left of my brain. Jerkily, moving kind of like the Tin Man previous to Dorothy oiling him, I raised my arm and then hand, and then blew him the world’s awkwardest kiss. He caught it jauntily, and blew me one in return.

This was when my brainstem caught fire. I caught the kiss, sorta. As well as anyone would have whose whole nervous system had just collapsed. Papa skipped off. The girls beside me started shrieking and grabbing me and jumping up and down. I gaped like an idiot.

“You have a really weird look on your face!” Manfriend observed.

“No fucking kidding!” I said.


Mummy Dust saw us get blasted in the face with a confetti cannon full of silver and gold foil and 666-dollar-bills with Papa’s face on them. I stuffed a bunch, and some confetti, into my bra (for lack of anywhere better to put things).

I spent a lot of time looking directly up Aether’s nose. It’s very blonde up there. It’s super cool to watch him open up a little onstage. He seems infinitely more comfortable on guitar than he was on bass.

I also got in a few moments with lil Water Ghuleh, who is just as fabulously talented and adorably tiny as you think she is. We made eye contact. I gave her the “perfect!” gesture and I think she actually saw.

Alpha mostly stuck to his side of the stage, but seemed to be in good form.

Then it was about time for Papa’s female orgasm speech (no one in this band will ever want to hear or speak about this topic ever again) and then it was all over.

I encountered @raggedysam on the way out and said some garbled nonsense to her about being sang to and she graciously did not act like she was being accosted by a crazy person.

So for those of you not already traumatized horribly by what happened to Prudith in Ava’s Demon, you know how the Gate of Paradise just takes off all your skin and bones and outfits you with cybernetic replacements, right?

Well, that thing was calibrated to fit Ava, not Prudith - first of all, Ava has a much smaller frame and (judging by Prudith’s blue skin and white hair) not even the same species as Prudith. So Prudith was being outfitted with parts far too small for her brain, eyes, and nervous system to fit, probably with blood that wouldn’t even sustain her too.  Hence why it looks like she’s “leaking” once she gets that new skin on her. By the time she gets those lenses over her eyes she’s dead.

Oh, and one more thing: remember when Ava died after being impaled? Her soul got to watch for the last few minutes and, if it weren’t for agreeing to Wrathia’s pact, would have dissipated into stardust?

So basically, Prudith got her whole nervous system squeezed to death and then had to watch for the last couple of minutes before crumbling to nothing.

I don’t care if she was a jerk, she didn’t deserve that.

bansheee  asked:

hi there, i youre feeling well. i was wondering if you had any methods on how to alchemize energy dedicated towards deprecation into something more powerful? i've been in a shit kind mindset lately & i dont want my work to reflect any harmful thoughts; i don't want to make these thoughts concrete.

reading this just kinda knocked me on my ass a bit because it put into words exactly what I’m going through. thank you for reaching out cause it’s hard to imagine, but your experience is paralleled by other people.
In terms of my personal experience: I’m beginning to recognize those types of thought patterns as my own sneaky way of self-harming intangibly. Like, abstract punishment and getting swamped in swirling vortexes of self-hate mixed with self-pity. It’s so gross.
What’s helped is to talk about it, w/ people I trust and have respect for me. I often convince myself, in those bad headspaces, that I’m literally unworthy of an ounce of respect from anyone ever because I’m such a shit person and I’ve done such awful things in my life. To get to that point, I’ve seen, is a lack of airing out and circulating feelings. Talking is like pissing or shitting- not doing it can severely affect your body and harm you.
I had a good talk + cry today in the presence of someone who loves me, because, so many people love you - I can whole heartedly guarantee that to you. And it is absolutely the case, I’ve found, that love counts in quality not quantity. I’d get all depressed imagining how many people I’ve met and known that quite possibly don’t give 2 shits about me at all anymore, yet, the physically present and/or supportive respect and love I DO get is so much more in need of my attention than those that don’t care for it. Does that make sense?
Also, I have to repeat this all the time: I would never ever treat/talk to anyone as harshly as I do myself. I have a lot of outward empathy but very little of it do I store for myself. I gotta work on that.
Pacing yourself, actively attending to your physical well being, even more so just to keep your mind busy and feel like your doing self-help little steps. I’ve starting little tiny rituals everyday like taking 2 shots of unfiltered Apple cider vinegar in a glass of water + an anxiety tincture and started taking holy basil and lemon balm supplements, AND freshly started a probiotic (I’ve started researching how much our gut health + digestion work in sync w/ our brains- our digestive systems have a whole nervous system, it’s super humbling).
Also, even when I don’t feel like it, drawing a few times a day. Even if it’s literally a doodle on scrap paper that ends up under my dresser or something.
long story short: I can’t make healthy output if I’m not healthy. And I don’t believe in getting stuck into the trope of struggling, pained artist. Survival comes before owing anything to anyone. The art isn’t going anywhere cause it lives inside you/is yours and yours only, I hope that makes sense. 💐

Breakfast Of Champions

Warning: Smut, Language

Ever since you gave Dean permission to wake you up with pretty much any kind of sex, he has taken you up on the offer. His favorite was to wake you up while eating you out. And you didn’t hate that either.

           So, when you wake up by yourself, to find no sign of Dean, you’re a little disappointed. And a little worried.

           “Dean?” you throw your legs over the side of the bed and stand up. You grab one of his shirts, your favorite blue plaid one that comes down to your thighs. Once presentable enough to walk through the house, you leave the room. Sam’s seen you in less, accidentally, so you don’t really care to walk around half dressed in the bunker.

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liftinginlilly  asked:

I'm still a bit confused what exactly do you think the city of lights is? And are the people thee alive or dead?

Yes to both of those. It’s essentially a virtual reality. Reality, but virtual, you know?

Once you eat the chip, ALIE basically has access to your brain and probably whole nervous system (definitely the pain receptors, that’s the most obvious one). So while you’re alive, you’re able to see the City of Light. Then when you die, she most likely has already mapped out your whole consciousness and sort of made a “backup” so it appears that you’re still alive there even if your body is technically dead. 

I’ve said this so many times but I’ll repeat again, it call comes down to what you think being human is, or what you think being alive is. What is real? Like ALIE says: “Define ‘real.’ Your vessel is carbon-based. Mine is silicon. Your thoughts are chemical. Mine are digital.” So it just depends on whether you agree with her or not. But do keep in mind that this still is a sci-fi show after all. 

-Admin L