#*LOUD SIREN*: This is a post about my PERSONAL READING HABITS and may not be applicable to everyone

[elkian]

A couple months ago I was having a conversation with my mother about books and mentioned The Murderbot Diaries, and she was surprised because she doesn't usually hear me talk about reading sci-fi. I'd never thought about it that way but I can kinda see why she said that, and it made me realize something about why I like Murderbot and Martha Wells' writing so much.

I think part of the reason fantasy is my primary genre is because it requires the least amount of prerequisite knowledge to get into. Every 'verse is going to have a different way of doing magic, even if it's similar to another's, and it's impossible to know that going in.

I think I have some experiences with sci-fi that tried too hard to be "realistic" and required the reader to either know, or be willing to read, a lot about physics and rocket science and so on before actually getting into the story. Obviously this isn't a sweeping statement one way or another, but I think it put me off of reading a lot of sci-fi because it sounded like homework, basically. And I think also it tended to be a little dry in an effort to sound 'mature' - this isn't your comic book science, this is REAL SCIENCE for SERIOUS readers.

Murderbot, by contrast, is incredibly accessible to the average reader. This is because Martha Wells understands what's important to the story: TMD doesn't go into the granular mechanics of FTL travel because Murderbot itself has the baseline amount of necessary colloquial knowledge (you go into a wormhole, stuff happens, you absolutely do not want to leave the ship while in the wormhole) and moves on. 

Murderbot having the shittiest, cheapest educational downloads possible isn't just convenient to handwave nitty-gritty worldbuilding, but it is crucial to Murderbot's personality and characterization. Murderbot -all SecUnits, or at least Company SecUnits, according to Murderbot's notably unreliable narration- doesn't know shit because it was made by cheapskates to be rented to cheapskates and potentially trashed during the rental period. And there's good in-universe reason for the Company to avoid granting unnecessary knowledge to its products - just look at what Murderbot accomplished with its bare-minimum education.

(Sidenote: this concept comes up in the IDW Transformers comics, specifically More Than Meets The Eye and Lost Light, with MTOs starting with major education downloads and that slowly transitioning to them getting the bare minimum as the war raged on and they became more and more apparently expendable.)

Anyways, it's refreshing to read when the author understands what kind of knowledge is actually important to the story. If the whole thing was, for instance, from ART's perspective, the knowledge available would be different due to ART's much greater personal library of scholastic knowledge and general know-it-all personality. Murderbot, by contrast, can get away with lines like "it's an anagram (not an anagram, the other thing)" and terms like "feed device" and "fauna", which leaves the world much more ambiguous to the reader -allowing the imagination to play- and highlighting that which is and isn't important. Murderbot is an action hero in the narrative most of the time, and the writing reflects that.

(Thinking of sci-fi I did read and get into and enjoy, it's a lot of stuff like this - Mary Shelley's Frankenstein*, HG Well's Time Machine, and Isaac Asimov's I, Robot come to mind, and most of them handwaved the specific scientific elements in service of actually telling the story; the last kind of used the scientific elements to tell the story, but presented them in a way that was easy to understand and get into. Honorable mentions go to arguably Gideon the Ninth (idk if it's a scifi but it's scifi-adjacent at the least), Iron Widow, and This Is How You Lose The Time War, which all have scifi elements that are easy to absorb one way or another due to the narration.)

*I read this for class and let me tell you, if I could go back in time and beat Percy Shelley to death with a shoe before he suggested all his stupid unabridgements I would do it in a fucking heartbeat, that was the only real problem I had with reading it.

[queerbrujas]

then it vanished away from my hands (part two)

pairing: nate sewell x eva navarro word count: 3.6k for this chapter (6.1k total so far) rating: T warnings: same as before, lots of angst and this won’t have a happy ending

part one | part three | read on ao3

The mutation in her blood was not known to inhibit physical abilities. None of the studies had indicated even the slightest possibility of immunity to vampire venom.

once again thanks to @crowsintheisland for the text post that inspired this entire fic—and uh, i’m sorry?

—

part two: everything that’s under my skin

The transition can last anywhere from twenty minutes to several hours.

The exact duration is impossible to predict with certainty, as is the intensity of the pain she will endure, or the extent of the physical transformation.

(She has now heard all about Nate’s, how extreme it was—the worst the Agency has known since its establishment.

But things are easier now than they were three centuries ago, in the middle of the ocean, with… with everything that happened to him.

Things are easier.

There are substances that can dull the pain, if not counter it entirely. There are measures in place to make this go as smoothly as it possibly can. She will not have to suffer like he did.

Not least of all because she is choosing this.

That is a difference.)

Once the transition is complete and deemed successful, she will, in all likelihood, pass out from exhaustion. Nearly everyone does.

(Nearly everyone, of the ones who survive.)

She will then stay at the facility overnight, under observation until her condition becomes stable.

In addition to any of the common complications that might arise from the process itself, she will be monitored for out of control, violent tendencies upon reawakening (this is not a rare occurrence among the newly turned, she has been told), or for any unexpected reactions her blood might have to the vampire venom.

This will be the most difficult, painful period. Anything that touches her skin will feel like sandpaper. The slightest sound will be too loud.

There will be screaming. Thrashing. She will want to tear her skin apart and climb out of her body.

(A body she may or may not recognize anymore.)

This is expected.

And there will be the hunger. She will have to learn to live with this. Control it.

Over the next few days, her senses will stabilize. It will still be painful, and it will take much longer to learn to dampen them if she so chooses—but she will learn to function despite the pain. It will be a dull, constant ache she will grow used to.

She will then be reintroduced to people other than Agency medical staff.

Nate will be first. His presence is likely to be the only one she will be able to tolerate at this point.

(He will not be allowed to see her before this. This is for the best.)

Then the others.

Morgan.

Adam.

Farah.

In that order.

Then Rebecca.

(Because she is Agent Rebecca Navarro, the handler of Unit Bravo. Not because she is Rebecca-comma-her-mother.)

Her first feeding will be supervised, once again, by specialized staff.

It will not be human blood, not the first time.

Human blood is too intense, too flavorful, and it risks overwhelming her already fragile senses. It will give better results for her to work her way up to it over a period of time.

(She wonders who was the first to arrive at this conclusion, and how they had done so, but this has been Agency policy for at least a hundred years.)

Then, later, there will be tests.

Her blood will be studied again, analyzed for the way its unique composition might have changed or been influenced by the turning process. To assess if it retains any of its special properties, or if it is now indistinguishable from that of a regular vampire.

Eventually, she will be allowed to leave the Facility, and move back to the Warehouse.

She will meet with the fae counselor again. Twice a week, at first, then once weekly. This will continue for the next few months.

Once they deem it appropriate, she will be cleared to go on missions again.

Things will continue as normal.

With Eva finally, fully, a part of this world she has had a foot in for years now.

—

These are the things Eva had been prepared for.

The things she had researched, been informed of, agreed to. This is how things were supposed to go.

(Everything had been outlined in the paperwork she had signed, laid out for her in meetings and sessions the minute she had formally expressed her wish to turn.)

These are not the things that happened.

What did happen is something that has never, for as long as the Agency has had records (and the Agency has records dating back a very, very long time), happened before.

Failed supernatural turnings happen all the time, even under the supervision of the Agency.

Bad reactions to the venom, to the bite. People who are not strong enough, physically or mentally or emotionally.

People who are simply unlucky. It happens.

The strain of the process has claimed many lives.

The Agency tries to minimize the risk with all their prior assessments, but the odds are still not, never, favorable ones.

Eva knows this—this is what she agreed to.

In the end, it was a simple matter of probability—a 50%, 60%, 70% chance of death was always better than the eventual 100%.

(Always better than the knowledge that she would eventually waste away, and that her family—that Nate, her Nate—would have to watch. That she would have to see the already very obvious gap between them grow wider and wider with each passing year.)

It was the only thing that mattered that she had a chance, rather than none at all.

All or nothing.

This is what she agreed to.

But it has never happened before, for as long as the Agency has records, that the bite of a vampire, with the intent and the ability to turn, has absolutely no effect on the person who receives it.

No transformation.

No pain.

Nothing.

Eva’s blood has been studied in as much depth, its properties determined with as much precision and certainty, as the Agency’s technology and reagents have allowed.

The results have been—had been—deemed conclusive.

She was found to be immune to pheromones of all types, siren song, aura reading, precognition, tracking abilities, mood amplifiers.

All of this she has experienced firsthand during missions.

She is not immune to toxins, poisons, spores, paralyzing agents, venoms, or magically inflicted conditions.

This she has also experienced firsthand.

The mutation in her blood was not known to inhibit physical abilities. None of the studies had indicated even the slightest possibility of immunity to vampire venom.

And yet.

And yet. Here she is.

A still-bleeding bite on her neck.

Still human.

—

That night, she does not sleep.

She stays at the facility overnight, as she was meant to.

For very different reasons than she was meant to.

No one knows how to react to what has happened, Eva least of all, so she does the only thing she can trust herself to do: try to find an explanation, a solution.

Something that will allow her to move forward.

The medical staff is just as bewildered as she is, almost as eager to find out why it didn’t work.

There are more tests.

There will need to be more tests, later.

More studies, things they had measured before that will need to be measured again.

Her blood is drawn, sent for quick analysis.

There is no trace of venom in it.

It shouldn’t have disappeared so quickly. It shouldn’t have disappeared at all.

It makes no sense.

—

Nate is as panicked as she is forcing herself not to be.

(He has never done well under stress. This, too, has not changed.)

There is that tightness to his mouth, that slightly more forceful way he shoves his hands in his pockets.

It is so easy to revert to old habits. Especially ones that are hundreds of years old.

He tells her she should sleep, tells her they can work this out in the morning.

(Tries to soothe her when all she wants is to solve this.)

This was not part of the plan. Her hands are shaking.

Nate takes them in his—unsteady as he is right now, the contact helps. It always does.

He is probably right: it makes no difference to have the tests carried out at three or eight in the morning. But it is about the feeling of activity as much as it is about activity itself, and if she stands still she might go mad.

Too often she falls into action as a replacement for feeling.

It is so easy to revert to old habits. Even if they are not hundreds of years old.

She takes a deep breath. Lets Nate’s proximity ease her a little.

Nate is right.

She will—they will—figure this out.

It will work out.

It has to.

—

Over the following weeks, once the initial wave of panic subsides, Eva falls into a routine.

She does not have obligations to the station or to Wayhaven anymore, so she dedicates herself entirely to the Agency.

Unit Bravo is still sent on missions. She is still expected to take part in them, as she was before.

Her life at the Warehouse continues much the same as it was. With Nate, with the others.

She has always been good at compartmentalizing.

Every moment she does not spend with them, however, is now spent at the Facility, in the lab, meeting with doctors and scientists.

She doubles down on the research she had already begun to specialize in: supernatural biology was always going to be her field of study, a chance to put her skills and previous knowledge to far, far more use than she had ever managed as an officer, as a detective. From the moment the Agency started to trust her she had requested to be kept up to date on findings and developments, had requested permission to be included in research programs—to varying levels of success—and spent much of her free time studying what was already known.

(There had been many long, comfortable evenings spent with Nate in his library, reading treatises and books she still couldn’t believe ever made it to regular, human publication. He’d laughed softly when she’d brought that up, once, as she lay on the couch with her head resting on his lap.

“I mean it,” she said, sitting up with a half-laugh of her own. She’d been reading a tome from the early 20th century that detailed the regeneration abilities of phoenixes. “How did anyone take this seriously enough to publish?” She turned the book to look at the cover again. “And this was a regular publishing house.”

That, in turn, led to a fascinating conversation about humans’ tendency to ignore anything that disrupted their worldview too much, and the extent to which the Agency had in fact been connected to that “regular publishing house”, and how Nate knew the person responsible for the publication of that specific book.

The amount of actual studying she managed during those evenings always varied.)

Her newly acquired clearance now grants her access to tests and studies that she can sign off on herself, that she doesn’t need to request from Rebecca (or from anyone) with the hope that they’ll be approved.

Old habits come back, forgotten from her days at university, from a different life. She finds herself slipping into the same rhythm she had been so comfortable with, once—but there is a strange calmness to it even underneath her fevered, focused drive; something soothing about losing herself in slides and results and research.

This is what she had wanted, years ago, before the police, before Bobby. This is exactly what she had wanted.

She has so much of what she had always wanted.

And yet underneath that feeling, there is something else that is slowly, very slowly growing.

Very slowly taking root.

She does not look at it.

She does not think about it.

(Please don’t let it be taken away.)

She does not think about it.

She keeps herself busy.

—

When the Agency clears it, she contacts Verda again.

Eva knows he still has the blood test results from the Murphy case, from Janet Greenland. His research led nowhere, but it remained untouched.

He’s happy to hear from her—asks about her new job. She tells him she’s working in a lab that would make him jealous, would make even the City people jealous. She makes a joke about the Agency’s budget; he laughs.

It’s so easy.

(She is glad to hear his voice, and she asks with genuine interest about Eric and Cara and Lacey—they are doing wonderfully; little Lacey just had her birthday—but it is still so, so easy to lie.)

It is just as easy to convince him to send her his findings. The Agency, it turns out, is a wonderful excuse for pretty much anything, and he is all too happy to help her.

It ends up being yet another dead end. Janet Greenland’s blood had the same properties as her own, and Verda’s analyses say far less than the Agency’s.

There is nothing new in them, nothing Eva didn’t already know.

Another closed door.

(And that feeling is still there. Roots and vines spreading within her.)

—

It has been months.

She is no closer to finding a solution now than she was then: every door closes as soon as it opens. There had been another attempt—a different vampire, an Agency representative she didn’t know—it didn’t matter, it still didn’t work.

There have been tests and studies and even the possibility of turning into a different kind of supernatural—nothing, nothing. Nothing seems to lead anywhere.

It has been months, and she is too aware, too painfully aware in a way that she can’t ignore that months easily turn into years and she is not thirty years old anymore, has not been for a while.

It has been months and the roots and vines that grow within her have taken hold, have reached her throat. That thought is still there, that feeling.

She wakes up in the middle of the night and she can’t breathe.

It takes a terrifying, delirious moment to realize she is in her room—

(in their room, hers and Nate’s, their room in the Warehouse)

(and she’s not sure what she was dreaming except that she is left with that feeling of being on the edge of an abyss, of being about to fall)

—and Nate is there, he is always there, warm hands and strong arms and he is holding her against him, whispering into her ear—in languages she does not know but which have become familiar to her because they are his—until she can breathe again.

He whispers to her in Spanish, too, and in the middle of the night, lost as she feels, it hurts.

Hurts in the full, aching way his love has always hurt, in the way that makes the unshed tears of years past want to finally fall.

They don’t.

She blinks them away, buries her face in the crook of his neck.

“Jaan, love,” he says later, later, after her breathing has settled. His voice is all concern, all sweet care, spoken against her hair. “Sleep.”

He knows he won’t get her to talk, not when she is like this. He has learned her moods and her disposition, knows them better than she herself does. But she hasn’t slept through a night in weeks, and the worry in his voice mirrors the way his hands trace shapes on her skin, warm, soothing.

She doesn’t respond.

“I will figure this out,” she says instead. I have to, she doesn’t say.

She doesn’t look at him.

She’s not sure, really, if she’s saying it to Nate or if she’s saying it to herself.

He draws back, puts the smallest amount of space between them. Hooks a finger under her chin, tilts her head up so she can meet his eyes.

God, those eyes.

Those eyes have always been her undoing.

The purest, darkest brown (and she can’t see well enough now in the low light of their room, but she doesn’t need to, she knows them by heart, could bring them to mind at any moment—there is an even darker ring around the iris, long dark lashes framing them), warm and blazing in a way that stirs her alive.

���Eva,” he says, simply (and yet not, because there is nothing simple about her name in his mouth). It pulls her back from her thoughts, as it always has, as it always does.

(It’s in the way he says it. He has always said it the way it’s meant to be said, the way very few people in her life ever have. The subtle inflections of his accent shape themselves around it instead of forcing it into a different sound and those two syllables have never sounded so right as they do when he says them.

The name of a person you love is more than language. She’s not sure where it’s from. He quoted it to her once.

I summon you back by saying your nombre. This one she knows. It stings, in that same full, beautiful way.)

It’s too much.

His eyes and her name and his voice and his arms and the warmth of him around her and the vines in her throat. Too close. Too close.

Too much.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Her voice cracks. She hates that it does.

Nate blinks, once, twice, before his frown deepens with even more concern and even more love and even more care.

Those are not words heard from her often or even at all. I apologize, if she needs to, if she feels it is warranted—reparations and actions but not this. Never this.

“What for, my love?”

I don’t know.

I’m sorry I’m falling apart.

I’m sorry I’m breaking down.

I’m sorry this is such a mess and I’m sorry I’m getting overwhelmed and I’m sorry I don’t know what to do and and and

Everything in her wants to push the words down.

So she drags them out of her throat.

Painful, painful, it has always been painful (it will never not be painful; her heart was not made for this) but it is pain she embraces, pain that comes from love and from feeling.

She would not, could not hide anything from him. Even if it means giving voice to that one thought that she has refused, refused to look at ever since she felt it make its home there.

Voicing it gives it shape.

Giving it shape makes it something that needs to be confronted.

(“I’ve cracked myself open for you and nothing has ever given me such pleasure,” she wrote once—it seems so long ago—in a letter she meant to give to him but never did. Finding the words, looking at the parts of herself that she hated—she wouldn’t have had a reason to do it were it not for the fact that she wanted him to know all of her.)

“I’m scared, Nate—I don’t know what to do, I’m fucking terrified. What if it doesn’t—what if I can’t—”

And she is sobbing now, words half-formed, tumbling out with the fear acknowledged.

And she knows he doesn’t want to hear this, she knows, it took so long to even have this conversation in the first place and it only happened because she’d been the one to push for it—

Nate holds her, and lets her cry.

“Whatever happens, you have me. You will always have me, I promise,” is the last thing she hears before she falls asleep again, exhausted, drained.

(She thinks he might be crying, too.)

—

Things are different, after that.

She feels—fragile.

Unmoored.

—

Finally, finally, the answer comes.

The results of those initial tests, the ones from years ago, the ones before Murphy—they provide the key.

It is not the mutation in her blood that is preventing the venom from working.

Her blood would, should be able to react to it.

Except—

Except that because of what Murphy did to her, half her blood is supernatural. Half the blood in her veins is vampire blood.

Only half.

Only the blood.

Her DNA remains unaltered, purely and uniquely human, but it's enough.

Enough for the venom to be absorbed without any effect or consequence, because vampire venom does not react with vampire blood.

Because supernaturals can't be turned into other supernaturals.

It’s conclusive, this time, (and trying to undo it would kill her, with such certainty that it is not even something that can be considered at all), and what a fucking joke it is—she would laugh if she weren’t so stunned, isn’t sure she doesn’t—she can never not be human because her body thinks it's already something else.

—

That feeling of dread that grew steadily with every closed door, with every negative result—it claws up her throat now. Spills out, nothing containing it anymore.

It was only a matter of time.

Her hands shake as she turns the key in the lock (and she catches a glimpse of the scar on her wrist and she almost screams) and she is fucking glad she kept the apartment in Wayhaven, now, as she shuts the door behind her and collapses to the floor, a wailing sound like a wounded animal's leaving her—

And then she is crying, sobbing on the floor of an empty apartment she hasn't been to in god knows how long, the palms of her hands pressed hard against her eyelids and still her mind is trying, trying, desperately reaching for any kind of solution, anything that will let her hold on to hope for just a little longer—

But there isn't one.

She knows there isn’t one and she can’t look away from it anymore.

Her whole life she has always found a way forward, a way out of everything; things have always worked out in the end, but this, this, this one time—

This one thing—

She can never be their equal.

This one thing that she wants—

That abyss between them that she had thought possible to bridge, had not thought she could not bridge will do nothing but grow wider and wider and wider until—

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

What the fuck happens now?

How does she—?

Fuck.

[ellygoesnyooom]

The Soulmate’s Mark (Saeran x MC Soulmate!AU)

Surprise!

I know I haven’t posted a writing in ages and this probably will not get nearly as many notes as I would have before, but I found this AU buried in my drive, and I don’t think I actually posted it? It’s pretty decent, so I’ve decided to post it now. My requests are still closed, but to those of you who read this, I hope you enjoy this angsty oneshot!

Pairing: Saeran Choi x MC

Rating: Angst

Words: 1,924

Trigger Warnings: Death, Car accidents, blood

June 2nd, 2018. S.C. That date and set of initials has been ingrained on the skin of your wrist since you were born. You don’t even need to look at it to know exactly what your mark says. You also don’t need to look at it to know the meaning behind the date, because it has been haunting you your whole life.

The date? A death date. The initials? Your soulmate’s.

Every single person is born with a specific death date on the inside of their left wrist. It could be one of two people’s death dates: yours, or your soulmate’s. You won’t know until the date comes and goes. If you die, it was yours, but if you don’t die, you have lost your soulmate, and the date and initials disappear from your skin.

Most people don’t meet their soulmate in their lifetime, and if someone were to find their soulmate in the time they are allotted on Earth, they are considered one of the lucky ones. You have come to terms with the thought of never meeting your soulmate, but it didn’t stop you from hoping that one day, before the dreaded date inked into your skin, maybe you would find them.

You could always tell when someone’s date has come. The fear and anxiety lays heavily around them, clinging to them like cigarette smoke to fabric. Their eyes carry a hollow look, and they become jumpy, starting at every noise. You can practically hear their thoughts as you pass by them on the street.

And today?

You were one of them.

Your family and friends had sent messages to you in the morning just in case it was your date. The messages were sympathetic, stating their love and support for you, but at best, the messages made you feel worse. You tried your best to put on a smile and send out cheery messages so that they wouldn’t worry, but despair was a heavy weight in your stomach, dragging you down.

You went about your day as normal. That’s the only thing you can do. It was a Saturday, which meant going out and shopping for essentials back home. You were careful while out, looking twice before crossing streets, keeping an eye out for others around you. But you didn’t need to worry about people bumping into you, because they could all see that today was the date on your wrist.

The stares were like lasers, digging into your flesh and signing your skin. You felt almost naked, as if you stepped out of your home in just your underwear and a ratty bathrobe or a blanket.

Pleasant? Not really.

On your way home from shopping, arms full of bags from the local grocers and nearby shops, one of your friends spotted you and called out your name. You turned, halting on the sidewalk and waiting for him to approach.

“MC! How are you holding up? Let me take those,” he said as he reached you, relieving you of your bags before the two of you started off down the sidewalk again. Zen was always pretty cheerful, and had a habit of throwing compliments at you and flirting all the time, but today, no compliments and praises were to be heard, and his crimson eyes were only filled with concern.

You shot him a faux cheerful smile, praying that he would buy it. “I’m good! How about you? Have you gotten news back from the director of that musical you auditioned for?”

He shook his head sadly as you came up to an intersection. The light was green, and cars zoomed past and almost blinding speeds, making you slightly dizzy as you watched. You tried to focus on what your friend was saying, but inevitably, his words turned into a steady hum in your mind as it drifted back to the date on your wrist.

Zen’s date wasn’t anytime soon, and you envied him for that. He had all those years to find his soulmate, and there you were, either going to lose your life or lose your soulmate’s life without actually meeting them.

“MC!” You jumped as Zen yelled your name, heart leaping into a panicked frenzy. You started to teeter, but Zen quickly grabbed you, steading you on your feet. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah…” Your head nodded like a bobble head as you tried to regain your surroundings.and figure out what you were doing.

Oh, right. You were crossing the street.

Around you, people were walking around the two of you and into the street, where the steady stream of traffic was momentarily paused.

“Come on, let’s get you across, okay?”

“Okay.”

Zen’s hand gripped your upper arm with his free hand gently as he guided you, as if he were a boy scout guiding an elderly person. You didn’t mind, and felt a bit grateful, as you felt a bit shaky.

He didn’t let go until you were a bit past the intersection, and seemed hesitant as he removed his hand and transferred a bag into it. Part of you wanted to ask for him to hold you again, but you held back. He had a following and a reputation to uphold in the media. You didn’t want to taint it because you were scared.

After a while, Zen reached his destination, Jaehee’s coffee shop, and hesitantly left you to walk alone, returning your bags to your arms. Your place wasn’t far from her shop, so you would be fine. With a quick hug and a wave, the two of you parted.

Your mind drifted to your soulmate as you continued on your way home. Who, exactly, were they? What did they look like? Would they have liked you? Of course they would have liked you, right? That’s what all the stories of meeting your soulmate are like.

As you allowed your mind to drift, you lost touch with your surroundings, going through the motions without much thought. That’s why you barely registered when someone yelled out behind you.

“Wait! The light’s green!”

You weren’t quite sure what was happening until you heard a car horn. It was loud, and it thoroughly jolted you from your daze and back into reality. Only, when you realized what was happening, you immediately wished you could go back to daydreaming.

So it was your death day today, huh?

As the car hurdled towards you at a seemingly blinding speed, you knew you wouldn’t have enough time to move. Your feet felt like they had lead blocks tied to the bottom of them, and you stood frozen in the middle of the crosswalk, staring at the bumper of the car.

A pair of hands shoved into you, causing you to stumble a few steps and lose your footing. You went sprawling onto the concrete, your groceries and goods tumbling out of their plastic homes. You felt sore, and knew that at least your knees and forearms had some road rash on them, but that wasn’t your main focus. Someone had pushed you out of the way, and when you sat up and turned to face the intersection, someone was sprawled out in the road.

A pit opened up in your stomach as your brain caught up to the situation at hand, and you quickly got to your feet, sprinting to the man lying in the road despite your protesting limbs.

Bystanders stood on the sidewalk, watching with looks of horror, shock, and even mild annoyance. Nobody moved to help the man in the road but you.

You knelt beside him, checking over his body. The scent of blood invaded your nostrils, a sickening metallic scent that made you want to vomit. The red was pooling underneath his head, growing larger by the second. He looked absolutely wrecked, his clothing ripped in places and bruises already sprouting on what skin was exposed.

“Someone call an ambulance!” You screamed, hands hovering over his body in an attempt to figure out how to help the man lying in front of you.

A few people responded, pulling out their phones. Some others came out to join you in trying to help him.

When a shaky hand rested on your thigh, you jumped, startled by the pressure, but quickly realized it was his hand and took it in yours. It was warm and slightly rough, and he squeezed you gently.

“Sir? Sir, we are calling an ambulance right now! Hang in there!” The wail of sirens could be heard in the distance, but you ignored them as the man started to speak.

“Are… you okay?”

You wanted to laugh out loud at the ridiculous words coming from his mouth. Were you okay?  You? “I’m fine, I swear. Just a bit scraped. Please hang in there!”

“What is his date? Is today his date?” Someone called out, and a man knelt in front of you, quickly picking up his left arm and inspecting his inner wrist.

“It’s not today, but his soulmate’s date may be today.” Your stomach plummeted. You had today’s date printed on your wrist.

While his wrist was still exposed, you caught a glimpse of the initials on his skin, and nearly sobbed out.

Your initials were written on his wrist.

Your mind frantically tried to piece together the information it had been given, and one conclusion came to mind: Today wasn’t your date, it was his. He was your soulmate.

You felt numb at this realization, and as the sirens’ wails grew to a deafening roar, you took time to take in his face.

He was handsome, with silvery white dyed hair with pink tips. His eyes were fluttering open and shut, but you thought you could make you mint colored eyes. He was lean, and dressed in a now stained white button-up shirt and black slacks.

This man was your soulmate.

You leaned closer to him and took his cheeks into your palms, your hands sweaty and shaking horribly. His eyes slowly opened and, with some effort, focused on you. “Sir, what is your name? My name is MC.”

A group of paramedics came up behind you, ordering everyone away, but you ignored them, waiting for his response with a heavy heart.

A sad smile spread on his face, and his hand twitched upwards, as if he wanted to reach for you. “S.. aeran…Choi…  you’re my… soulmate, right?” His breathing was labored, and he gasped out, eyes going cloudy and dulling as he shuddered out a last breath.

Someone’s hands clamped down on your shoulder and hauled you away, firing questions at you, but your eyes remained on Saeran’s body in the road. Paramedics kept swarming him, but every now and then, you caught a glimpse of him. A hand, his torso, his hair. His initials were inked into your skin, and he died today. You hadn’t even met him before this, and you lost him already, all because you were daydreaming.

His last words echoed through your mind, even after you returned home later that night. “You’re my… soulmate, right?”

When you looked at your wrist, shock flooded you as you found it bare of the date and initials, further proof that you lost him today.

For the first and last time in your life, you wept for your soulmate.

[pratktcven]

love in a time of social media

love in a time of social media part one. shance. eventual nc-17. alternate universe. lance is the king of shitposts and selfies. shiro is an artist who loves his dog and fatalistic humor. somehow, they fall in love. warning! underage drinking and casual use of marijuana

.

They meet online.

Specifically, they meet on tumblr. Shiro is an artist of middling popularity and Lance is a shitposter of the highest caliber. Shiro follows Lance months before Lance follows him; indeed, Lance is unaware of Shiro's work until Shiro @'s him in a small comic.

'I couldn't resist,' Shiro types below the image. 'Thank you for the inspiration, @lances-a-lot.'

Shiro—@white_iron—has a simple art style and a sharp sense of humor that makes Lance laugh out loud. He reblogs the comic, telling his followers to check it out, and proceeds to creep on Shiro's blog. Lance's first stop is Shiro's small about section.

Hello! My name is Shiro. I am a post-grad history student and I spend my limited free time walking my dog or doodling. art tag doodles photography

Shiro's blog consists mainly of his artwork. Occasionally, Shiro will also post real-life pictures of his dog, a beautiful black and white akita with bright eyes and a dopey smile. There aren't any pictures of Shiro himself. Lance—who takes roughly a thousand selfies every day—comments on this oddity to Blue, his enormous gray long-hair.

Blue blinks at him.

"My curiosity has been piqued," Lance replies primly.

Blue blinks her big gold eyes at him again.

"Enough of your judgement!" Lance over-dramatizes. "I can follow who I want!"

Shiro's blog is twenty-four pages of self-produced content that Lance blazes through in less than an hour. There are no reblogs. Lance nearly twitches at the restraint and—after a moment—decides to check if Shiro's likes are public.

"Jackpot!" Lance crows when the page loads.

Shiro's likes are a riot of memes and shit-posts. Art references and how-to's. Nerdy history jokes. Links to academic articles. Male fitspo. Healthy recipes, juice cleanse tips, and over-indulgent foodie pics. NSFW gifs of twinks writhing open-mouthed on rumpled sheets. Pictures of space and nature. Lots of dogs. Several of Lance's selfies. More than one necromancy pun. If it is at all possible to fall in love with someone based on their likes, Lance does it.

Lance's infinite scrolling comes to a halt at half past one, when his one of his many phone alarms notifies him of the time. Lance groans, closes his browser, and hauls his butt out of his narrow bed. It takes him a couple minutes to find an acceptably clean pair of skinny jeans and an unwrinkled sweater; he hasn't done laundry for several weeks.

"After lab," Lance tells Blue as he wriggles out of his worn sweats into his socially acceptable denim. "I'll do a load tonight."

Blue flicks her tail at him, a rude gesture that Lance returns with one of his own. Blue sends him baleful glance.

"Don't look at me like that," Lance says even as he plants a kiss between Blue's mismatched ears. She lost half of her left ear in a fight before the shelter picked her off the street. "You started it."

Blue meows loudly and bats Lance's nose.

"Okay, okay, you're right. I started it." Lance presses one more kiss on his cat's skull. "Have fun bird-watching. I'll see you later."

Then—with his good-byes said—Lance grabs his notebook-laden satchel, and is out the door.

.

Lance's lab is as much of a challenge as it always is. Lance is good at math—numbers and variables are easy—but his brain refuses to wrap around the concepts of physics. It's a small miracle that Pidge is his lab partner; without her, Lance is certain he would fail.

"You're a lifesaver," Lance gushes as they leave the old building. "Let me buy you pizza to show my gratitude."

"I told Matt I'd have dinner with him," says Pidge. "His roommate is going through some sort of clean eating phase and it's driving him nuts."

"He can come," Lance says. Then, less magnanimously, "But he has to get his own slice."

Pidge rolls her eyes as she texts her older brother. Lance shoots a text to Hunk, who responds with a single thumbs up emoji. They all meet at less than ten minutes later at the off-campus pizzeria that sells by the slice. Lance gets three for himself and two for Pidge; Matt, who is the only person over the age of twenty-one, covertly buys a pitcher of beer that they pour into their small, plastic water cups.

"Sweet, sweet, processed goodness," Matt half-cries as he chews, his mouth filled with cheese, pepperoni, and grease. "How I missed you."

Lance would be more sympathetic to Matt's dilemma if the man hadn't embarrassed him in a game of beer pong at a sorority the week before. Lance can't prove it, but he knows in his heart of hearts that Matt cheated. Nobody beats Lance at beer pong, okay. Nobody.

"That bad?" Pidge grins.

"You have no idea," Matt bemoans. "Like—Takashi's a great dude, don't get me wrong—but when I found him on Craig's List I was more worried about being murdered in my sleep than I was about weird diet habits. Turns out I should have been more worried about the diet habits. Our fridge is filled with kale. Kale, Kit-Kat. From the farmer's market."

"Kale is really good for you," Hunk interjects.

"That's what Takashi said," Matt mutters. "I don't know how much longer I can go on like this."

"Hasn't it only been three days—"

"An eternity—"

Lance laughs at Matt's plight and, once dinner is finished and the four of them part ways, he takes out his phone to tweet about the roundabout retribution.

Lance @lancesalot #revenge is best served blanched. or in a smoothie. #kale #healthyliving #karma

.

It's a little past nine when Lance returns to his apartment. His roommate, Rolo, and his ambiguously defined girlfriend/partner-in-crime, Nyma, are sitting on the couch sharing a joint. A bag of popcorn is ready on the battered coffee table and the television is playing an old nineties buddy-cop flick.

"Hey," Rolo says, smoke curling upwards from his mouth. "Wanna join?"

"Nah." Lance turns down the proffered joint with a shrug. "Gotta take my laundry down. You feed Blue?"

"Like she'd let me forget."

Blue—who is perched on the windowsill—releases a single, plaintive meow. She has no problems letting anyone know what she wants and when she wants it, especially when it comes to being fed.

"Thanks man."

"De nada."

It doesn't take Lance long to gather his dirty clothing and stuff it into his hamper. He takes it all to the basement, throws a few loads in, and settles into one of the old armchairs that have accumulated in the corner. He knows that he should read ahead for his classes, but the siren song of social media grips him. An internal debate rages inside him for all of three seconds before he opens his tumblr account.

Lance barely feels the twinge of guilt.

There are several asks—all anonymous, as per usual—and one unread message. Lance is a little surprised by the latter; after a few weird encounters, he changed his setting so that he could only receive messages from people he followed. He clicks on the conversation first.

white_iron Thanks for the follow! I'm really flattered. You're one of my favorite blogs.

Lance smiles at the message.

lances-a-lot no problem!!! ur art was super funny i laughed at everything pretty sure my cat thinks i'm crazy now

After hitting send, Lance plugs in his chunky headphones into the audio jack. He has a new chillwave playlist that Pidge gave him, but he knows that if he doesn't give Tycho his full attention Pidge may murder him. So instead, Lance pulls up his trusted Rihanna compilation and double clicks on the first song. He bops his head in time with the beat and opens his asks, quickly answering his anons.

Several chart-toppers later, a small ping interrupts Rihanna's plea for the dj to turn the music up. Lance looks at the vertical line of icons on the side of the page and sees that he has another message from Shiro. Lance opens the conversation immediately and reads:

white_iron My dog already knows I'm crazy.

white_iron sent a photo post.

A small preview image has been loaded into the conversation. It is a cartoon version of Shiro's akita, her expression morphed into one of extreme judgement. Her eyebrows—twin dots of white on her dark face—are low over her big eyes and her ruff is fattened comically around her muzzle. Lance cannot help but laugh at the exaggerated accuracy and immediately reblog it.''

lances-a-lot OMG THATS FANTASTIC
 THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT BLUE DOES

white_iron Stare into the depths of your decrepit soul and find you wanting?

lances-a-lot haha, yes! blue acts like i dont spoil her rotten shes such a princess

white_iron I definitely know how that goes. Bee has three dog beds, but she insists on sleeping in my bed or in my roommate's.

lances-a-lot blue has peed in every. single. bed i bought for her i stopped trying after awhile it was getting to be an expensive exercise in futility

white_iron Two words. Dog toys.

Lance talks to Shiro for the next couple of hours while his laundry finishes. Mostly, they swap stories about their pets and commiserate about their less than desirable—if not inadvertently hilarious—behavior. Lance even tells Shiro about how he rescued Blue. In turn, Shiro talks about the process he had to go through to adopt Bee. Shiro mentions that Bee is a service dog; what for, he does not say.

Don't be that asshole, Lance reminds himself as the topic wanes. His comfort is more important than your curiosity.

Lance is having such a good time talking to Shiro that he barely notices midnight pass. In fact, if it weren't for the enormous, jaw-cracking yawn that his body produces, Lance would not have noticed at all.

lances-a-lot dude i just noticed what time it was like i could seriously talk about blue forever but laundry sleep ADULTING i have calc at 8 am, ugh kill me now

white_iron Tell me about it. I have to TA an 8 a.m. class.

There is a small pause. Lance gnaws on his bottom lip as he watches the ellipsis that indicates typing flicker in and out of existence.

white_iron Talk to you tomorrow?

Lance bites down harder on his lip. Normally, he would send back a quick affirmation before logging off, but his interaction with Shiro feels different than the interactions he's had in the past. Their chemistry is undeniable and their conversation never felt flat or stilted. Yet while Lance knows he's been lowkey flirting with Shiro, he cannot be sure if Shiro has been flirting back.

Fuck it, Lance thinks as he gathers all his courage and sets his fingers back on the keyboard. He can feel how warm his cheeks are. Just do it.

lances-a-lot its a date ;)

After he sends the message, Lance closes his laptop and jumps off the armchair. He feels jittery and unsure, yet also oddly hopeful that maybe this time—for the first time—his interest won't be a mistake.

.

[deafanthropologist-blog]

“Why Can’t You Speak?”

I am not going to use the word can’t. Many people I have come across would ask me: “Why can’t you speak?”

There is a difference between don’t and can’t. According to the Oxford dictionary, the definition of can’t is: ��not being able to; not being able to through acquired knowledge or skill‘. The definition for don’t is: ‘do not perform; do not work on something‘.

We once had an acquaintance of mine in our apartment earlier this year and he asked my roommate, “Does she have vocal cords?” Well, if I didn’t, then obviously I wouldn’t be able to speak, but I do. Most people assume the Deaf are quiet, but I am probably the noisiest person you’ll ever meet: I sometimes laugh too loud, or scream and not realise how loud it was, and I sometimes decide to sing gibberish. Once, my sister and I shared a malva pudding (famous South African dessert) at a restaurant. The pudding had cream on the side. We divided the pudding and the cream (we are way too stubborn). My sister then took a spoonful of MY side of the cream and I, apparently, screamed “HEY!!” I honestly thought it was just a normal amount of noise, enough to get her attention; but when I looked up, everyone in the restaurant was looking at me, horrified. So, as far as not being able to speak goes…

I can speak. My friends understand me whenever I speak out a little. I recently spoke the words ‘Hello, how are you?’ to my iPhone’s Siri and it came out perfectly right. I can have a two minutes conversation, speaking only, with my sister and she would understand everything because we grew up together and she is used to my voice. I’d sometimes yell “MAKE ME TEA!” and she would bring the tea few minutes later (I make her tea too!). Or I’d yell “KEEP THE WATER IN THE BATH!” and she would do it. I can speak, I just choose not to speak all the time, not to use it as my main method of communication, and it’s my choice to make.

The purpose of this post is to let people know it is okay if people choose not to speak because, ultimately, it is their choice. There are so many views about the Deaf/deaf/HoH (Hard of Hearing) communities, about how they should speak, about how they shouldn’t sign, about how they should speak and sign, about how they all should or should not have cochlear implants. Every individual is different.

I would like to quote something I wrote for DeafSA’s page during the September’s Deaf Awareness Month which I think is relevant to this blog post:

The word, ‘Deaf’, has a powerful impact on people who can hear. The stereotypes emerge. “We all can lip read.” “We all can talk.” “We all can sign.” But do they know we have different personalities? Do they know we have different backgrounds? Do they know we have different perspectives? We are NOT one person. We are a group of different people sharing the same language and culture.

“But how do you lip-read so well?”

Yes, I know, you’re probably puzzled: if I don’t wear hearing aids or CI, how do I lip-read so well? I have many friends who rely on their hearing aids or CI to lip-read, and I have many friends who don’t rely on them. Each person is different: I grew up learning to lip-read through reading lips on my mother and sister’s lips patterns. I went to a bilingual, bicultural school in Australia, and I practiced reading lips on my teachers and my classmates. Many lip-readers cannot read 100 percent of what is being said, but only around 30 percent. For me, if I know someone well, and the conversation being held is comprehensible, I understand eighty percent of it. If I meet a new person for the first time, I will struggle a little. After I get to know the person, and get to know their lips patterns I will be able to read lips more easily.

Why I chose not to speak

The answer is simple: I love my language, I cherish my language. I love and cherish my community. Sign Language is a part of me. I gave my mother a face when she tried to give me the option to go to speech therapy when I was little — she wanted me to have options and have myself decide what I want – hearing aids, CI, speech therapy, hearing school, etc. and I grew up deciding to be myself with no hearing aids or CI, and with my choice of method of communication. I told her, cheekily, “Why would I do that? I’m Deaf and I sign. I’m proud of that.”

Through my teenage years, through friends I made, boyfriends I had, some of them would ask me “Why don’t you try?”

I would try if I wanted to. No one could stop me. However, I get by. I get by in this world. I do not struggle. I find ways to communicate with different kinds of people. I am a student at University of Cape Town, and currently there are only three Deaf students out of around 26,000 students. I have many lovely friends, and I am not excluded nor an outcast. I have never regretted not going to speech therapy when I was little. I am happy with how I decide to get by.

BUT this is not the same for everyone. Again, every individual is different. Some may find it hard to get by, and regret their decision not to go to speech therapy; some would be very happy with going to speech therapy and being able to speak fluently, and some would be content with signing only.

This is my story. Now you know.

Common myths about Deaf people:

“All Deaf people can lip-read” Not all Deaf people can lip-read. It is estimated that lip-readers can understand only 30 percent of the conversation taking place. That’s like missing two of every three words being spoken. However, in situations where the Deaf person is familiar with the speaker or the conversation is easily predictable, more can be understood.

“Sign Language is universal” I have been asked by almost every single person I meet if Sign Language is universal. When I say no, they’re not, they all then say, ”But why? Wouldn’t that be easier?” It makes sense that each country/region would have different sign language just like different countries/regions have varying verbal language. Sign Language is not universal. There are at least 70 Sign Languages in the world at this time and all of them are incredibly distinct. There are South African Sign Language, American Sign Language, British Sign Language, French Sign Language, Italian Sign Language, Arabic Sign Language, and so on.

“Deaf people can’t drive” In fact, there are some countries where there are laws saying that Deaf people are not allowed to drive. In many countries, however, Deaf people drive cars all the time. I can drive. In fact, some studies have shown that Deaf people are better drivers than hearing people due to the fact that Deaf people have enhanced peripheral vision. If you think about it, there is nothing really requires you to be able to hear to drive. After all, all emergency vehicles have sirens AND lights; and, if you’re listening to music, you’re practically deaf to the sounds outside anyway.

I find the website, Limping Chicken, very funny and enjoyable to read. I think many of you would also enjoy. Find the link to the article, “The 10 annoying habits of Deaf people” here: Limping Chicken.

To finish this post, I want to conclude with a picture I came across. I’m a 9gagger. I love to browse through memes, through pictures that crack me up. Once I came across a picture with a meme of thinking dinosaur on it

and a quote: “In what language do Deaf people think in?” I always found this interesting. I asked my Deaf friends, because I know every individual is different and we are different people sharing the same language and culture, and they all had different answers. Rather than reading and writing, the language we think in is the language we use primarily to communicate, which is some sort of Sign Language. I believe Deaf people and hearing people think in whatever language they learned, or are most comfortable in. I was raised by my Deaf mother, and my first language was sign language, however I grew so much love for reading since I was very little, so I also acquired the language of English. After seeing the meme, I started thinking of what language I think in. I don’t think in sign language, I don’t “see” signs in my mind, instead I think of written words. I think words like I see words on a book. I also think in lip patterns – I don’t speak but I’ve been told I have excellent lip patterns that is easily understood without the need to use voice and I find myself thinking myself doing the lip patterns. I process information through my brain, my eyes, my nose, my tongue and my touch, all in the same way anyone would process their information. Sound is not part of my thought process, and because it’s not part of my thought process does not mean I don’t have an ‘inner voice’. I do. However, some of my Deaf friends have told me they think in signs, some of them think in both signs and words, some of them think in pictures. Some say they think in concepts and ideas. It all depends on one’s experience and upbringing.

No different than is the case for hearing people, really.