maybe this isn’t exactly following lab safety regulations
but hey, sombra’ll let it slide any day
she tips her head back against symmetra’s shoulder as the woman continues lavishing attention on her pulse point
‘i should really- oh- do this research,’ she says breathlessly. her knees are weak.
who can blame her, really.
symmetra hums against her throat, hands stroking at her hips. ‘you really should.’
‘i should,’ sombra agrees, and then symmetra bites at her earlobe and she lets out a groan.
‘but you could also do something else.’
‘i could do that too.’
‘i think that’d be good too.’
‘i’m glad we agree.’
and then symmetra flips her around and kisses her properly and-
whoops she might have just ruined some vital gear but who the hell cares anyway wow
when sombra’s slightly distracted with ripping satya’s clothes off, symmetra slips a hand to her gun, and taps in a piece of code, smirking deviously
fast forward past the smut to the next infiltration
sombra points her gun out at the target, grinning.
she fires again.
one more time-
what the- fuck who would do this no one has access to my gun not even talon hq why would anyone ever do this but who could have nobody really knows how to code on overwatch or talon- except for symmetra.
she hacks reaper’s gun stash really quickly and yanks one out of nowhere, slamming the trigger. the target’s down.
thank god it worked
reyes sniggers at her as he passes by and she rolls her eyes at him. just because the gun doesn’t go with her colour scheme doesn’t mean she didn’t look badass.
now sombra has some words for her girlfriend.
she strides angrily into symmetra’s lab.
satya looks at her, smiles innocently, and turns back to her work.
‘what the fuck. you did not just make my gun malfunction.’
‘it didn’t malfunction.’ symmetra says, still smiling. ‘i think everyone enjoyed your little display.’
symmetra points to the sky.
sombra rushes to the window, where there are sixteen letters, in neon purple hard light constructs, displayed brilliantly across the sky.
‘SOMBRA LOVES SATYA.’
‘satya. what is this.’
‘i liked it. it was very romantic.’
‘reyes saw this. oh god. that’s why he was laughing. i’m never going to hear the end of this.’
‘well, if it makes you feel better-’ and satya reaches down, plucks the code out of the gun- ‘it put me in quite a mood.’
and god, sombra’s whipped. she sighs, kisses her girlfriend lightly.
Tyler assured himself that it was fine. Sure, he usually texted him by now. But maybe he was already on the plane and his phone went out. Tyler didn’t worry much, settling for a workout and going to sleep early.
Tyler felt the worry on the edge of his consciousness. Maybe he decided to stay and extra day. It was fine. He was always fine. Tyler decided to record a few videos and edit, trying his best to distract his worried mind.
The worry was the forefront of his brain, reminding him at all times. Tyler continued to ignore the problem, distracting himself in every way known, until he fell into a fitful sleep.
It was all over the news. But that surely wasn’t his plane right?
No survivors. Flying from England, bound for Los Angeles. Tyler punched the TV.
He hadn’t moved for hours. He stayed in his bed, staring at the blank ceiling. His phone buzzed with a new notification every minute, but none of them were his.
He was gone.
The apartment felt too empty. No giggles or sunshine filled it. Instead, the harsh realities of the world reminded Tyler every day. He couldn’t look at the pictures anymore. That smile, his face. He would never get to see him smile again.
Every day was as painful as the last. Pain had become the constant in his life. No day went on without something reminding him of the love of his life. The way the sun would set and the sky would burst into that bright orange, just how he loved it. Pink bubblegum was unbearable. Smiles were the worst.
He would never know. He would never know how much Tyler loved him.
He still hadn’t moved on. Maybe it was for the best. He wasn’t planning on sticking around for much longer.
1 year and a day
Craig opened the door to their apartment, feeling the silence envelop him. It was eerie, he was so used to the laughs and bright smiles that filled the space.
He set his bags down with a thud and was greeted by thudding footsteps. And he saw that face, his face and smiled the biggest he ever had. Home.
It was so windy… So loud. Such a turmoil inside my body. It looked like my organs had separated from their cavities and stood in suspension for a while, before they return to their place. I felt my hair in the air, I felt so light.
Glasgow, present day
She had dreamed of that day, tonight. And she had dreamed of Uncle Lamb again. It was all a mess in her sleepy mind… Opening the curtains of her bedroom, she noted how the clouds seemed to match the turmoil going inside her brain. They were white and grey and so, so angry. I am not angry. I am confused, I am tired of battling demons I don’t recognize. Adapting to a new place, a new job, a new time (JHRC!!), was not easy. Letting go of the past, of the literal past, felt like tearing up an arm. But she had made a promise to her Uncle, a promise she was hell bent on keeping.
A few months after moving into her apartment, Claire was still in a whirlwind of new things, shiny discoveries, amazing places that she reached without leaving the same spot. On that Netflix programme, she found and watched the most amazing film - “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade”. Sean Connery reminded her so much of her Uncle Lamb, that she found herself putting it on for company and comfort, while she cleaned or cooked.
Uncle Lambert knew. He knew a lot and while he hadn’t prepared her for it, he had left everything ready for a life she had to now live as if she hadn’t had one before. She was thinking about her old life, as she made her coffee and toast. The war was over, it was time to think about other things. About marriage, about family, about where in the world Uncle Lambert was now. About not wanting to stop being a nurse… What would Frank think about that? Quentin Lambert Beauchamp was a Blitz survivor, a true bachelor of the english kind. If he was a wanderer before, the war had just turned him into a bigger one. While he hadn’t asked to raise Claire and certainly wasn’t a by-the-book child tutor, he had done a good job. Claire was who she was, in part, because of the life she had led with this man. All the adventures, the stories, the work, letting her be who she wanted and do things considered not proper for an english little lady or lady to be…
After the stones, however, Claire had a turmoil of doubts about Uncle Lamb. The pieces of the puzzle started to be put together quickly after her arrival.
In the 30s, Lambert Beauchamp had settled for a bit in merry old England while Hitler rose to power. He had decided to teach at Oxford. There, a few years later, Claire met one of her uncle’s students, Frank Randall: dashing historian, older man. Uncle Lambert liked Frank and never stated any sign of approval, or disapproval, for that matter, regarding the relationship. But he did insist on them not getting married right away, not for the wrong reasons, or so she thought… “Wait until we settle this mess, my darling girl.” This mess being WW2. Claire saw right through him and while Frank would have liked to be legally married, Claire followed Lambert’s advice. Nothing prevented them from meeting and act like husband and wife when their leaves from duty allowed it. What was a piece of paper? But now, it seemed Uncle Lamb simply didn’t want that tie to exist, that legal impediment. What else Uncle Lamb, what else? Frank and Claire had seen each other and had a good relationship and courtship for a year, until war erupted. The United Kingdom did its call to arms, Claire followed her calling and trained as a nurse… you said it would be the appropriate thing for a woman, Frank, but if you saw me now… And if you had listened to me then… and Frank put his knowledge to the service of the MI6 after being recruited from officer training.
Their correspondence kept them alive to each other, the rare but well enjoyed encounters had been good. And they were planning on getting married once the war was over. In the autumn of 1945, they were in Scotland, in Inverness, in a magical romantic inn. They had been together for a few days. They would have gotten married on *that* day, if it weren’t for Uncle Lambert’s accident, that delayed his trip north. Accident…? It was going to happen the day after, if it weren’t… If it weren’t. More than 70 years had passed, it literally felt like yesterday. Claire also thought about those days with some longing, but with a tug in her heart, a question mark forged into her sixth sense. After years of seeing each other scarcely, of two day trips where the needs of the flesh were more urgent, after letters that were rare towards the end and in which a quick “hello, I’m alive, I’m alright” seemed enough, there had been some awkward conversations, some clouds of doubt that were quick to dissipate when the adrenaline of the decision of getting married rose in her heart and in his pleading arguments.
Claire’s loneliness made her heart ache for Frank and what could have been… But she had made a promise to her dear Uncle. She promised to carry on living, she promised to follow her dreams, she promised to not look for him, she promised not to look for Frank. There had been a Claire Beauchamp in 1945. Unfortunately killed in action, or so the documents said *snort*. But there was a new Claire Beauchamp in the 21st century, born in 1989. One that had in her hands a pack of letters to open, in order, per another request.
“Please madonna, please follow your uncle’s instructions and open one by one, follow the dates on the envelopes. Trust us.” “Please Claire, ye have to promise us.” She was still so confused, so dizzy, but these people were there, they knew her, they knew Uncle Lamb, they were standing in the middle of the square in Inverness while she was running around looking, wanting to go to the police because surely someone must’ve stolen her car after. “I feel asleep picking flowers. That was it! I must’ve forgot to have a decent breakfast.” They were there when she started looking around and getting out of her frenzy state into a slightly more frenzy scottish town with cars that really weren’t cars, street signs that she did not recognize, clothes that looked strange. Everything was the same and everything was different. The short froggy man and the tall read headed woman approached her, casually, “Hello Claire, please keep calm.” “WHERE AM I?” They smiled like she hadn’t just screamed, like she had just said hello how are you dear friend. “Please Claire, we are friends, we are here at the request of your Uncle… I’m Gillian, this is Raymond.” And so she went.
Claire shook off the memories, the doubts, the questions. Every three months she opened a letter, an action that left her with more questions than before. She had been so tempted to look for them. When the loneliness was almost strangling her. But she kept the promise.
Putting the mug in the sink, she checked her reflection in the mirror, applied lipstick, tucked her shirt in her jeans, put on her coat and went off to another day of classes. As she turned to close the door on her building and check something in her purse, a black motorbike stopped at the traffic light in the road ahead. The helmet didn’t quite completely hid the mop of red hair peeking underneath. The biker liked what he saw, when he turned his head while waiting for the light to change.
A demure delightful spirit never one to harm a living soul seeking within her songs of sorrow the tenderness to take her home and yet in this world too oft cold and callous aside from angels, she walks alone sadly while with no heart to offer her I still have to hope one day she’ll find all she desperately desires in the love that she so dearly deserves
okay so everybody always talks about how amazing sam vimes is, and i love sam vimes to the bottom of my heart, but i do not see enough sybil appreciation on my dashboard.
sybil is a zarking goddess okay, and i will not hear a word against her
she calls the PATRICIAN of Ankh-Morpork ‘havelock’.
she actually just calls pretty much everybody by their first names
people who are not scared of vimes will listen to sybil any day
she’s perfectly level headed, until vimes calls her a duchess, when she will become the most overbearing, duchessy duchess the disc has ever known
her haggling for fat with the low king.
her being brought up to act small, so as to make everybody feel bigger. then using that to her advantage because i’m pretty sure she knows how amazing she is.
being so compassionate she can see the good in anybody without even trying, even nobby nobbs
being the first person in forever to actually see the potential in perpetually drunk, undernourished, broken sam vimes and taking away his alcohol and giving him food and being there so he can actually grow to be the sam vimes that we love.
being sybil ramkin, the dragon obsessed, charitable spinster who is pretty much the only person left in ankh-morpork who actually respects the night watch in guards guards, and seeing exploding swamp dragons as lovable pets.
singing opera so well she becomes an honorary dwarf
ON COMPULSORY HETEROSEXUALITY AND HOW IT MAKES MY INSIDES BLEED // Darshana Suresh
grandmother said that one day i would grow up and marry a nice boy, and i said okay. i used to daydream about this nice boy, about a nice family, about nice kids and a nice house. i never asked myself whether that was what i wanted, because that never mattered. it was what i should want.
the first time i noticed a girl, i sat down and questioned it for years. i thought ‘this can’t be right,’ i thought ‘this is not what i should be,’ i thought ‘this is not possible.’
i thought of boys touching me and i felt sick. grandmother said that one day she would find me a nice boy to marry and i smiled and then went and threw up in the bathroom when no one was looking.
i thought ‘maybe this will go away,’ and when it didn’t i thought ‘maybe everyone feels this way at first.’
this is the story of how i put my love for girls under the microscope. did everything i could to convince myself it wasn’t real. this is the story of how i swallowed my lack of love for boys like a pill, as though if i never questioned it i could will it to become a reality.
years later and again, grandmother says she’ll find me a nice boy. i can’t say anything to her face but in my mind i amend the sentence. think ‘one day there’ll be a girl, and one day, i’ll find her myself.’ think ‘there is a freedom in knowing i do not have to love boys, and i have found it at last.’
i think ‘this is enough,’ and then, at last, ‘i am enough.’