A/N: Cis-girl fic] Trixie is a college grad working at the mall make-up counter. Katya is the eccentric woman at her bus stop. Together they were cops (well, actually they weren’t. But they did fall in love, which is better).
This is the first chapter in what I’m hoping will be a longish series. It’s going to be a fairly slow burn Trixya fic with cameos from the other girls as they crop up. Trixie and Katya are both cis girls in this.
Please take the time to comment and let me know your thoughts if you read this.
Have your good looks every worked against you in your professional life as a scientist?
First, god (that I don’t believe in) bless you, dear anon, for giving me the compliment of the century.
Second, no. My looks, which are mediocre at best, have gotten in the way of people liking me back, being served at a bar, becoming a model, and being taken seriously by anyone at a make-up counter. But thankfully, science is blind.
“We’re going to be late.” Harrison bit, checking his watch for the eighth time. “Are you almost finished?”
With a plethora of make-up brushes lining the counter-tops and a hot curling iron in your hand, you looked away from the bathroom mirror to see him leaning against the door-frame with his arms crossed. His expression was so sour that you couldn’t help but giggle and roll your eyes which only caused him to furrow his brows even more. It wasn’t your fault he happened to be that incredibly adorable when he was irritated…
“Don’t be so grumpy.” You laughed. “Just give me five more minutes.”
He glared. “That’s what you said twenty minutes ago…”
“I’ll buy you popcorn… Will that make it better?”
“Come on! I’ve been trying to get you out of this lab for months.” You pouted before turning your iron off and setting it on the counter. “I just want it to be perfect. How can I make it up to you?”
Suddenly seeming less annoyed, he smirked and said, “Kiss me.”
I need feminism because women and men still aren’t equal. Not because a group of mechanics whistled as I walked past their garage. Not because I feel unsafe walking down a dark path at night. But because more than one customer has told me"you shouldn’t be the manager of a decorating trade store, you should work on a make up counter looking pretty.“ Because I don’t receive the same wage or respect as my male colleagues, some of whom have achieved a lot less than me in my career. Because women who decide to earn less than their partner or be house wives shouldn’t be frowned upon or questioned why they aren’t supporting women by becoming successful in a career.
( i believe that it was viceter or someone else in that cool witty group that answered an ask about pharah and motorcycles and i haven’t been able to get it out of my head so here’s me screaming. )
please consider in some vague modern day au or the other:
pharah rides motorcycles.
she loves how freeing it is to ride on her bike ( raptora is mainly black carbon fiber, and she’s a custom bike. she’s not one for bragging, but her bike is simply incomparable. ) because the road stretches on and it feels infinite while she rides in between cars.
something tells her it could be likened to flying, soaring, just her in her own little bubble. ( she knows people can’t fly on their own, but come on, just let a girl daydream about flying. )
either way, she loves everything about it: how her engine purrs and rumbles underneath her, how the wind whips and howls at her, how the road disappears into a blur under the wheels of raptora. her helmet is midnight blue and the visor looks gold, occasionally.
here is the point: this is the closest she will ever get to flying on her own ( in this lifetime, at least. ) cars cannot do this. she can’t feel the wind on her face, in her hair, or the soaring feeling in the pit of her stomach as she flits between cars if she is stuck driving one as well. raptora is hers and she is raptora’s, in a sense. they would have to pry this feeling away from her cold, dead hands. she cannot possibly imagine having to give this up for anyone: this beautiful state of being alone, and yet so connected to the ground beneath you.
enter angela in her life: it’s cliche and boring and stereotypical and so whatever but pharah finds herself buying a second helmet for one angela ziegler.
it’s white, and doesn’t quite match the darker color scheme she’s got going on with raptora, but it makes angela look divine, and matches a lot of her wardrobe… this is how pharah finds herself sharing the freedom she thought she’d never give up: with a happy swiss doctor merrily wrapped around her, practically tethered to her and raptora.
it’s a good life. she’s a safe driver. sometimes strangers come close to knocking her around, but generally she’s off without much of a problem ( she’s almost had an accident or two with specific people… mccree, hanzo, amélie. it’s strange, she could’ve sworn they were far enough from her. )
it is a really good life. she gets to keep both raptora and angela, because god knows that woman loves to be on the road as much as she herself does. sometimes she sees pages about fostering open on angela’s laptop, but she doesn’t pay much mind until angela actually brings it up. they end up fostering hana song, a sweet girl from s. korea with dangerously fast wits and intellect so sharp, she’s survived her way through several different families and is intent on cutting her ties until she’s eighteen and legally allowed to take care of herself, edges and all. she doesn’t need anyone but herself.
angela and fareeha love her immediately.
this is how she finds herself buying her first car and shunting the freedom she so relished, and was so ready to die for just a couple years ago, willingly. being free and wild and boundless is nothing in the face of love and family ( mismatched, but family all the same. there is no blood shared between them, but it is no matter. after all, the blood ties between her and ana equate to a nonexistent bond today. )
when hana expresses interest in being on the road on a bike, she buys her a pretty pastel-pink electric scooter to start. hana dubs it meka. ( and so they soar on the roads together: angela with her and raptora, hana on her meka, in shorter, smaller bursts, but together. it is a good life. she thinks that freedom and flying have nothing on this feeling. )
[This is another little 4x07 drabble that was originally written for a different fic that I’ve since abandoned; but I liked a few parts of it and thought it might fit, so why not? A little bit of the dialogue may be a stretch given her dress in the show differed from what I had written, but I decided to keep it. And yes, count me in among the obsessed with those suspenders, what can I say? ;)]
Oliver snaps the suspenders into place over the crisp white
shirt, reminded for a moment of the constrictions of another kind of suit, the
buckles and straps in a dark green rather than sharp black. His fight in this suit, to bring hope to the city by
standing in the light, has become a part of his crusade that he never expected.
But then, over the last couple years, he’s become something
he never expected.
And the woman in the other room is to blame.
The sounds of make-up clattering against the counter, and
the click and steam of the curling iron, and the undertones of muttering laced
throughout are a favorite song he never thought he’d like. There’s something so
domestic about listening to his girlfriend get ready in the other room—a
steadiness and familiarity, a sense of home,
that he wasn’t sure he’d ever have again.