The tired trope of one’s soulmate written somewhere on their body, the handwriting unique and from the match’s own hand. Sometimes it doesn’t appear right away. There are those who age into their twenties, thirties, forties before it appears. Sometimes there are multiple names that appear for poly folks. Sometimes they don’t appear at all for those who aren’t romantically and/or sexually inclined. But for most, names show up around mid-teens to early twenties.
Satya’s appears at seventeen when she is studying in Vishkar’s academy. It is on her left shoulder, printed in chicken scratch capitals: JAMiSON. It’s a very English name, Anglican, certainly something none of her peers would be called, and she hasn’t the faintest who might have such a name. The day it appears, she puzzles over it long into the night only to suffer the following morning in her early classes. In her spare time in the following months, she researches the etymology of the name and pores through companies and people who bear it. It has become a part of her without her consent, and she feels that in order to be prepared, she must discover as much about it as she can. Despite her efforts, nothing feels familiar or gives the so-called “heart skip” her friends describe, and so she is left wondering.
Jamison’s appears when he is fifteen. Orphaned, he’s hidden himself in the less savoury parts of Junkertown and scavenges to keep himself fed. It’s difficult, more than difficult, but he manages well enough, even if it means going a day or two without meals. Almost half of his right arm is missing from a particularly brutal encounter with the big bosses, supplemented by a very bare bones prosthesis one of the kinder mecha pilots had put together for him. On the side of his right thigh reads Satya in a flowing, elegant script. He doesn’t know who Satya is or where they might be from, but knowing they exist somewhere in the world makes the nights easier to endure, and he takes solace in the fact that he is no longer alone.
Overwatch is where their paths finally cross, just over a decade later. Satya is “lent” from Vishkar, and the pair of junkers are travelling mercenaries for hire. They are introduced to one another by their monikers, Junkrat and Symmetra, and neither is fond of the other upon first meeting: Satya finds him too coarse, and Jamison is too wary of her position within a powerful corporation. Their interactions are brief, encompassing stiff and cordial hellos and occasionally talk centered around missions at hand, and that is the extent of their communication—
That is, until one very late night post-mission under the dim lights of the workshop. Jamison is wide awake, half dressed, concentrating on wiring together a new set of stock to keep his mind from dwelling on the past. Satya is still composing herself after combat and lets the comforting familiarity of work and routine guide her away from the cacophony that lingers at the back of her mind. The room is silent except for their respective movements, the sounds of sketching and gathering parts, and despite their disagreements and differing views, their tentative agreement to remain cordial and professional staves off the awkward tension—there is no grasping for small talk or incessant bickering; just two sleepless individuals finding comfort in their crafts.
Eventually, Satya sees her name splayed across his right thigh. His prosthesis is resting a foot or two away on the floor (its crude structure must be too uncomfortable for floor work, or so she assumes), and the fabric of the shorts he wears is half shimmied up his leg. There is no mistake: Satya is written in her handwriting across pale skin, the white lightning of a scar crackling between the letters. It jolts a surge of shock through her nerves, and she finds herself gripping onto the table to keep herself steady.
After all these years of researching and wondering and travelling across the world, thisis the person she is destined to be beside? This man is Jamison? It’s this man whose writing is scrawled over her shoulder? No, surely not. It can’t be. But that is her handwriting. There’s no doubt about it.
“Junkrat,” says Satya, keeping her eyes very focused on the set of blueprints before her.
“Yeah?” The scuffling sound of him reaching across for another tool or piece of his inventory comes from across the room.
Tentatively, she lets her gaze sweep over to him. “When exactly did you get your mark?”
“Mark?” His eyebrows pinch together in thought, bewildered, but when he follows her eyes to the strip of black letters on his thigh, he taps his hand over the casing he’s stuffing with explosives and breathes a loud, “Oh.”
“That long ago?” asks Satya, somewhat amused. “I imagined everyone remembered when their mark appeared.”
Junkrat shakes his head and bites down on a coil of wire to free his fingers. “Nah, s’not like that,” he mutters through the metal. “Was a good while back. Not too long. Probably… I dunno. Eight years? Maybe. Something like that. Memory’s not the best, but I remember that night. Remember it crystal clear. Just been so long you sorta forget about it sometimes, y’know? Nobody ever showed, so s’not like I got some breathing reminder of it near me all the time. Right, just got a bunch of letters down where the rest of me leg used to be. Reckon that’s as good a reminder as any, but…” He shrugs, tugging the coil out of his mouth and guiding a pair of clippers to snap off a piece. “Eh. I ain’t worried.”
She absently traces the knuckles of her prosthetic hand. It gives her something to focus on. “I assume you never found the owner of the name,” she says.
“You’d assume right.” Arching a brow, he glances over to her. “What about you, then?”
“Me?” Satya supposes she should have expected the question. That is where the natural progression of the conversation was headed, wasn’t it? “It’s been almost eleven years. I never found the person it belongs to, either. I searched when I was younger, of course. Curiosity. But my efforts were fruitless. It was strange seeing my peers discover their significant others during the academy or in their first few years of employment at Vishkar. At the time, it felt like I was missing something important.” She lifts her right hand and settles it on the metal that covers her shoulder. Beneath, the letters seem to burn. “I think I might understand now.”
Jamison offers a terribly puzzled look. “What? What’s that mean? You find ‘em or something?”
Her heartbeat becomes a drumming in her chest. It hammers by her lungs and she can feel it swell with every swallow. The spacious workshop room now seems too cluttered, too close, too narrow, and she takes a steeling breath to calm herself. Her eyes keep drifting to the script across the side of his thigh, and she can imagine penning each curve of every letter.
“Yes,” she says.
Slowly, Satya begins to undo the latches by her shoulder that keep her prosthesis in place.
Important ideas to consider when creating characters who are black and indigenous people of color. (x) (Creator’s instagram post)
This is a glorious infographic that’s catered specifically towards BIPOC in fiction/character development. Which is so important, good representation and complex characterization is so important.
If anyone has doubts to the veracity of these problem-tropes, consider in women the ‘strong female character’ and the ‘manic pixie dreamgirl’ and the classic ‘madonna/whore’. And most importantly the dominant ‘male gaze’ that forms all these problem-tropes.
Then consider that there is such a thing as the ‘white gaze’.
↳ It’s just a party with your boyfriend. A gathering with his friends, on an unassuming Saturday night. What could possibly go wrong…?
↳Female reader x Hyunjin
↳8.3k
!Strong language, established relationship, angst and tension, alcohol consumption, drinking games, themes of mutual ownership and possession, power dynamics, themes of cheating, explicit sexual content, choking, praise and submission, rough sex, adult themes throughout !
You were ready. In truth, you were ready twenty minutes ago.
There were a few reasons you hadn’t gone downstairs to indicate your readiness to your boyfriend yet. Perhaps the most prominent could be attested to your unfamiliarity with the outfit you were sporting.
You’d never considered yourself a particularly opulent person when it came to fashion, or indeed anything in life, but you had standards. Standards that now seemed to be blown out of the water, lost in sea of black lace and cotton. This was too much. You knew that.
Yet Hyunjin had picked out the little black dress, and you imagined it to be an LBD in every possible sense of the term.
Snug at the curve of your hips and waist, it accentuated your figure almost too well. A plunging neckline that allowed so much more than a peek of your cleavage, the faint detailing of your lace bra visible under the fabric. It fell to mid-thigh length, pencil like in the fit, and you were at least grateful for that. Had it been much shorter than it was, you’d have outright refused to wear it at all.
Running your hands over the creases of the dress, you began to wonder exactly what kind of party this was that it demanded such a dress code. You’d been under the impression that this was a house party, and drawing from your prior experiences of spur of the moment college gatherings in the dorms from times gone by, this kind of attire was never a common occurrence.
The other reasons for your general stalling were fairly simple, in of themselves. Nerves, a touch of anxiety, fear of the unknown and of what to expect. You’d met his friends only a few times before, and while they seemed a nice enough group, they were also fiercely close knit. As much as they’d made you feel welcome, you’d been unable to shake the outsider feeling.
The only difference to this circumstance, you knew, would be the presence of alcohol. Wonderful, saccharine booze that would surely calm the shakes and steel the nerves.
Hello welcome my office, offisc of me, Dr. Elly Cat Doctor PhD. Plis sit down. It safe to sits. Im did not pee on that chair I think.
Anyway Im cannot respond to all u question indivjully today because, Human Secrertary Rave Sashoybed lose many MANY mesggs in Imbox. But I invite u to my ofis here becaus I know yu having hard tiym right now.
It hard to be a person. i hear u say: “How u know Dr. Elly??? U have brain size of cashew nut and no self-awaresness. Yu do litteraly nothing all day, just poops, and eats, and leave a hairs in the bathtub, and scrabble across wood floor yelling.”
This tru. But I have, Advans Philsospophpy Degree from prestigiuus Cat University where Im learn many things abt Life. To be person is hard. Is ok to feel discurage, lonely, sad, angers. Ok to mess up. OK to be disappoint. This is just Being Person.
It will not always be bad, but will be not be easy. It will not always be good. But will be okay.
Yu have been a brave hairless giant today, just by bein alive, with yu giant angry brain that talk and have feelings ALL THE TIME. For a therapy, u can lie down on offis flor and I will sit next 2 ur ribs and vibrate gentlys. Im very warms and softs and I am proud of u.
