Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/14122212.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Overwatch_(Video_Game)
  Relationship:
      Hana_"D.Va"_Song/Fareeha_"Pharah"_Amari
  Character:
      Hana_"D.Va"_Song, Fareeha_"Pharah"_Amari
  Additional Tags:
      Teen_Angst, Gay_Bar, Gay_Panic
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-03-28 Chapters: 1/? Words: 2820
****** saw your face (heard your name) ******
by rebelantix
Summary
     Hana Song is a known professional gamer with a taste for
     independence. After backing out of a fame-induced relationship with a
     bang, Hana sneaks her way into a gay bar to stir up some drama. The
     young gamer gets more than she bargained for, met with a tall, dark,
     and handsome stranger named Fareeha Amari. After their meeting, Hana
     has a slew of questions about herself that she's afraid she can't
     answer.
Notes
     Hey there! I've had this idea in my head for a while; yes, Hana is
     underage here, there will be consensual sex involved. I urge you to
     reread that word, consensual.
     Teenagers have sex, that's how it is, it's ignorant to think that it
     doesn't exist. I'm trying to make this as real as I can as well.
     Stay tuned, I think you'll like the next chapter as well.
A bat of her eyelashes, a pout puffing on her lips, Hana didn’t need to slip
the faux ID out of her back pocket to get into the nightclub. The bouncer
smiles, touches her arm, calls her  ‘baby’  in poorly-pronounced Mandarin;
she’s not even  Chinese.
He whips out a small notebook with red stitching on the cover, presumably for
her to scrawl her number in.
Once she’s sure he doesn’t recognize her, she takes the pen jutting from his
clenched fist, follows the vein in his arm, pulls her eyes away to look at the
scraggly blond hairs sprouting from his chin. With scratchy writing, she inks
her call ID onto a blank line;  206-569-5829.
After a smack on the ass and a feigned astonished giggle on her part, Hana was
in.
Getting what she wanted was so…  easy  with white boys; thought she despised
the feeling of objectification, the premise that she was sexy solely because of
her ethnicity, the way their eyes roamed over her body and the awkward lumps in
their shorts… she had to take advantage of the racists and their disgusting
fetish every so often. Even though it felt wrong to indulge them and let them
live a fantasy, though she wanted to lash out, she would get farther with
flirting rather than aggression, so an old friend taught her.
“Let the caucasians live in blissful ignorance for now, let them continue
treating everyone different from them like furniture as we rise up. Here,
dooman,  give them this number…”
Now, so many years later, the thought of her admirers calling the number she’d
written, the disappointment on their faces when they’d discovered her trick,
that was a victory in itself.
With the bass rising to prevalence in her chest and the shouts of rambunctious
partygoers growing ever louder, her acidic daydreams are quick to disappear.
Hana snaps a quick selfie at her most flattering angle (camera pointed down,
chin tipped up and slightly to the right), sure to get the flashing strobes in
frame.
Once satisfied with her product, Hana switches to her main social networking
app. She taps on the most recent photo, a tasteful picture of the nightclub’s
purple and green neon sign had garnered about a quarter-million favorites in
the past fifteen minutes.
Not bad for a late-night post, even if the numbers didn’t meet the entire scope
of her fanbase. Nevertheless,  he  would see it.
Deft, skilled fingers type out a witty caption within a flurry of rainbow
hearts and kissmark emoticons. On a deep inhale, she hits the ‘post’ button
before stowing her phone away into her back pocket. Within seconds, it begins
to buzz with the bustle of her fans.
Before Hana can smugly claim her victory and cockily flounce onto the dance
floor, an uncomfortably tight arm snares her waist. A prominently crooked
schnoz separate from the arm pokes dangerously close to her own, accompanied by
a pair of eyes colored much like excrement.
“Hana Song, right? Been following your feed… Thought we’d find you here.” The
guy invading her personal space crows, in a poor attempt at a ‘seductive’ tone.
His hands are creeping a little too close to sexual harassment, and the bulging
pimple on his chin isn’t making this encounter any more enjoyable.
“You might be able to sneak past everyone else, but not us. We’re your biggest
fans,” Jack-Nose interjects, pressing his cracked, dry lips to her cheek a
split-second too long for her liking. Rage storms into Hana’s chest with a
lovely, burning flame.
“That would be me, yes, and while I’m truly flattered, I came here to meet
someone.”
“Yeah, luv? What’s his name?”
Huh, shit. Any male name other than  his  is going to garner a PR nightmare….
She mulls, maintaining her coy smile and demure expression.  Between this and
the photos, they have their work cut out for them.
Just as she’s about to answer, Hana feels a sure arm slide between her and the
‘fans’ hanging from her hips.
“Ah,  habibti.  There you are.”
The hair on the back of Hana’s neck stands on end as she prepares to raise her
fists, but the feminine-leaning voice sets her at ease. She turns her eyes
towards her savior.
Her lifeboat is a woman, an extremely  handsome  one at that, with a proud
jawline and dark, surveilling eyes. An aura of confidence envelopes the air
about her, joined with a comforting scent toying with Hana’s nose, tinged with
a spice she can’t quite name but  definitely  enjoys. A voice in the back of
her head urges her to relax, allowing her shoulders to sink into the warmth now
holding her.
“I was looking for you. Who are these young gentlemen?”
“Straight boys lurking around our club, trying to trap what isn’t theirs.”
The taller woman seems stunned for a shred of a moment - Hana can’t tell from
what - before her lips divide into a modest, knowing smile. “Allow me to alert
the bouncer then,  qalbi.  Wait here.”
The boys are off as the word  bouncer  leaves her lips, disappearing into the
crowd, fear trailing behind them. As the older woman relishes in her triumph,
Hana turns to better study her rescuer; the lines of her face are beautifully
weathered despite the interruptions of old scars, her skin an even tone of
finely-ground cinnamon. The glint of gold tightly binding braided locks of the
woman’s hair piques the gamer’s interest, but less so than the tattoo lining
her right eye.
“Don’t stare for too long, or I’ll believe you are actually fond of me.”
The comment is well-meaning, the chuckle playful. A soothing, however
uncomfortable heat coils Hana’s belly, spreads across the pale ridge of her
cheeks before she gathers her wits. “I’m just not used to people as good-
looking as yourself coming to my rescue. Is that…”
She points upward towards the marking on the woman’s eye. With a nervous squeak
Hana hopes is concealed by the music downstairs, she realizes she’s still
within the circle of her savior’s arms when the scent of worn leather tickles
her nose, and tries to elegantly back out of the embrace; she’s scared of
becoming a demure stereotype in the face of this attractive individual.
Luckily, the woman seems to understand, and gracefully withdraws, taking a step
backward.
The action was simple, but it nonetheless helped put the young gamer at ease in
this strange, new place. The nightclub she’d chosen for tonight’s escapade is
different in that it isn’t necessarily meant for… straight people.
It’s not that Hana identifies as homosexual, no, of course not! This adventure
was merely to stir the embers of her fans, get them guessing about her, pull
new and fresh-faced individuals into her brand. Diversity and all that...
“My eyes are here,  habibti.  And yes, my tattoo is real.”
Hana tosses her head to bring herself back to reality. She shoots the woman a
half-smile, gives a soft nod. “That’s so cool! I don’t think I could ever get a
tattoo on my face… surely someone so brave has a name?”
If the woman is phased by Hana’s boldness, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she
quirks an eyebrow, raises her hand to fluidly tuck one of her braids behind her
ear. Hana isn’t used to being so nervous, especially in situations like these.
In fact, she’s usually got the upper hand all to herself… “My name is Fareeha.”
The Korean has to swallow a few times to banish the dryness in her throat.
There’s an accent that twists in and out of Fareeha’s voice, one she didn’t
notice before, and it makes her heart jump.  
“Hana, Hana Song.”
Fareeha’s quirked brow falls back into place. She nods, offers her arm for Hana
to snake hers through. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Song.”
Hana squints, but does as her body wills her to do. She cups her hand around
Fareeha’s suit sleeve, pleasantly greeted by the firm muscle fitting snugly
against her palm. She shifts her eyes upward to glance at her escort, the
strong contour of her jaw and the endless well of confidence her aura exudes.
As they migrate downstairs, the music crescendos yet again.
Fareeha doesn’t seem much of a dancer; it doesn’t take long for Hana to realize
that she’s being lead to the bar across the dancefloor. The gamer thinks that
she has enough time to form a plan - it would be disastrous for an older fan to
see her drinking, get proof, post it, she doesn’t  condone  that sort of thing
amongst her younger fans - but there is no obstructed path wherever Fareeha’s
leather-booted foot may stride. The crowd parts for her in a jagged rendition
of the Red Sea parting for Moses.
Hana feels the hot grip of dread begin at the base of her back. Fareeha seems
to notice the shift in her posture. “Easy,  habibti.  I know you aren’t old
enough to drink, much less be in this building.”
She blinks, once, twice, three times;  how?
The older woman laughs with a gentle voice, and despite the background noise
Hana hears her clearly.  Did I say that aloud?
Her heart kicks up into a rhythmic thud. She wants to hear that laugh again.
Fareeha gestures to a velvet barstool for Hana to sit on. She has to stand up
on her toes to reach the seat. She’s embarrassed for a moment, wondering if
Fareeha is going to smirk at her struggling, but her escort is occupied with
claiming her own stool and waving down the bartender.
When Hana situates herself properly, she takes subtle glances at her savior’s
form. The older woman sits a bit open-legged, similar to a brash young man
showing off the family goods, with the heels of her boots balanced precariously
on the stoolbar. Fareeha doesn’t slouch like most of the bargoers down the
line, yet her back isn’t rod-straight either, she’s comfortable and her posture
reflects that.  She has every right to be confident, she looks amazing in that
leather jacket...
“Whiskey on the rocks for me, a tonic and citrus for the lady.” Fareeha glances
to Hana for confirmation, but the girl is much too enamored with how her
escort’s irises catch in the lowlight. They’re a moderate brown, Hana believes
there’s a whole slew of colors hidden within, prominent only when the sunlight
strikes them. There’s a sparkle in her eyes too, a shining of something deeper.
“Yes, that’s fine.”
Fareeha nods to the tender. Hana begins to pat down the front of her shorts for
her wallet.
Oh, shit.
“Drink’s on me,” comes the heralded phrase, delivered with a note of finality,
almost asking Hana to argue back. Her aura claims that no matter how hard the
latter protests or how sweetly she asks, Fareeha would have no part of it.
Hana’s pride diminishes, she can’t argue, she doesn’t even have her card on
her! Of course, there’s a reason for that. She didn’t think she’d be drinking
tonight.
The tender slides their drinks to the pair, noting their total, before
scuffling off to tend more rowdy, impatient patrons, rudely waving their money
and snapping their fingers in his direction.
“How old are you anyways?”
Hana circles her finger around the glass, finding interest in the soft orange
hue of her drink. She debates, back and forth with herself, if she should lie
to this stranger. Fareeha doesn’t seem like the type to take bullshit, and
lying would likely leave her alone at the bar for the rest of the night. The
skittish, predatory ‘fans; creeping up around her again affirms her decision
not  to lie.
“I’m seventeen,” Hana says, as quietly as she can speaking over the music.
Fareeha grins, swigs her drink.
“Nailed it.”
The gamer pouts, playfully glares at the tall stranger, before taking a swallow
of the citrus and tonic. It’s a bit bitter, though it’s pleasantly balanced
with a mix of sour and sweet flavors. The surprise shows in her face,
apparently, as she hears Fareeha’s earthen laugh once again. The drink slides
down her throat warmly, mimicking the aching blush spreading through her
cheeks. She feels the woman’s gaze on her, sending chills up her spine and
settling across her shoulders. “I’m twenty-two.”
It’s not long before they finish their drinks, sitting in a silence that oddly
doesn’t make Hana uncomfortable. It’s chance, when she catches the time
displayed on a bar clock.  1:43.
“Fifteen minutes ‘til last call,” Fareeha says absently, also looking at the
clock, standing from her stool and adjusting her jacket. “I should be heading
out.”
Hana’s heart falls a bit, her eyebrows pinch together in disdain. “You’re not
driving, are you?”
“Ah, no  qalbi.  My residence isn’t far from here.”
Fareeha quiets for a second, tilting her head minisculely to the left. In a
low, smooth tone, she asks, “What about yourself?”
Hana doesn’t know how to answer. The older woman seems shocked at her own
voice, clearing her throat loudly before gesturing to the stairs on the other
side of the dancefloor. Pairs of drunks grind on one another, lean back into
each other’s arms with dreamy expressions painted on their faces. “Excuse that,
it was forward of me. I’ll walk you out.”
The path Fareeha forges isn’t as clear this time, as women of varying ages bump
into her space to offer a dance or a drink or a one night stand. She handles it
all the same - with a soft grin, and a “Perhaps next time, darling.” After the
fourth or fifth time, Hana takes her escort’s arm firmly. She catches the look
flashed her way, a smirk from Fareeha with a quirked eyebrow.  It’s only for
her sake,  she tries to convince herself, though there’s a bit of jealousy
creeping in the back of her head.
The two ascend the stairs, exit the club, there’s not a lot of people waiting
in line anymore, just a gaggle of girls that squabble when they pass by in the
direction to Hana’s home.
“Mm, hey cookie! Let me show you what white girls can do!”
Hana’s intestines churn with a burning flame, the same one that she felt early
on in the night. She’s about to turn on her heel, snap back at the group, but
the firm grip Fareeha imposes on her arm limits her movement. The older woman
is pinching the bridge of her nose when Hana looks upon her again, appearing to
have an upset headache. She sighs out a breath, before acknowledging the
younger girl with an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry. That seems to happen a
lot.”
“I understand that more than I should,” Hana laughs, becoming nervous now,
attempting to disrupt the anxiety replacing the rage in her belly. They walk
together for a while, arm-in-arm and sweetly silent, Fareeha studiously
examining their surroundings with sharp eyes while Hana does the same with her
escort. She knows now the dreamy feeling the dancers were entranced by, it just
took the right partner for her to experience it.
“I can make it from here.” Hana announces finally, bringing a hand up to run
through her hair. “Thanks for saving me from those creeps.”
“What can I say, I can’t stand to see a pretty girl in trouble.”
There’s the heat again, racing up her back and flooding the prominent points of
her face. She squints at Fareeha, crosses her arms, to which the older woman
reacts with raised hands and that  perfect  chuckle. “Alright, alright. You’re
very welcome.”
Hana’s not sure what to do with her hands.
She plants her palms on Fareeha’s shoulders, lightly gripping the leather and
standing on her toes to reach the woman’s cheek. She whispers a string of
numbers, presses her lips to the elegant tattoo beneath a blazing eye when
she’s finished, allows her hands to linger for a second longer before
departing.
 
Later, in the soundproof confines of her room, Hana is finally able to weigh
the consequences of her actions.
Her phone was ringing with hundreds of notifications, calls from PR, it annoyed
her to the point she turned her phone off completely. Posting those photos was
a horrible decision and she knew that now, it was a stupid action taken in a
spur-of-the-moment emotional type of garbage that she couldn’t think all the
way through on. Her dads were going to kill her.
She’d gone to the club to get her mind off of  him,  to rile him up, to stir
the pot, but she’d ended up with a load of consequences she couldn’t shoulder
alone and an indulgence of the side she’d been suppressing for so long, for
too  long.
It was a gamble.
A gamble Hana took.
A gamble Hana lost.
She didn’t sleep that night. She lied awake, staring at her powerless phone,
asking herself if Fareeha would give her a second thought.
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